Hansard’s plan was working in one way: with Kingfield playing more defensively, Breswell were finding it difficult to create chances.

In fact, with only a couple of minutes of the game left and neither side having come anywhere close to scoring in extra time, Jamie realized that perhaps this was precisely Hansard’s plan . . . Hansard wanted it to go to penalties. That would be perfect for him – winning the Interschool Cup for Kingfield in exactly the same way that he had done the last time. It would prove his tactics still worked.

As he saw Dillon pile in with a hefty challenge on the smallest Breswell striker, Jamie’s mind turned towards the penalties. Would Hansard ask for volunteers or would he just tell the players who were taking them?

“That’s it!” Dillon’s dad shouted from the touchline, clapping his son’s challenge, which had resulted in a corner to Breswell. “Break his legs next time!”

The little Breswell striker sprang up from the ground. He was visibly angry, not just with the tackle but also at what Dillon’s dad had said. He started to march over to have an argument with Dillon’s dad, who was clearly enjoying the fact that he’d upset an important player from the opposition.

“Hey, Max!” the Breswell coach shouted to his fuming striker. “Forget it! You know how to give your answers.”

The striker nodded gravely and turned to make his way into the box for the corner.

Jamie took up his position on the far post. He wondered which end they would take the penalties at.

“Everybody mark up!” Dillon shouted. He took the little Breswell striker that he’d just tackled.

Although Breswell had more skill, Kingfield had won practically every header the whole game. Now they just had to win one more and everything would go down to penalties.

It was probably because Kingfield had such a height advantage that the Breswell corner taker decided to fire in the corner low. He only hit it at about waist height.

As it fizzed towards the near post, there didn’t seem to be any danger . . . until the Breswell striker that Dillon was marking made an electric burst to get to the front post.

Once he’d got there, he leapt into the air, spinning his body around in mid-flight. He looked as if he was doing a karate move, twisting his body to unleash a powerful kick. His strike diverted the ball backwards, towards the Kingfield goal.

Most of the Kingfield players were still taking in the technique that had been required for the little striker to karate kick the ball in mid-air when they suddenly realized that his shot was actually right on target.

“No!” pleaded Dillon.

“Clear it!” roared Hansard.

But it was too late. It was already in.

 

 

The Breswell players were in a bundled mass of celebration by the corner flag. One after another of their players piled on top.

“Max!” they were shouting. “You’ve scored the winner!”

Dillon slammed the ball back into Kingfield’s net.

“Whose man was he?” he shouted. Everyone knew he was Dillon’s man.

“Take the centre quickly!” Hansard yelled, pointing to his stopwatch. “Back to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack! Attack!”

Hearing Hansard say they should start attacking now – with one minute left – made Jamie’s mouth let out a sound.

He wasn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a cry.