Next to The Golden Key on the blue shelves at school was a book called The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Wasim hadn’t read it yet, but he had seen the coloured picture on the front. It was of hundreds of kids following a man who was blowing on a recorder or something.
That was what it was like as Sayid, the Champ, made his way around the stalls of the fair, pretending to have a go at each thing.
The big man who walked around in front of Sayid wouldn’t let anyone shake his hand. It was in case they broke it, Sally said.
Wasim had stayed up to watch Sayid win his World Championship belt a few months ago and he’d seen what that hand could do, so he was surprised that he would worry about kids from their school breaking it, but nobody argued.
They just followed him, screaming his name and trying to get photos on their mobile phones of each other pretending to punch the Champ. Even Wasim’s dad got one!
Then the procession turned from the Hook a Duck paddling pool and headed to Roll the Penny. Wasim couldn’t swallow. He tried to look cool as he found himself standing to attention at the table where his pile of pennies were waiting to be rolled.
“This is my nephew, Wasim.” Wasim fought for breath. The Champ’s minder had stood to one side when Uncle Zan spoke and now Sayid Akram – Sayid from the Olympics, Sayid from the papers, Sayid from the Corn Puffs advert – came up to him.
“How you doing, man?” asked the Champion of the World.
It had been a special treat for Wasim and Atif when Sayid had fought his boxing match to become World Champ. It wasn’t on normal telly but Dad had driven Wasim and Atif to one of his friend’s houses to watch it on Pay-per-view at two o’ clock in the morning!
That night in Las Vegas, America, Sayid had danced around the ring to crashing music just like he did today, and a voice had boomed his name with a Ladeezz and err gentlemennn, just like today. Sayid had been brilliant, dancing all over the ring, and punching in a blur of red gloves and then skipping away before he could be touched by the bigger boxer he was fighting.
Afterwards, he’d been interviewed holding a massive belt – out of breath and sweating, but grinning underneath swollen cheeks and a puffy eye.
Now Wasim was right next to that person. He had never been near to anyone from the TV before and it was strange. Sayid looked small in the ring next to some of the other boxers, but here he looked massive. The skin that had been sweating and bruised after the big fight was smooth and glowing with fitness, and as Sayid leaned over to pick up a penny, Wasim could actually sense specialness.
Even though he was only going to roll a penny, you could somehow tell that this wasn’t an ordinary person, this was someone who was actually the best in the whole world at what he did. Every movement was relaxed and unhurried, but underneath the white tracksuit top and a massive gold chain, hard shoulder muscles rippled up to a neck like a tree trunk.
And he wanted to know how Wasim was doing!
Sayid gave Wasim a pretend punch on the arm and then rolled the penny. He got a massive cheer, did a World Champ’s shake of his fists and dance, and before Wasim could even say how he was really doing, the great crowd moved off.
Wasim carried on feeling pleased until he saw that the Champ was heading to the Super Sixes, the football. And Wasim wasn’t in it. He looked over to the Raynors and Charles, the new Rock Star Rovers, Rock Star Whites, and rubbed his arm where the Champ had hit him. But it wasn’t his arm that was hurting.
The Woodley Wanderers would have been pleased with a crowd that big. There they all were, gathered around the netball court – which was now a mini football pitch – watching two teams ready to play the first match of the Soccer Sixes tournament. Rock Star Whites v AC Wizards – Atif’s team.
But what a tournament! Because, in the middle, instead of Mr Abbott with his suit trousers tucked into his socks and a playtime whistle, there was a proper referee and next to him – the World Champ.
“Ladeezzz anderrr gentlemenner. . . Anderr now . . . the main event. . . To kick off our Soccer Sixes competitionnerr . . . in the green corner. . .”
Off came Sayid’s brilliant white and gold trackie top and underneath was an emerald green football shirt. The exact colour of the Pakistan flag.
“In the green corner . . . the undefeated World Champion and now centre-forward, Mr Sayiiiiiiiid Akkkkkkkram!”
The noise was now deafening and, even though he had promised himself that he wouldn’t even watch, Wasim found himself dragged over to the pitch by the commotion.
Sayid did his dance again round the pitch. He high-fived the players who were all ready to go and couldn’t believe they were on the pitch with Sayid Akram, with hundreds of people squashed round.
Wasim squeezed his way through and he could see that his brother was having the same trouble he sometimes had. He couldn’t keep the smile from spreading all over his bruised face. Sayid was going to kick off for them against Rock Star Whites. Against Lee Raynor’s team.
Sayid touched his toes, jumped on the spot and then the crowd roared as he got down and did ten press ups on one arm, clapping his hands in the middle of each one, and then did ten on the other arm. Then he used his arms to flip himself up in the air, ready to start.
Wasim looked over at Rock Star Whites and he was pleased – they weren’t smiling. Least of all Lee Raynor. He was looking very worried and had moved back from the kick-off spot. He was now back as far from Atif’s team and Sayid Akram as the netball court would allow. He was whispering to the goalkeeper – another familiar face, Jason Coolley. Wasim thought back to the terror outside his mosque last week, the smell of the firework and the hating face shouting at his family when they got out.
“It’s not fair!” was all the owner of the face managed this time. “Him playing for them. He’ll. . . It’s not fair.”
But nobody was listening. And Jason Coolley and Lee Raynor looked very thin and very white and very scared as Sayid bounced the ball ready to start.
The ref blasted his whistle and Sayid made a big joke of getting a brand new leather ball out of his bag and hiding it behind his back until the ref wagged a jokey finger at him and made him put it down. Everybody laughed.
Then Sayid tapped the ref on the arm and signalled him to wait. He picked up the bag and slowly looked up at Rock Star Whites. Then the Champ fixed them with the Akram stare and made a step towards them.
For the first time that afternoon it went silent. Completely silent. He wouldn’t . . . would he?
And then the World Champ shook hands with the team at his end – the team of Muslims – and he marched towards Rock Star Whites.