One-nil! Only ten minutes to half-time now, and we’re one-nil up.
‘Give us another, Joan of Arc!’ screeches Freya, hopping around in excitement, her hat wobbling about like a lunatic tower.
The next ten minutes is fraught. Thurston know they’re at a big disadvantage if they go into half-time one-nil down, but they’re looking edgy now, and their passing seems to be shot to pieces. Mark Chetley has a good run on the left wing, but they’ve got a lad called Nish who stops him dead in his track and boots the ball back up our end. Meanwhile, Jesse seems to be making a fair job of clearing up their messy passes in midfield. When the ref blows the half-time whistle, a wave of relief sweeps over us.
‘Well, I think they’ve earned their oranges,’ says Jack.
‘Never mind oranges, I think I’ve earned another drink,’ says Polly, mopping her brow.
chapter thirty-two
‘JOAN OF ARC, RULE DA PARK! JOAN OF ARC, RULE DA PARK!’
As the teams troop back on to the pitch, a spontaneous round of chanting breaks out on the other side of the stands, so Luiz picks up the beat and starts bashing along on his bongos and we all join in, Freya standing aloft on her heels, conducting everyone.
That’s Thurston’s cue to start some singing of their own, and they break into their school anthem which turns out to be what Jack calls a ‘tuneless dirge’. If the second half is going to be as hotly contested as the titan struggle that’s going on between the singing spectators, this should be worth watching. I have to admit that this is more fun than history homework which is probably what I’d be doing if I weren’t here.
Rottweiler Rubinstein takes his seat on the bench with Duane Mulholland and another couple of nervy-looking kids. From the look on his face, you’d swear Rottweiler has been chewing wasps, not gum, although the Thurston coach doesn’t seem a ‘shiny happy people’ type either. He looks like he’s gone a few rounds in the boxing ring with Mike Tyson, and he’s got the cauliflower ears and flattened nose to show for it. You wouldn’t want to meet him on any night, let alone a dark one.
Whatever the boxer/coach said to his team during half-time seems to have done the trick, though. They have a steely determination about them now, and as soon as they kick off, you can see they’re communicating better with each other, shouting out orders, and concentrating much harder. Within the first five minutes, their dangerous right winger – the crowd chant ‘Fabrizzio, Fabrizzio’ every time he so much as touches the ball – has made a break and taken a soft-ish pot at goal. Although it’s not too testing for Ali, our keeper, they’re making a statement. ‘We’re fighting back.’ Stu and I catch each other’s eyes for a moment, and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking: please don’t let them score.
We’ve never really talked about it, but I think we both know how important this match is to Jesse. It’s not just about who stands there at the end of ninety minutes holding up a big shiny silver cup – sorry, plate – grinning cheesily from ear to ear. For Jesse, football has become his escape route, the valve that he uses to let off steam when it all gets too horrible. No matter how much dirty stuff hits the fan, he’s still got his footie. So your dad leaves home, but as long as you can kick a ball, you’re okay. Looking back, that was when Jesse’s interest in football began. Then your mum gets sick, you get some evil old battleaxe to look after you, but there’s still training and matches and winning to concentrate on. And when your mum eventually dies – and let’s face it, life can’t get much worse for an almost twelve-year-old kid at that point – there’s still the final to look forward to, a reason to keep struggling on through the mire. I remember thinking what a prat Jesse was when he started talking to Dad at Mum’s funeral about football and the final, but I realise now, that was the most natural thing in the world to him. This isn’t just about football. It’s a lifeline for Jesse. It’s what’s kept him going through the toughest times he’s ever had to face.
So when Stu and I look across at each other, we can see a flash of panic in each other’s eyes. The thought has come to us late – we’re sixty-five minutes into the match, and admittedly we’re one-nil up – but we haven’t thought it through at all. What happens to Jesse when the Inter-County Schools Under-16s Challenge is over? If he wins, how’s he going to feel once the initial burst of elation has faded away? And if he loses (and suddenly, with Thurston playing like a different team, anything could happen), what happens then?
Fortunately, the football is distracting me. At this point, Ryan Dunbar makes one of his better interceptions and wins the ball off their number 6. He passes to Jesse, who’s running up centre-field now, and Jesse makes a lovely pass to Callum, just taps it perfectly with the inside of his right foot, and Callum answers with a fantastic little dummy to sneak past the Thurston captain, a black kid called Romeo.
Now, as Luiz explains later, at this point, Callum has two options. He can go for glory – there’s one defender between him and the goalie – or he can do the unselfish thing and pass to Shav who has run into a great position, onside but unmarked on the right-hand side of the pitch. So he passes. It’s not a bad pass – it’s not that high, but it’s not a total disaster, and, as he passes, their tall defender with the blond ponytail practically dives through the air like a kamikaze. He heads the ball down, it lands at the feet of Romeo, who turns, raises his eyes momentarily just to check on his target, and lays the ball on for the fleet-footed Fabrizzio.
Freya says you see a lot of animals on the football field. Some run with all the dogged determination of a terrier, others like big cats – panthers – whose spring practically uncoils as they pounce on the ball. But Fabrizzio is like a gazelle. He’s athletic and elegant and oh-so-fast. With those slender legs, he can leap through the air and keep moving forward, landing lightly and then making his pass.
‘If that kid’s not playing for Inter-Milan or Chelsea by the time he’s seventeen, I’ll take up knitting,’ says Andy to Luiz, who nods sagely in agreement.
Fabrizzio streaks away from Mark Chetley who’s meant to be marking him (‘Nice one, Mark!’ someone shouts sarcastically), and, while he’s running and just a metre or so outside the box, he kicks the ball at full stretch, and it just takes off. You can practically hear it whoosh past Ali, who can’t even get a finger to it. It’s like some advert for sportswear off the telly, the ball practically jet-propelled into the back of the net. Cut to shot of the ball bouncing up and down against the netting, mocking Ali and the Joan of Arc defence that Fabrizzio has just shredded. One all.
As you’d expect, their lot go mental. They start bouncing up and down and join in with a chorus of ‘la la la la, we’re going to win the cup’ even though we all know it’s a plate. Callum has called the team together for a quick huddle before the game resumes, and he’s barking orders at them punctuated with cries of ‘C’mon! C’MON!’ as he slaps his thigh so hard I can only think ‘ouch’. I can hear Rottweiler cupping his hands together too and yelling, ‘Strike back, Joan of Arc! Strike back!’ It’s all getting a bit serious.
‘Now we show our boys how we make the noise in Brazil!’ shouts Luiz at us all, holding his arms aloft, and then he brings them down defiantly and starts bashing away like crazy on his bongos. Freya joins in with some whooping that I can only describe as a feral child being throttled, and the next thing is, we’re all chanting and screaming and singing, ‘GIVE US ANOTHER, JOAN OF ARC, GIVE US ANOTHER ONE DO!’ The atmosphere is electric.
Both teams are playing at their best now. The boy Fabrizzio is burning up the field with talent and, with a goal under his belt, he’s practically alight. He’s turning on all the fancy footwork: those flip back passes, cheeky little dummies, and he has amazing ball control. But it’s also becoming obvious that, although he’s their star player, the rest of the team’s not in the same league.
‘Granted, they’ve got some good players,’ says Andy, ‘but our lot are playing as a team, not as a star vehicle. If they can just keep going, and keep a check on old golden ba
lls, they’ve got to be in with a shout.’
There’s only fifteen minutes or so to go now, and you can see that some of the younger lads are getting weary. Rottweiler has already pulled off our number 8, Jonah, who’s not had a good game, and he’s replaced him with Paul Paterson who’s in Jesse’s class at school. I can see Duane Mulholland is warming up on the side too, and I suspect Rottweiller is about to pull Jesse off.
On the left flank, Ryan is starting to make a break through, then flicks the ball across to Raul. Jesse can see a gap in the middle and starts to run into it, as Raul boots the ball towards him. I can see Jesse going up to head it in desperation, giving it his all as usual. Unfortunately, just at the same moment, their dirty number 3 flings his leg forward in what must be the stupidest tackle anyone has ever seen.
The Thurston player’s leg connects hard with Jesse’s head about a millisecond before the ref gives two long blasts on his whistle, and Jesse hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. If this match were a comic strip, the word CRUNCH!!! would be stretched out in colourful capitals as Jesse hits the deck.
Stu and Luiz and I go flying down the terrace to the side of the pitch, but Rottweiler Rubinstein and a woman from St John Ambulance are already with Jesse, doing whatever it is they do with sponges as the ref looks on. The linesman is trying to hold us back, but Stu says, ‘That’s my kid,’ and pushes past him on to the pitch, and Luiz and I follow him on.
‘Is he okay?’ Stu asks the ref, shoving his way through the huddle that has gathered round Jesse, and the St John Ambulance woman looks up and says, ‘Yes, he’s back with us. I think he just blacked out there for a minute or two, didn’t you, Jesse?’
I’m thinking, Well, that wouldn’t be the first time, and then, Wow, first name terms already. The St John Ambulance woman is calling for a stretcher to get him off the field.
‘I’m fine,’ Jesse protests, as Luiz and Stu carry him off. ‘My head’s a bit sore, though.’
‘We’ll get that checked out at the hospital,’ says the St John’s woman, who introduces herself as Maggie.
‘But I can’t leave before the end of the match,’ Jesse cries, looking dangerously like he’s going to go off on one.
‘It’s okay if we just hold back for a few minutes, isn’t it?’ asks Stu. ‘It means so much to him – and it is the final.’
‘I’m a nurse,’ explains Luiz. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘Are you his father?’ says Maggie looking at Stu.
For a moment Stu looks like he’s tempted to ruffle Jesse’s hair the way he often does, but considering the nature of his head injury, he keeps his hands in his pockets.
‘Something like that,’ he says, grabbing Jesse’s hand.
By now, dirty number 3 has had his red card and been sent off, presumably to some secure institution for lunatic players, and Duane Mulholland finally gets his chance. Rottweiler has pulled him on to replace Jesse, and it’s our free kick. Duane and Callum are both standing behind the ball – we’re not quite sure which one is going to take it. The ref blows the whistle, Duane taps the ball, and Callum runs three paces before setting it up beautifully for Mark Chetley, who’s come accelerating up the wing and thumps the ball into the back of the net.
Considering Jesse has had another of his near-death experiences, he manages to jump off his stretcher fairly smartly and punches the air in victory. ‘Yes!’
I can see Fabbrizio, the Italian stallion, with his head in his hands. They’ve got it all to do now.
Jesse watches nervously from the side as Maggie wraps a huge bandage round his head. I’m not quite sure what the point of the bandage is, but I’d guess she enjoys bandaging more than football, and to be honest, I don’t think Jesse is even remotely aware of what she’s up to while he sits and watches the match without blinking. Luiz has passed him an energy drink which he swigs from the side of his mouth in true footballer style, but he keeps jumping up and down whenever Thurston get possession. Fortunately, whoever it is who trains St John Ambulance people seems to teach their staff a whole lot of patience.
It’s only another ten minutes with a few more added on for Jesse’s black-out, but it’s the longest fifteen minutes of my life. When the final whistle is blown, there are more of us up and dancing than you’d see at a school disco. Jesse charges off back to the field with his bandaged head to be greeted by his team-mates like their long-lost lucky mascot – even Duane Mulholland seems to be hugging him and holding him generally responsible for our winning goal, which in a way I suppose he was. There’s no way he’s going to miss out on the plate presentation.
I can hear Luiz’s bongos again (Andy has taken over as principal drummer now) and Jack’s whirling his grandad’s rattle round his head, while Freya and Mia are screaming ‘We Are the Champions’ completely off-key at the top of their voices with the rest of the Joan of Arc supporters, who are all on their feet and swaying. The volume is turned to MAX, and everyone’s grabbing each other and kissing. They’d be doing a Mexican wave if there were enough supporters in the crowd. I notice that Luiz and Stu are having the kind of embrace you don’t normally see on the football field, but no one else seems to notice or care.
The presentation takes place a few minutes later. There seems to be some debate over whether or not their dirty number 3 should get a runners-up medal, having tackled Jesse so vindictively. In the end, the powers that be figure that he’s going to get enough stick from his team-mates anyway, so he joins Thurston’s line-up and gets his medal, and a big ‘BOO!’ from our fans, which is no more than he deserves.
When they announce ‘Joan of Arc Comprehensive, Inter-County Schools Under-16s Challenge Champions’, a huge cheer goes up from the crowd. Freya blasts away on her hooter like some kind of professional noisy person as they line up for the presentation ceremony. They go up one by one to receive their medals from the Lady Mayor, who’s obviously styled herself on the Queen, even down to the concrete perm, handbag and white gloves. She has a smile and a nod and a word with each of the team, in a suitably regal manner. She looks concerned when it’s Jesse’s turn to take his medal – she must be asking about his head because he points to the bandage and does his brave little soldier face – then he takes the medal, turns to wave at us lot, and we all scream a bit more.
‘Atta boy!’ shouts Polly, and Jack and Freya are at their rattle and hooter again in some kind of insane effort to try and break the sound barrier. When Callum finally lifts the plate, all hell breaks loose. There are cameras flashing, loo rolls flying, the crowd is cheering – even the Thurston lot seem genuinely pleased – and the Joan of Arc boys hoist Jesse up on their shoulders and parade him around for a bit as he holds the silver trophy above his head and kisses it and poses for the crowd.
And I think, he won the plate, Mum. He bloody won it.
After the endless laps of honour, our lot finally head off to the changing rooms, led by Rottweiler Rubinstein who looks like he has ruptured a few facial muscles with all the smiling he’s done this afternoon.
Half an hour later, Jesse eventually emerges, looking like Tutankhamen’s concussed younger brother. The bandage is a bit damper now and someone has scrawled CHAMPS across the top in felt-tip pen, but it’s still wrapped round his head. Sort of.
‘I was thinking maybe all down to Papa Giorgio’s for a celebratory pizza?’ suggests Stu.
‘Do you think they’ll let us in?’ says Polly. ‘We look like extras from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video.’
She’s right. We’re all up for it, carrying on the party atmosphere, but we look a right state. Freya’s hat is a bit ropey round the edges now, but she’s still refusing to take it off, and the rest of us have blood, sweat and tears (well okay, not blood, but red hair paint) smeared round our faces.
‘They’ll let us in,’ says Luiz optimistically. ‘We have our lucky mascot, don’t we?’
‘Isn’t he meant to be going to the hospital?’ I ask Stu. ‘That Maggie – the St John Ambulance woma
n – said he needs getting the once-over from a doctor.’
‘I’ll take him down later when I start my shift,’ says Luiz. ‘We gonna get you checked out, eh, Ronaldo?’
‘Stop fussing,’ moans Jesse, examining his medal. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Hey, Jesse,’ I call over to him as we walk towards the car park. ‘There’s somebody we ought to phone to tell the good news, you know?’
His face drops. He looks dead worried, and starts fiddling with his bandage.
‘Not Mrs McLafferty . . .’
‘No, not Mrs McLafferty, you dweeb,’ I tell him. ‘Dad. I bet he’d like to know. We should call Dad.’
Stu chucks me his mobile.
‘Good idea, guys,’ he smiles. ‘He’s in there under “I” for Ian.’
‘Okay,’ says Jesse, ‘but I want to talk to him first.’
Life, Interrupted Page 17