The Mighty Dynamo

by Kieran Crowley

  ‘We’re playing for a girls’ school? Do we have to pretend to be a girls’ team?’ he spluttered. ‘We’ll look like idiots. We’ll have to wear dresses. I don’t want to do that, man. I’m the coolest thing in town and wearing a dress would ruin my rep.’

  ‘Girls’ teams don’t wear dresses, Hawk, they wear jerseys and shorts just like us,’ Noah said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m certain. And do you really want to miss out on the chance to play in a World Cup tournament just because you’re worried about playing with gir–-’

  ‘WORLD CUP,’ Piotr bellowed.

  ‘No, no, no, I’ll play, man. Just wanted to get it all clear in my head,’ Hawk grinned. ‘I’m not going to miss the World Cup for anything. I love the World Cup. I can’t wait to mix it up with dudes like Pogba and Veratti. Hey, if we play Argentina I’ll get Messi’s autograph. I’ll swap shirts with him after the match. I could have Lionel Messi’s shirt!’

  Noah sighed. ‘I’m afraid Messi won’t be there, Hawk.’

  ‘Cos he’s injured?’

  Noah spoke slowly to make sure his new teammate got it.

  ‘No, because he won’t be playing. There won’t be any professional footballers playing. They’re all too old. It’s a qualifying tournament for a schools’ World Cup. Schools. That means people our age. The winners of the tournament get to play for Ireland in the Schools’ World Cup in Paris. Do you understand?’

  ‘Course I understand,’ Hawk said. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  He took his place on the bench beside Piotr who high-fived him so hard that for a moment Noah thought Hawk’s hand was broken.

  ‘How many have we got now?’ Noah asked over the noise of the conversations that were buzzing around the shed. People were chattering excitedly. The atmosphere was building and he found to his surprise that he liked it. It was far more pleasant than the atmosphere in the St Killian’s dressing room with stupid Jim bossing everyone around.

  Stevie counted them out. ‘Ten.’

  They were still four short of the fourteen they needed for a squad and there was only twenty minutes to go before they had to get to Stevie’s house and send off the paperwork.

  ‘OK, I have an idea. I know it’s really stupid, but don’t laugh. What if we put you down as a player?’ Noah said.

  ‘Me?’ Stevie’s eyes lit up with excitement.

  ‘Yeah, I mean, you obviously wouldn’t get a game or anything because you can’t play football to save your life, but you’d get to dress up like a player and stand on the sidelines. I know we’d be in a tight spot if we got injuries, but if the worst came to the worst we could stick you up front or somewhere you wouldn’t do much damage.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, certainly. That sounds lovely,’ Stevie said, a little deflated.

  ‘Great,’ Noah replied.

  Barbara smiled sympathetically at Stevie. It didn’t make things right, but it did make him feel a little better.

  Five minutes later and they had two more players – Cormac McHugh, a dark-haired boy in a Liverpool jersey, was first in the door. ‘Hey, guys,’ he said to the gang as Noah welcomed him. He was followed by Adam O’Brien, another boy from Stevie’s class. Adam had long, jet-black hair that reached halfway down his back. He wore a Metallica T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and his arms were covered in snake, skull and dagger tattoos. Noah presumed they were fake, but if they were they were extremely convincing fakes.

  ‘Hello there. You must be Noah. I’ve seen you around the school,’ Adam said chirpily. ‘I’m Adam. I was wondering if I could join your football team, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  He’s as polite as Stevie, Noah thought.

  They’d almost reached the magic number. If they included Stevie, they were at thirteen, only one short. But there was barely any time left. Noah’s mind was racing. He turned to the group.

  ‘Hey, we’re short a player for the squad and we have about five minutes to find someone. We have thirteen, we need fourteen,’ Noah said. ‘Anyone got any ideas?’

  He struggled to be heard above all the voices.

  ‘Be quiet,’ he roared.

  Silence descended immediately. A deep silence, as if someone had sucked all the energy and life from the room in a flash. Noah studied the faces of his new teammates. They were staring at him with, well, almost fear on their faces. They really respected him. That was exactly what he needed from them. It was a good feeling.

  ‘Sorry for shouting, but –’ he began.

  Then he realized that they weren’t actually looking at him after all. They were staring past him towards the shed door.

  ‘You’re looking for a fourteenth player. I’m that guy.’

  Noah didn’t need to turn round, although he did. He knew the owner of that voice immediately. Even the people who’d never encountered him before knew by his presence that he wasn’t someone you messed with.

  It was Kevin McCooley.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Individuals can and do make a difference, but it takes a team to really mess things up’

  Anonymous

  For a moment, Noah didn’t know what to say. Then he did.

  ‘Kevin.’

  It was only a small step up from saying nothing. He had to say something else, something that would let Kevin McCooley know he wasn’t wanted and hell would freeze over before he’d get anywhere near Noah’s team. The trick was he had to say it in such a way that Kevin wouldn’t take offence and show his displeasure by rearranging Noah’s features or, if he was really angry, his limbs.

  ‘It’s great that you . . . ahem . . . turned up . . . didn’t even know you liked football . . .’

  McCooley glowered at him.

  ‘And we’d love to have you as a player . . . It’s just that—’

  ‘You have thirteen – you need fourteen. I heard you. I’m the fourteenth.’

  ‘No, you’re the thirteenth,’ Maggie said, getting to her feet.

  Noah looked at Stevie. Had they got their maths wrong? That was unlikely. Stevie never made mistakes like that.

  ‘There’s thirteen of us, Maggie. Even if we don’t count Stevie—’

  ‘No, thirteen. Because if that psycho burger thief plays, then I don’t.’

  She looked angry, unlike McCooley, who had that pre-anger calm. He delivered a sense of menace with the barest flicker of an eyebrow. A hint of a smile played on his lips. He reached into his pocket.

  Stevie hit the ground, covering his head like a grenade was about to go off.

  ‘He’s got a weapon,’ he squealed.

  Nobody else acted as rashly as Stevie, but there were a few who looked as if they wanted to. Noah was one of them, but he forced himself to stand there. He was afraid, he knew McCooley knew he was afraid, but he wasn’t going to show it, if that was possible. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his head as McCooley took his hand out of his pocket. His fist was full of coins. One cent, two cent and five cent coins. He dropped them on the ground. They pinged off the surface, some spinning where they fell, some rolling across the wooden floor, others getting trapped between the rotting floorboards.

  ‘There’s enough there to buy as many burgers as you want, girl,’ he said, smirking at Maggie.

  She didn’t flinch. ‘You think that’s all it takes after the way you behaved? I’m not playing on the same team as you unless you do two things.’

  McCooley raised an eyebrow in approximation of a question.

  ‘First of all, you’re going to hand me the money you owe me,’ Maggie said.

  ‘I ain’t pickin’ up nothin’,’ McCooley said.

  Stevie, feeling a little foolish at his hasty dive for cover, stayed on his hands and knees and began to pick up some of the coins, hoping that people would think that was his intention all the time. Barbara joined him.

  ‘Thanks, Barb.’

  ‘She goes mad if I call her Barb,’ Frank whispered to Michael Griffin who didn’t consider the matter worthy of an ac
knowledging nod.

  Sunday and Darren, sensing that if they didn’t do something a massive row would break out and ruin their chances of playing in a proper football tournament, joined Stevie and Barbara in picking up the coins. Piotr tried to join in too, but he found it almost impossible to get a grip on the small pieces of metal with his thick goalkeeper’s gloves.

  ‘These things were not made for delicate work,’ he bellowed.

  Maggie and McCooley stood there, unmoving, while all the coins were collected. Stevie took a freezer bag from his folder and deposited the coins in there before zip-locking it. He held it out for Maggie.

  ‘I want him to hand it to me,’ she said, meaning McCooley.

  ‘Maggie, we have no time left for this kind of game. You didn’t have to pick up the coins, so please just take the bag,’ Noah said.

  To his surprise she did.

  McCooley and Maggie continued their stand-off like two gunslingers in the old Wild West.

  ‘You said: two things. What’s the second one?’ McCooley asked.

  ‘I want you to say sorry.’

  ‘I don’t apologize for nothin’.’ McCooley chuckled.

  ‘What are you laughing at, you donkey?’ Maggie said.

  ‘Who are you calling a donkey?’

  McCooley moved forward as Noah stepped between him and Maggie. Noah raised his arms in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said.

  Even if he’d seen the punch coming, he wouldn’t have had time to react. It was that quick. It caught him plumb on the nose before he’d even realized it was on its way. His knees buckled, his head began to swim and the next thing he knew Maggie’s hands were under his armpits as she stopped him from crashing to the floor.

  He put his hand to his face. There was blood on his fingers. That was twice in a week that he’d been punched. Once more and he’d have a hat-trick.

  ‘Ow,’ he said finally. It really stung. Far worse than Brick’s seven punches had.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ McCooley said. ‘Thought you was goin’ to hit me.’

  That was unexpected. Once McCooley’d arrived in the hut, there was always the possibility that someone was going to be on the receiving end of some random violence. That was the McCooley way. Apologizing was new.

  ‘He said sorry,’ Noah said, stumbling to his feet and drowning out the angry swell of voices that were gathering around him. Maggie was the only one trying to get to McCooley, though. Dazed as he was, Noah just about managed to hold her at bay. The others were happy to register their disapproval from a safe distance.

  ‘Maggie, he said sorry. Is that good enough for you?’ Noah said above the hubbub.

  ‘But he wasn’t apologizing to me.’

  ‘The girl’s right, I wasn’t apologizin’ to her.’

  ‘She didn’t ask you to apologize. She asked you to say sorry.’ He turned to Maggie again. ‘He said sorry. Now, it’s over.’

  Maybe it was the impact of the punch on his brain, but he suddenly felt like they were listening to him. Either that or they were mesmerized by the blood dripping from his nose.

  ‘Did you hear me? It’s over!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Everyone heard you,’ McCooley said. ‘Stop goin’ on about it.’

  Noah looked at his watch, wiping a drop of blood away from its face. They had nine minutes left.

  ‘Stevie, give Kevin one of the forms and help him fill it out.’

  ‘I can fill out me own form. An’ it’s Mr McCooley to you.’

  ‘Yes, Mr McCooley.’

  ‘It’s Mr McCooley to all of you, right?’ He looked around the shed at the fearful faces.

  They all nodded. A few of the braver ones murmured a yes.

  ‘No problem, Kevin,’ Maggie said.

  McCooley ignored her.

  When all the paperwork was finished, Noah and Stevie raced to Stevie’s house. They scanned the forms and faxed them off to the schools’ football association. As the PC beeped to confirm the fax had been sent and received the clock in the bottom right hand corner read 16.56. They’d made it with only four minutes to spare. They were in the tournament.

  It was only when they were talking about it afterwards that the realization fully hit Noah.

  ‘Did we just allow Kevin McCooley to join our football team?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I was just thinking the same thing. It all happened so fast with the deadline and the need for players that we just seemed to get swept along with it. It was kind of bizarre and terrifying, wasn’t it?’ Stevie said.

  ‘I hope we haven’t just made the biggest mistake of our lives,’ Noah said.

  Name: Kevin McCooley

  Nickname: Some people call me Macker. They’re idiots. Dead idiots if I catch up with them.

  Age: Why do you care what age I am?

  Position: Murphy says that I play as a defensive midfielder. I don’t believe in proper positions and tactics and things like that. Football is simple: if you have the ball, you score a goal; if you don’t have the ball, you kick someone until they give it to you and then you score a goal. There’s no need to make it all complicated and stuff.

  Likes: People who mind their own business and leave me alone.

  Dislikes: People who don’t mind their own business and get me to fill out stupid player profiles.

  Player you’re most like: Nigel de Jong. I love his tattoos and his attitude. No one messes with him. Our useless gaffer said I remind him of Vinnie Jones, but I never saw that Jones kid play.

  Favourite player: I’m not a five-year-old girl. I don’t have a favourite anything. Grow up.

  Favourite goal: To hurt people who ask me lots of stupid questions.

  Messi or Ronaldo: I hate both of them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘If you eat caviar every day, it’s difficult to return to sausages’

  Arsène Wenger

  Even though they’d been training for three days straight, William Sheehan still hadn’t got used to how good the football facilities were at the Figg estate. If he was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up. There were three pitches alongside each other. One was full-sized and the grass was as perfect and green as grass could be. The playing surface was like a carpet. It had been cut to give it that beautiful criss-crossed pattern that William loved. The sun shone down and a light breeze rippled the thin cord of the nets. The posts and crossbars were almost impossibly white.

  ‘It’s the same proportions as the Santiago Bernabéu pitch in Madrid,’ Plunkett had told him. ‘To the millimetre.’

  The other two pitches were smaller. The second one was half the size of the first and the goals were reduced proportionally. The third had training gear littered all around: a plastic wall shaped like four men for practising free kicks, two piles of saucer-shaped markers, half-metre-high hurdles for dynamic strength, cones for dribbling practice, elasticized leashes for power sprinting and, of course, a big bag of fresh footballs. The best kind – footballs that hadn’t been kicked yet.

  ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ McGuckian had said.

  William had picked up one of the footballs that first morning. It was the same type they used in the Premier League. He pressed it against his face. He loved the smell of a new football. He loved the way it felt in his hands.

  When he was growing up in Droombeg Flats, he’d never had a proper football. Instead, he’d kick a cheap plastic ball up and down the hallway because it was too dangerous to go outside with some of the unsavoury characters that hung around the flats. The ball would ricochet off the windowsills and skirting boards and fly off at weird angles, but it all helped with his control. Once you’d done that a couple of thousand times, you got to know in which direction a ball was going to go in any situation. One thing he’d noticed in some of the kids with whom he used to play football was that when they found something too difficult they’d give up. Not William. If he found it tough, he’d just try harder. It gave him a huge adv
antage. People used to tell him he was lucky to be born with such a great talent. He’d smile and say thanks, but it drove him mad. Lucky? There was nothing lucky about it. It was hard work and lots of it. But that was a truth nobody wanted to hear.

  Plunkett Healy arrived on the main pitch with Arthur Slugsley in tow. Slugsley ran the training sessions and to William’s surprise and delight they were entertaining and inventive. Today was going to be a little different, though. Today was the first day they were going to train with Barney Figg. The team’s captain had been in London for a film premiere so he hadn’t been able to make it to training before now.

  William got his first look at his new captain. He positively gleamed with good health. Healy had said he was a terrible footballer, but in his top-of-the-range designer tracksuit and with his perfectly styled hair Barney Figg looked every inch the professional. Cornelius was just behind his son, a mobile phone in each hand, the one in his left pressed to his ear.

  ‘You do it because I said to do it. And if it’s not finished by six o’clock tomorrow evening you’ll be unemployed and your children will be begging on the streets,’ Cornelius Figg said.

  He finished the call and threw the phone to Plunkett Healy, who not being particularly athletic just about managed to catch it after a brief fumble. Off to the left stood the majority of Pengardon Academy’s football team, but Barney was staring at the four new players. His ice-blue eyes narrowed.

  ‘I don’t recognize them. Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re your new teammates,’ his father replied.

  ‘They’d better be good.’

  Barney took a football from the bag and nudged it forward before unleashing a shot of tremendous power and terrible accuracy. It flew wide, closer to the corner flag than the goalposts and ended up startling a rabbit that had been happily minding its own business.

  ‘Windy today,’ Barney said, trying to excuse his failure. He turned and looked at William. ‘You’re one of the new ones.’