Maggie was moving across the pitch, making darting little runs whenever Noah got near the ball. She quickly grew frustrated with the lack of passes coming in her direction.
‘Come on, Noah. There’s no point in me making all these fantastic runs if you’re not going to give me the ball,’ she called out.
Noah was doing his best but it was a struggle. Every time he touched the ball a boot crunched in. After the fourth over-the-top tackle his ankle exploded in pain.
‘Come on, ref. They’re killing him,’ Sunday shouted.
The referee held up a yellow card. ‘Don’t question my decisions, son.’
Sunday was aghast, but smart enough to hold his tongue. There was nothing to be gained from provoking the man in charge.
For a moment, Noah wondered if Figg had paid off the ref, but he shook the idea from his mind. There was no point thinking like that. It wasn’t going to help things. He had to keep playing no matter what stupid decisions the ref made.
St Mary’s didn’t create an attack worthy of the name in the first ten minutes. It was a desperate rearguard action. But although St Killian’s attacked and attacked they weren’t breaking through and despite all their possession and some trademark dribbles from Bestie Keenan, Killian’s most skilful player, they only had a couple of off-target shots to show for their domination.
Piotr placed the ball on the ground for a goal kick. He booted it high and long. Limbsy anticipated it and took a step forward. His marker reacted too slowly and that extra fraction of a second was enough to give Limbsy an advantage. He nudged his opponent, knocking him off balance. The ball flicked off his head and out to the wing where Hawk Willis was lurking. Hawk controlled the ball with an ease that surprised everyone, including himself, and raced forward.
‘Yeeeeeoooow,’ he yelled. He collapsed like he’d been shot, grabbing his knee.
The physio, who was provided by the tournament’s organizers, hitched up his tracksuit bottoms and lumbered on to the pitch.
‘Twisted knee,’ he said after a thirty-second inspection of Hawk’s leg. ‘It’ll need at least an hour’s rest.’
‘Why always me?’ Hawk moaned.
McCooley went over to console him. ‘Don’t you dare cry. Don’t even think about it. St Mary’s players never cry. Is that clear, Willis?’ he grunted.
‘Yes,’ Hawk whimpered.
The crowd applauded as he hobbled off, his arm round the physio’s shoulder.
Cormac jogged on in his place and stationed himself on the right wing.
For the rest of the half, St Killian’s worked like demons with a tremendous work ethic. They ran themselves to the point of exhaustion. Sweat poured down their faces. Their drenched shirts clung to them as they pressed and harried and never gave St Mary’s a second on the ball.
Somehow, though, through a combination of luck, intelligent defensive work and some fantastic goalkeeping from Piotr, St Mary’s struggled on and made it to the break with the score still 0–0.
‘I don’t know how you’re not losing,’ a red-faced Jim Reynolds said to Noah as they trooped off for their five-minute rest.
‘It’s because you haven’t put the ball in the back of the net, Jim. Kind of the point of the game.’
Jim couldn’t think of a reply in time, which gave Noah a lot of satisfaction. Stevie gathered his players around in a huddle.
‘Stay on your feet,’ Stevie whispered.
There were several moans and groans in reply.
‘Stay on my feet? I’m dying here,’ Sunday said.
‘I know, but look at them. Not all of you all at once. You, Darren, make it look natural.’
Darren faked a yawn and glanced over. The St Killian’s players were panned out on the ground. Not a single one of them was standing.
‘They’re cream-crackered,’ Darren said.
‘Exactly. They tried to blitz us,’ Stevie said. ‘That was their game plan today. It’s not how they normally play. I should know – I’ve reviewed their matches a hundred times. They gave absolutely everything in the first half and thought they’d be two or three–nil up.’
‘You mean they didn’t pace themselves,’ Barbara said.
‘Yes. They were following Mr Hegarty’s instructions, not Coach Fleming’s. And now they’re out on their feet. You lot were magnificent. Kevin, you’ve been really disciplined, but now it’s your time to shine. There’s two, maybe more, on that team who are frightened of you. Now they’re frightened and tired, and we can use that to our advantage. Use your incredible energy to close them down. They’ll want to get rid of the ball quickly and when they’re tired their execution will be poor. You got it?’
‘One hundred per cent, Gaffer,’ McCooley said. He grinned. ‘I’m really going to enjoy this.’
‘Sunday and Noah, move the ball around fast. Drag them all over the place. Cormac, you try and join in with attack when you can. Help Maggie and Limbsy out.’
‘Yeah, someone give me the ball. I’ve been so starved of passes that I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like,’ Maggie said.
‘It’s that round yellow-and-blue thing that people are kicking about,’ Sunday said.
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Right, defence, keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve been excellent, but try to vary the passes to keep St Killian’s on their toes. A couple of short passes out to Noah, a couple of long balls up to Limbsy,’ Stevie said. He checked his watch. ‘We have one minute left. I want you out on the field doing a few stretches and looking eager to get the second half started. Do some fake laughing and joking. They’ll think you have lots of energy and it’ll really wind them up.’
St Mary’s high-fived each other then jogged on to the pitch. Even though they were exhausted from the first half, they acted as if they were fresh from the most relaxing and rejuvenating break of their lives. Maggie said a few nonsense words and the rest of the team started laughing as if she’d said something hilarious.
Sean McDonagh and Terry Sweeney from St Killian’s looked across the field at their opponents. Both players had given every last drop of energy in the first half and were dreading the second, yet here was the opposition skipping around like they were in a flippin’ musical.
‘We’re dead, Macker,’ Terry said.
‘You don’t have to tell me, Ter. Why are we doing this to ourselves?’ Sean said.
‘Shut up, you losers,’ Jim Reynolds said. ‘There’s no way we’re going to lose.’
‘If we’re losers then we have to lose. It’s kind of our destiny,’ Rob Gillespie said.
‘We’re not going to lose to a bunch of girls,’ Reynolds said. ‘Or to Noah too-big-for-his-boots Murphy. Get up, get up, get up.’
The teams lined up again. The referee waved to both goalkeepers to check they were ready for the second half to begin.
‘Not looking good for your little team, Mr Treacy,’ Hegarty said. ‘They were quite poor in that first half.’
‘Lucky we have another half to play, then, isn’t it?’
‘Are you giving me cheek?’
‘What? No, I meant . . . Sorry, sir . . . I . . .’
Reynolds continued to run around in a fury at the start of the second half. He went for every ball. He chased down every player. He covered every blade of grass. Within five minutes he was on the verge of collapse. It was the perfect time for Noah to take over – and he did.
The next fifteen minutes were amongst the best Noah had ever played. He controlled the entire match. When he received the ball, he never allowed himself to be pressured. Every touch was perfect. When he turned, he swivelled into space, when he passed it was always just in front of a player so they could take the ball in their stride.
Midway through the second half Sunday won a tackle out by the touchline. He rolled his studs over the ball then jinked past Dermot Coughlan, his opposite number, and went straight for the corner flag. It looked like he was setting up to knock a cross into the area, but at the last moment he flicked the
ball back towards his own half and chipped it to the edge of the D. Noah was bombing on and caught it perfectly.
It was one of those moments that rarely occurs in life, but when it does it’s absolutely wonderful.
Noah knew the second he connected with the ball that it was a goal. He caught it right on the sweet spot. He didn’t see it hit the net. He didn’t need to. He’d already wheeled away in celebration. He’d only taken a single step when the roar of the crowd exploded in his ears. Two steps later he was wrestled to the ground by Kevin McCooley. There was no escape. Kevin shouted something unintelligible.
The rest of the team piled on top of Noah, squashing him into the turf. Bodies everywhere. He could barely catch his breath. He didn’t care. He’d scored a lot of goals in his life, but he’d never felt a rush like this, an absolute sense of joy, of exhilaration. It was as if the rest of the world disappeared. Nothing existed beyond this moment, this beautiful day, this fantastic pitch and these wonderful teammates.
Reality came rushing back when he eventually got to his feet and Limbsy planted a big fat kiss on his lips.
Stevie didn’t celebrate on the sideline. He just smiled to himself as his principal swore loudly.
‘That was a fluke,’ Reynolds said as they lined up for the kick-off.
‘What’s the score?’ Maggie asked.
‘Get lost.’
Maggie turned to Noah. ‘You’ve had your fun, now give me a couple of decent passes and I’ll show you what a really great goal looks like.’
For the following five minutes, however, it wasn’t Maggie who shone – it was the Kevin McCooley show. Every time a Killian’s player got the ball, McCooley bore down on him like a rampaging rhino, which panicked the player into kicking the ball as far away from him as possible, usually landing at the feet of a St Mary’s defender. Reynolds, exhausted and barely able to move any longer, shouted with rage, but it had no effect. His team were gone and he knew it.
For the last few minutes St Mary’s peppered the St Killian’s goal. Maggie curled a sumptuous free kick against the bar. Limbsy had a diving header blocked on the line. Sunday wriggled through three players and chipped the keeper only for the ball to land on the roof of the net. Barbara even ambled forward at one point when they won a corner. Unfortunately, her towering header was just wide, but even so she ran back to her position in the centre of defence afterwards with an impossibly huge grin on her face.
‘This is brilliant,’ she said.
With two minutes left and St Killian’s so tired they couldn’t even muster an attempt at an attack any longer, Maggie got the goal she craved. A long kick-out from Piotr bounced in front of her. The central defender was just behind her, too close, she knew. He was leaving too much space between him and his goalkeeper. She nodded the ball backwards, just to his left, then ran to his right. He was slow to turn and she was already bearing down on the keeper by the time he gave chase. The keeper rushed out of his goal, intent on clattering her. Maggie was unperturbed.
‘Grooaagghh,’ the keeper roared as she calmly nutmegged him then leaped in the air to avoid his lunge. He slid beneath her airborne studs and crashed into the defender who was giving chase, flattening him. Maggie tapped the ball into the empty net. 2–0.
She turned back to her teammates, her arms outstretched. The crowd shouted their appreciation. She didn’t run off celebrating. She waited for her teammates to come to her. Which they did. As they finished their congratulations, Tony Donnelly leaned in.
‘Limbsy, kiss me and you’re a dead man,’ Maggie said.
He wasn’t that reckless.
Less than a minute later the referee blew the full-time whistle. It was over. They’d won. Every one of the St Killian’s players made a point of coming over and shaking Noah’s hand and congratulating him. Everyone except Jim Reynolds who lay on the ground sobbing, his shirt pulled up over his face.
Stevie turned to shake his principal’s hand, but the man had disappeared into the crowds. Everyone was in great spirits afterwards, but Stevie brought them back down to earth when he reminded them that they had another match in just over an hour.
‘We’ll celebrate when we qualify for the next round,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘Without being too harsh on David, he cost us the match’
Ian Wright
It took Mr Hegarty a few minutes to find Arthur Slugsley in the swelling crowds. He managed to locate him just as Pengardon Academy slotted in their second goal against Park Community School. It was William Sheehan’s second of the match and, while most of his teammates celebrated, Barney Figg wasn’t too happy with him.
‘You should have passed the ball to me. Why did you shoot, you moron?’
William Sheehan gritted his teeth. ‘I’d gone past two players and was on the edge of the area and you were way back on the halfway line. I thought I had a better chance of scoring than you did and, since I did score, I was probably right.’
Barney Figg snorted his derision. ‘Well, maybe I was on the halfway line because I was exhausted from doing all the work for this team. Next time, you pass to me. I’m the captain, so I’m the one in charge. Don’t you forget that.’
Sheehan’s right hand closed into a fist.
‘Great goal, William,’ Plunkett Healy shouted from the sideline.
When William looked over, Healy was drawing his hand across his throat, warning him not to go ahead with the pummelling of Barney that he appeared to be planning. Sheehan unclenched his fist and walked back to his own half muttering to himself.
Hegarty tugged at Slugsley’s arm. The Pengardon coach seemed surprised to see him there.
‘What do you want?’ Slugsley asked.
‘My money,’ Hegarty said. ‘My team ran themselves into the ground just like I told them to. They sacrificed themselves to tire out St Mary’s. They didn’t get the win, but Noah Murphy and his team are going to be so wrecked for the next match your lads will stroll to victory.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Slugsley said.
As the final whistle went, signalling a 2–0 victory for Pengardon, Slugsley eased Hegarty away from the crowd. They walked round the back of one of the food tents where they were able to talk more freely.
‘I told you on the phone that you’ll get the rest of the money when we win the tournament and not a minute sooner,’ Slugsley said.
‘I don’t trust Figg to pay me,’ Hegarty said. ‘It’s not like this is legal. I won’t have anyone to complain to if he decides not to pay.’
‘I told you you’d be paid and you will when they win. I’m a man of my word.’
‘You’re the coach of a fixed team. Excuse me for thinking your word doesn’t count for very much. If things don’t work out for me then I’m going to tell the world all about Mr Figg and his precious little Barney. I’ll tell him how you rigged the group—’
‘How did you know that?’ Slugsley asked.
‘Come on, Slugsley. Pengardon end up in the same group as my school and Noah Murphy’s team? Eighty teams and that’s the way the group falls. Are you trying to say it was a coincidence? You’re not pulling the wool over my eyes. How did you do it? Computer hacking? Paying off the man who organizes the tournament? If you’d been smart enough to come to the lovely town of Carraig Cruach earlier rather than waiting until the last minute, you’d have seen how good a player Noah Murphy is. If you’d put him in your team rather than trying to stop him playing, everything would have been nice and simple. I’d have received a nice fat fee to keep my mouth shut about his transfer to Pengardon, you’d have won the tournament easily and you wouldn’t have to spend your time getting stressed and trying to weasel your way out of paying me what I’m owed,’ Hegarty said.
‘Well, if your miserable little town hadn’t been hidden in the middle of nowhere then maybe I would have spotted him earlier, but if I hadn’t found it at all then I wouldn’t have had the misfortune of meeting you. Now, get lost, you odious man,’ Slugsley said.<
br />
‘I may be odious, but I’m going to get my money one way or the other,’ Hegarty replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘No regrets, none at all. My only regret is that we went out on penalties. That’s my only regret, but no, no regrets’
Mick McCarthy
Noah was really looking forward to the next match. He’d started to believe they could actually win the tournament. A few more parents had turned up and the excitement was building, though he was trying to keep everyone calm and focused. In the end, with McCooley’s help, they managed to get rid of the adults and found a quiet corner in one of the marquees.
‘Man, my shirt smells ripe,’ Hawk said, sniffing the armpit of his jersey. ‘We really should have brought spares with us.’
Noah ignored him. ‘OK, while our excellent manager was working out our tactics—’
The group gave a little cheer for Stevie.
Noah grinned. ‘I got the group table. Park and St Killian’s are out.’
Another cheer.
‘It’s between us, Drumlock and Pengardon. Since goal difference comes into it, we have to beat Pengardon by two goals if we’re to stand a chance of getting through. After that it gets a little complicated.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Maggie said. ‘We just go out there and win ten–nil and we’ll be in the knockout round, then it’s just a few matches until we’re crowned champions and my spectacular goals go viral on YouTube.’
‘I’m just going to ignore that,’ Noah said. ‘Is everybody feeling OK? Other than Adam and Cormac, that is.’
Poor Cormac had landed awkwardly when celebrating Maggie’s goal, so he was out for the final. He was distraught, but putting a brave face on it. Adam was out too, but luckily Hawk had recovered quickly from his knee injury and was raring to go. The downside as far as Noah was concerned was that the only fit substitute they had was Stevie. The idea of Stevie having to play against a team of ringers who had won all their matches so far made Noah a little nervous. If it made Noah nervous, it was playing havoc with Stevie’s stomach. He wanted to play, he really did, but he didn’t want to come on to the pitch for the very first time during the most important match of his friends’ lives. He’d mess it up for sure.
The Mighty Dynamo Page 24