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The ball bounced off the tree and rolled towards the wide concrete path that ran through the heart of Crickledon Rec.
Charlie Fry sighed and began to amble towards his prize possession.
He checked his watch.
It was 6.10pm.
This was the problem with the school summer holidays.
Having six weeks off was great, of course, but it turned all normal arrangements upside down.
Charlie and his friends played at Crickledon Rec every Monday, Thursday and Sunday at 6pm.
There was no need for messages or texts.
Everyone knew the times because it was the same every week.
Usually there were easily enough of them to play a six-a-side game.
Trees were used as sturdy goalposts at the end where Charlie stood now.
The goal at the other end of the makeshift pitch was formed through a mixture of bikes, bags and jumpers.
There were no official markings so they never bothered with throw-ins, meaning the pitch could easily be as wide as it was long.
But that patch of grass was special. In Charlie’s mind, it had hosted some of the best games ever – nothing could beat a 21-19 thriller on a Sunday evening.
However, in the school summer holidays, things changed.
People went away for weeks on end.
Most went on the usual sun and seaside break.
Some stayed with relatives in distant counties.
Others – without the usual school routine to remind them – simply forgot.
Charlie and those who remained in Crickledon had struggled for numbers for the past couple of weeks.
Only four had turned up on Thursday, so they’d had to settle for a game of heads and volleys instead.
Today was even worse.
Charlie had got there early to make sure he did not miss anyone.
But, so far, no-one had turned up.
He yawned.
They would be back soon, he knew, but by then it would be nearly the end of park football for another year.
The September nights soon got dark too quickly for a proper evening match.
October was even worse.
And once those clocks went back, the park football season was finished until March.
To make matters worse, there was a large group of lads playing a couple of trees down.
Charlie thought he recognised a few of their faces but did not know their names.
He was sure most of them lived on the opposite side of the town.
They rarely, if ever, played at the Rec.
They seemed to be a mixture of ages but they were mainly Charlie’s age or older.
Absorbed in their own game, they ignored the Boy Wonder and made no effort to invite him to play or speak to him.
Charlie had frowned as soon as he had spotted them.
It happened sometimes.
Crickledon Rec was a popular park and it seemed like the entire town loved football at the moment.
But it was always a touch awkward when the two makeshift pitches were placed next to each other.
It didn’t work well, particularly with the lack of pitch markings. Often balls would invade the other game by accident.
Still, it didn’t matter today – there was only one match being played and Charlie certainly wasn’t part of it.
Charlie checked his watch again: 6.14pm.
It was too late.
No-one else was coming today.
Charlie wished his best mates Joe Foster and Peter Bell were there.
Peter had gone on holiday to Portugal yesterday while Joe was on his first-ever tour with United. They wouldn’t be back in Crickledon for another week.
Until then, Charlie was flying solo.
He made up his mind quickly: he would go home and practice shooting in the back garden with his little brother Harry.
It would not be a complete waste of an evening.
His magic target – which allowed him to place the ball anywhere he liked with the blink of an eye – would have to wait until tomorrow to get a proper workout.
Taking one last look at the group of strangers playing football on the Rec’s neatly trimmed carpet of grass, the Boy Wonder picked up his back-pack, kept the football at his feet under close control and headed home.
Tomorrow he would try again – and was sure that the strangers would be long gone by then.