“C’mon, men!” cried Nails, as the Reds gathered around him on the pitch before the kick-off. “We’re in it to win it!”
“Hey! I made that up,” Jake protested. “You said I could say it.”
Nails ignored him, but got no further with his intended pep talk.
“And girls,” put in Emma.
“What?”
“Don’t forget us girls too,” Emma told him.
Nails stared at his tall, heavily-built partner in central defence, who grinned back at the captain, knowing that this would annoy him.
The team’s speedy left-winger, Katie, joined forces with her best friend. “We don’t want to be called men, thanks very much,” she added.
Nails pulled a face at them. “Right, men – and women,” he scowled, as some of the boys began to snigger. “Like I was saying, we can beat this lot, just like we did in the league. . .”
The referee’s whistle cut across him and the group broke up as Nails trotted towards the centre-circle for the toss. The Reds’ 3-1 victory over St Martin’s School – the Saints – before Christmas had been one of their rare successes this season, a season in which they had seemed to be saving their best form for Cup games. The reminder had served to boost the players’ confidence and they were hopeful of reaching the Final.
Only Jake knew that the captain was still not fully fit. They shared a room and it was difficult to hide secrets. Even Simon and their parents did not realise that Nails had been unwell during the week.
Sadly, only five minutes after the kick-off, the Reds were all feeling low.
A long clearance from the Saints’ goalkeeper bounced over the heads of both Nails and Emma and a green-shirted, blonde striker raced past them into the clear. She dribbled round the advancing Anil and then steered the ball into the empty net.
“Keep your eye on the ball, Kevin!” cried Mrs Gregson from the touchline.
Nails cursed under his breath. “Huh! What does she think I’m doin’? Starin’ at their number-ten?”
It was perhaps a guilty thought. The scorer had indeed caught his eye, but it was her quick feet that he’d noticed, not her blonde hair.
“C’mon, Reds, let’s show this lot how we can play,” cried Nails angrily.
It was another ten minutes, however, before the Saints’ keeper was forced to make a save. Jake managed to shake off his marker at a corner, but his header was well held by the goalkeeper.
At the other end of the pitch, Anil was handling the ball like a bar of soap. Time and again, it slipped out of his grasp and only some desperate defending prevented a second goal. In one of these goalmouth scrambles, Nails blocked the ball on the line and then hacked it clear of danger.
“Get a grip, will yer, Anil!” demanded the captain.
“Cool it, man,” Anil snapped back. “You’re no better than me in goal.”
“Maybe not, but I know a kid who is,” Nails sneered, glancing towards the touchline where he spotted Tilly, lying at Simon’s feet between him and a tall, thin, red-haired boy he didn’t recognise.
Simon would already have wandered off to the fence to do a spot of birdwatching, if Ollie had not come up to fuss the dog, swap names and explain that he would be starting at the school on Monday.
“Where did you go before?” asked Simon.
“Princeton Juniors. It’s in the city. Heard of it?”
Simon shook his head.
“You will do soon, if you reach the final, ’cos the Princes are already in it. Won our own semi last week four-nil.”
“So aren’t you cup-tied? Y’know, when you can’t play for two teams in the same competition.”
“Nah, ’fraid I missed all the cup games for one reason or another.”
“So you might be able to play for us instead?”
“Hope so,” Ollie said, grinning. “But you’ve got to win this game first. . .”
The signs of that happening were not good. The Saints remained on top for the rest of the first half, and were unlucky not to increase their lead when a shot hit the crossbar. Anil didn’t even make a move for it.
When the neutral referee blew his whistle for half-time, Simon offered the dog lead to Ollie. “Can you look after Tilly for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ollie said, taking hold of the blue plastic handle. “Where you going?”
Ollie nodded to where the Reds were starting to form a group around Mrs Gregson, who had come onto the pitch near the halfway line.
“I’d better go and join them. I’m supposed to be the sub goalie.”
“Soz – I didn’t realise,” said Ollie.
Simon shrugged. “It’s OK, I can hardly believe it, either.”
“I’m OK, too,” Ollie replied.
Simon looked at him, puzzled. “How d’yer mean?”
Ollie smiled. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough,” he said, stroking Tilly to reassure her. “Go on, then. They might need you.”
“Hope not. I’ve not even played for the school yet.”
“Well, this could be your big chance to be a hero,” Ollie told him.
“I’d rather be a zero.”
Now it was Ollie’s turn to look puzzled.
“I’ll explain later,” said Simon, and trotted off towards the group.
He need not have bothered. He was barely noticed, nobody spoke to him, and he contented himself with sucking on a slice of orange from a tray of refreshments.
It was strange for the players not to have the headteacher giving them instructions about what they should change in the second half. Mr Smith stayed on the touchline and left Mrs Gregson to do the talking, but she did not have much to say.
“Keep trying to do your best,” she finished. “That’s the main thing – win or lose.”
Nails caught Jake’s eye and pulled a face.
“Big help, that is,” the captain muttered under his breath, and then decided to speak up. “C’mon, men, we’re in it to win it, remember.”
Mrs Gregson raised her eyebrows. “It’s how you play that’s more important, Kevin,” she told him, “not the final result.”
Nails sighed, and gave a shrug.
Simon wandered back towards Ollie, who was walking Tilly by the hedge.
“Just in case she wants to water the flowers,” he grinned.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Simon, taking the lead.
“Not needed yet, then?”
“Nah. Not sure they even knew I was there. Waste of time.”
“What’s the master plan for victory?” asked Ollie.
“There isn’t one. Hope for the best, I think she said. I wasn’t really listening.”
“Our teacher at Princeton was a great one for tactics. Reckon he must’ve stayed up all night thinking up new stuff,” Ollie said with a sigh. “Waste of time, mostly. We just went out and scored more goals than the other lot.”
They chuckled together.
One piece of advice from Mrs Gregson that Simon had missed was telling Katie to move about more, so as not to find herself stuck on the touchline.
“Try and lose your marker,” the teacher told her. “Just like you do in netball.”
Katie was certainly enjoying more space in the early part of the second half. She kept popping up in different positions and on one occasion linked up well with Jake, swapping passes before Jake put a shot wide of the target.
Five minutes later, the ball was in the Saints’ net. Katie glided past a couple of weak challenges, fooling the defenders with changes of pace, glanced up to spot that the keeper was off his goal-line, then coolly lobbed the ball over his head.
The pony-tailed winger showed that she was a good gymnast, too. Before anyone could mob her, Katie ran towards the corner flag and performed her well-practised, goal-celebration routine. A cartwheel was followed by a high somersault with a perfect landing in her silver boots, both arms in the air to soak up the crowd’s applause.
“The equaliser!” she screamed.
“What a show-off!” muttered Nails, standing on the halfway line, hands on hips. He preferred to save his energy for the football, instead of running upfield to congratulate the scorer. He still wasn’t feeling all that well.
“C’mon, men!” he cried, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention as the Reds returned for the re-start. “Long way to go yet. Let’s have another goal.”