Football Academy: Free Kick
Page 1
PUFFIN BOOKS
FREE KICK
Tom Palmer is a football fan and a writer. He never did well at school. But once he got into reading about football – in newspapers, magazines and books – he decided he wanted to be a football writer more than anything. As well as the Football Academy books, he is the author of the Football Detective series, also for Puffin Books.
Tom lives in a Yorkshire town called Todmorden with his wife and daughter. The best stadium he’s visited is Real Madrid’s Santiago Bernabéu.
Find out more about Tom on his website tompalmer.co.uk
Books by Tom Palmer
Football Academy series:
BOYS UNITED
STRIKING OUT
THE REAL THING
READING THE GAME
FREE KICK
For older readers
FOOTBALL DETECTIVE: FOUL PLAY
FOOTBALL DETECTIVE: DEAD BALL
TOM PALMER
FREE KICK
Illustrated by
Brian Williamson
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,
Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published 2009
Text copyright © Tom Palmer, 2009
Illustrations copyright © Brian Williamson, 2009
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-193196-8
For John and Kate Page
Contents
Snow
Off to London
Sing When You’re Winning
Bright Lights, Big City
Central London
Craig in Trouble
One-Match Ban
West Ham v Chelsea
Arsenal v United
The Deadly Duo
Penalties
Like Father, Not Like Son
Secret Santas
Posh Shopping
Thin Ice
Red Card
The Fan
Missing
An Announcement
Chelsea v United
One–Nil
Two Minutes
Karaoke
Father to Son
Snow
James sat staring out of his bedroom window – desperate for it to snow.
The weather forecast had been full of warnings all day: twenty centimetres of snow on its way to northern England. But although the clouds were heavy – and the light strange – there was still nothing.
‘Are you packed, James?’ a loud voice came up the stairs. Dad’s voice.
James looked at his bag. It was packed, his pair of shin-pads sticking out of one of the side pockets. Three days’ clothes. His football boots. A towel. Everything they were told to bring by Steve, the team manager, for a pre-Christmas tournament in London.
The under-twelves team were meeting at the United stadium that morning.
‘Yeah, Dad. I’m packed,’ James shouted back.
‘OK. We’ll head off to the stadium in half an hour.’
‘All right,’ James said. Then he frowned.
James Cunningham had schoolboy terms at United. He was one of the most promising under-twelves central defenders playing for a Premier League club.
His dad had played football for England in the 1980s. He’d scored the winner in a cup final. Then collected the trophy, because he was captain. And most people were sure that James had a spectacular career as a professional footballer ahead of him.
Like father, like son.
Only one person wasn’t so sure about that.
And that person was James.
Over the last few weeks he’d been questioning everything. And he’d come up with a terrifying answer: he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to be a professional footballer.
James lay on his bed and tried to remember the last month. He’d had two bad games for United. And for one game he’d pretended to his dad that he was ill, so he hadn’t even played.
It couldn’t go on like this, and James knew it.
Something had to happen.
He sat up and stared at his wall. There were posters of his favourite footballers, posters of his favourite bands.
He sighed.
He wasn’t thinking about giving up football because he didn’t like it. He did. He loved football. It was just that there was something else he wanted to do even more.
James glanced at the football-shaped clock on his bedside table, a present from his dad last Christmas. It said ten past ten. He had twenty minutes before they needed to leave.
He looked outside again. And his heart leaped.
It was snowing! It was really snowing. Snowing so hard that he couldn’t see the full-sized goal that his dad had had built at the end of their garden.
James left his bedroom and ran downstairs.
‘It’s snowing!’ he shouted. ‘Look at it.’
Mum came out of the front room, then Dad from the kitchen with a tea towel in his massive hands.
Mum shook her head, smiling. ‘So it is.’
‘Don’t be so happy about it, James,’ Dad said. ‘This could threaten the trip. We have to get down the motorway. Two hundred miles to London. I knew we should have set off first thing.’
‘Do you think it’ll be cancelled?’ James asked, aware he’d said it too excitedly – like he wanted it to be cancelled.
Dad frowned, as if sensing James’s real mood. ‘Maybe… No, not if we leave now. Let’s get going. Make sure no one’s for pulling out. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks.’
Dad grabbed his jacket from the hooks in the hallway. Then he picked up his bag and snatched the car keys from the telephone table.
James realized that his mum was watching him as his dad was getting ready. She was leaning in the doorway looking at him. Her face was half asking a question, half looking worried.
‘Are you ready to go, James?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ James said, trying to make his voice sound excited.
‘Come on then,’ Dad said. ‘Before we get snowed in.’
After running upstairs to fetch his bag, James followed his dad out on to the driveway.
Off to London
Dad’s silver Range Rover moved effortlessly through the snow. There were already
a couple of centimetres settled on the side roads and footpaths by the time they approached the United stadium. And the snowflakes were getting bigger every minute.
James peered out of the window as they drew up by a luxury sixty-seater coach. He noticed Ronan and Connor, both defenders with United, piling huge suitcases into the baggage hold under the bus. The stadium towered over the coach. James could see its huge pipes and panels of steel, with the United crest illuminated above them, still visible through the driving snow.
‘They’ve packed well,’ James’s dad said, laughing.
‘They’re flying off to Dublin straight after the tournament,’ James said. ‘From Heathrow Airport. And Tomasz will be going back to Poland for Christmas.’
‘Of course,’ Dad said. ‘It’ll be the day before Christmas Eve when we’re done.’
James nodded.
He watched his team-mates being hugged by their parents, then skidding across the snow to get into the coach. It felt good to be here, about to go away with the rest of the team. But he felt confused.
Did he want to be part of this team or not?
James put his hand on the car door handle. He would go. And he’d try to enjoy it, try to forget his doubts.
‘Right, lads.’
The full under-twelves squad was on the coach now. Wet coats hung over spare seats at the back. The heaters were blasting hot air around them and snow was sliding down the glass on the outside.
But most of all there was an excitement in the air. It was like electricity, coming from each of the boys.
‘We’ve got fourteen of you lot and four adults,’ Steve said. ‘The adults are me, then Paul, the under-fourteens coach, James’s dad and Mrs Cole, Will’s mum. For this trip every adult has as much say as me. If an adult tells you to do something, you do it. OK?’
Fourteen lads nodded.
‘We’re going to head off now. Try and beat the snow. It’s bad here, but it’s not snowing in the Midlands. So as long as we get on to the motorway we’ll be fine. We –’
‘Who are we playing?’ a voice shouted, interrupting. It was Craig, the team’s left back.
Steve looked irritated for a moment, then his face broke into a smile. ‘Arsenal,’ he said. ‘Then West Ham or Chelsea.’
The bus exploded with noise. Fourteen excited voices shouting – and groaning.
Arsenal! They were famously good. This was a challenge the United under-twelves would relish.
Steve clapped his hands firmly. The bus was quiet again.
‘Right. Does everyone have their seatbelts on?’
Steve listened to a series of clicks, then nodded.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s get going then.’
The coach driver gunned his engine like a Formula One racer waiting on the grid.
Then they were off.
James was glad that he was sitting next to Chi. He liked Chi. Chi was laid-back. He wasn’t one of the more pushy or mouthy members of the team, like Craig, for instance.
Chi was a central midfielder and normally played in front of James, so they had a good relationship on the pitch – and off it. He would be good company on the drive down.
Chi was fishing around inside a bag. James wondered what he was up to. Then Chi took out two PSP consoles, grinning.
What was this about?
The coach’s back wheels skidded dramatically as they turned on to the main road. Several of the team cheered.
‘All right, lads. Quiet.’ Steve’s voice again. ‘Let the driver drive.’
Chi took out a sheet of paper and showed it to James.
‘We’re having a tournament,’ he said.
The piece of paper had sixteen names on it. All fourteen boys plus James’s dad and Steve. Jake and Connor’s names had been ticked; Chi and James’s names were next on the list.
‘What sort of tournament?’ James asked.
‘For the trip,’ Chi said. ‘We’re having a FIFA 10 competition. You know, the football game on PSP? Eight minutes each game. The first round, quarter-finals, semifinals and a final. The winner wins something. I’m not sure what. Steve said he’ll sort it once we get to London. Jake’s already beaten Connor eleven–nil. Winner goes through to the next round.’
James glanced out at the snow. It was still heavy, but the main roads were clear.
They were going to London. There was no escaping it. So he decided to enjoy himself.
‘OK,’ James said. ‘Can I be England?’
‘You can,’ Chi said. ‘I’m Brazil.’
FIFA 10 First round scores
Connor 0–11 Jake
Chi 3–7 James
Ryan 4–3 Will
Steve 0–2 James’s dad
Craig 1–6 Ronan
Ben 2–8 Tomasz
Yunis 0–12 Tony
Sam 5–4 Daniel
Sing When You’re Winning
By the time Sam had beaten Daniel five–four in the last game of the first round of FIFA 10, the coach was pulling off the motorway.
Craig shouted, ‘Are we there?’ And everyone laughed when they saw that they were heading into a service station.
The lads were allowed to go where they liked in the service station, as long as they stayed inside.
Steve waited by the door, drinking a cup of coffee, watching their every move.
The team-mates headed for two places: one lot to the amusement arcade, the other lot to the cafe, watching the next round of the FIFA 10 tournament.
James was first up against Jake, the team’s small but speedy winger.
He knew Jake had a PS3 at home. And that he had FIFA 10. So this was going to be a hard game.
James wasn’t sure he could win.
The cafe was noisy. Food was being served and half the kids were getting themselves a Coke. The more sensible ones were drinking water.
The game between James and Jake was close. James took the lead three times, but Jake pegged him back three times too. James couldn’t get his defence right. He wished he’d chosen another formation.
There was a minute to go, so James decided to try to play the way he liked best: quick passing, no time for Jake’s players to tackle him. He passed the ball through his defence, up to his midfielders. The clock was running down. In injury time already. So he passed it forward, hoping one of his strikers would get on the end of it. And one did, hoofing it past the keeper.
Four–three.
James had won it in the last seconds.
After watching Ryan’s game against James’s dad, Jake and James had a look round the amusement arcade. There was loud music. It was the recent X Factor winner, a tune everybody knew now.
Craig was in the amusement arcade playing on one of those machines with a shelf of two-pence pieces that you have to try to dislodge by dropping in more coins. But he wasn’t doing very well.
Jake noticed him shove the machine.
Immediately an alarm went off. A man in a uniform arrived just as Craig was collecting the coins that he’d ‘won’.
Craig was always getting into trouble.
Jake and James watched, frowning.
‘He’s at it again,’ Jake said.
James shrugged.
Jake realized that James hadn’t said a word since their FIFA 10 game.
‘I don’t mind that you beat me,’ Jake said.
James smiled. ‘I know. Sorry. I’m miles away.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure,’ James replied.
‘Were you really ill for the Bradford game the other week?’
James smiled, then shook his head. Bradford was the game he had missed – on purpose.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Jake said, then turned to stare at the other end of the service station.
James felt suddenly unhappy. Had Jake turned away and stopped talking to him? Was this the kind of reaction he was going to get if he decided to give up football?
Then Jake turned back to face him.
‘Sort what?’ James asked. Did Jake know what he was thinking?
‘Sort whatever it is that’s making you sad. You look unhappy.’
James nodded. Maybe Jake was right. Maybe the time had come.
FIFA 10 Quarter-final scores
James 4–3 Jake
Ryan 4–5 James’s dad
Ronan 6–8 Tomasz
Tony 3–6 Sam
Bright Lights, Big City
The coach came off the end of the M1 motorway in London and immediately hit traffic. Slow roads filled with cars and buses and lorries. And roadworks.
Suddenly the coach came to life. The atmosphere had changed. Boys who had been quiet for the whole journey started shouting to each other.
James stared out at the streets. Lots of people were carrying shopping bags, and coloured lights were strung from shop to shop. He saw massive Christmas trees in windows. And everything looked big. This was London, the capital city, where everything was supposed to be big.
Normally James would have been excited by this, like the rest of the team were. He liked coming to London. He liked Christmas. He liked football tournaments. But he couldn’t stop himself from worrying.
He closed his eyes, trying to work out his thoughts. But, as he did, he sensed someone near him. He kept his eyes closed. He felt like being alone. Travelling away with everyone wasn’t a good thing, not now.
Then he felt an arm come around him.
He opened his eyes.
Dad.
‘You’ve been quiet, James.’
James shrugged. ‘Just tired,’ he lied.
‘Do you know who you’ve got in the FIFA 10 semifinal?’ Dad asked.
James had forgotten about the tournament. He was miles away. It’d be Ryan: he would be next.
Ryan was the team captain of the under-twelves. Up until a few weeks ago he’d been a bit of a bully. But recently he’d changed – thanks probably to Steve stripping him of the captaincy for a few games. James had grown to like him a lot more. But Ryan was too good at FIFA 10 for James. He spent hours playing on his PSP at home.