Nails, as expected, was back at school, like Mr Smith, in time for the Wednesday soccer session. They found that the number of players had suddenly increased.
“Been hearin’ a few things ’bout you, Timber,” Nails said, by way of a greeting.
“Thought you might,” said Ollie and grinned. “Good things, I hope.”
“Not too bad,” Nails admitted. “I’ll see for myself soon.”
Sadiq seemed to be trying to get out of the practice by claiming he had forgotten to bring his kit.
“You can borrow some,” Ollie told him.
“You’re twice my size!”
“Not off me,” Ollie laughed. “I’m sure others will help out.”
“Nobody will lend me anything.”
“Course they will. You’ve only got to ask.”
Sadiq was right. Everyone refused – until Nails heard about it. The captain might no longer have been the tallest boy in the school, but he still had the loudest voice and also the hardest fists. Sadiq soon had so many offers of kit plus spare boots, that he could have worn a different outfit every day of the week.
Mr Smith began the session with some warm-up exercises and encouraged the players to practise their ball skills either in pairs or small groups. Ollie and Sadiq teamed up, passing a ball between them until Sadiq could no longer resist doing some of his juggling tricks using his feet, knees, head and even his shoulders to keep the ball off the ground.
Everyone stopped to stare at him. He looked like a puppet dancing on a string in a multicoloured costume. He was wearing a green and yellow striped shirt, blue shorts, purple and white hooped socks and a pair of red boots.
“He’s like a circus act!” cackled Nails. “That crazy kid must be colour blind.”
When he finally did lose control of the ball, Sadiq was surprised to hear all the applause, and at first he didn’t realise that they were clapping him. He looked embarrassed.
“Yeah, great, but don’t go doin’ that kind of fancy stuff in a match,” Nails warned him. “You’ll get clattered!”
In the five-a-side games that followed, using cones for goals, Ollie and Sadiq continued to impress with their contrasting skills and how well they linked up. Opponents found it hard to win the ball off Sadiq and no one could beat Ollie in the air – at least, not without fouling him first, which Nails kept doing.
Simon showed good technique, too, handling the ball cleanly, but his best and most satisfying moment came when he dived at Jake’s feet and grabbed the ball, sending his brother toppling to the ground.
Mr Smith decided there and then to play all three newcomers in the school’s last league fixture of the season, away against Whitecross Juniors, a game which the Reds needed to win to avoid the threat of relegation. He knew it might be a risk, but it was one he considered worth taking.
‘Can’t do much worse than we have already in the league,’ he mused. ‘We’ve lost most of the matches.’
The headteacher gathered all the players around him at the end of the session.
“I’m going to make a few changes for Saturday,” he told them, “but I want to sleep on it first. I’ll put the squad up on the sports noticeboard tomorrow.”
The boys and girls went their separate ways into the changing-rooms, wondering exactly who might be in or out of the team.
“Bet Saddo and the beanpole will be picked,” Emma muttered, sorting out her things for the shower.
Katie nodded. “’Fraid so. Have to admit, they both played pretty well today.”
“Saddo might even take your place on the wing,” Emma teased her friend.
“No way!” Katie retorted, and slapped her towel onto the bench. “He’ll be in big trouble if he does. I’ll kill him!”
Next door, not many of the boys were bothering to go into the showers and some had gone straight home still wearing their dirty kit. Nails pulled on his tracksuit and stuffed his school clothes into a bag.
“Poor old Smiffy will be havin’ nightmares, if he’s thinkin’ of puttin’ our kid in goal,” he laughed. “What do you reckon he’ll do, Anil?”
It was a cruel question to the goalkeeper, who knew that other people would be listening. Nails tended to dominate any room he was in – even the classroom at times, if the teacher let him get away with it.
“Anything he wants, man,” Anil replied with a shrug. “Not up to me, is it?”
“Did he say anythin’ to you?”
Anil shook his head. “Never does. What about you?”
“Nah, but he must be gettin’ desperate to go messin’ around with the team now, right at the end of the season. . .”
Jake spoke up – perhaps the only one who could get away with interrupting Nails while he was in full flow.
“Probably wants to try out a few things before the Final, like.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Nails conceded reluctantly, “but it’s stupid when we need the points. We don’t wanna end up gettin’ relegated.”
“No, but winning the cup would be a consolation, like.”
“Not much of one. Still, we won’t be here next year, so who cares?”
Everyone knew that Nails would care very much. It would be a blow to his pride.
Nobody asked Simon, the only boy in the room who would still be at the school for the new season, whether or not he cared. He kept quiet, as usual, but the next morning he found himself the centre of attention. His name was on the teamsheet in goal, with Anil’s among the substitutes.
“You’ve made it, Si – well done!” Ollie congratulated him, slapping him playfully on the back and almost pushing his face into the noticeboard.
“So have you and Sadiq,” Simon said. “If you two score enough goals, it won’t matter too much if I let a couple in.”
“Don’t think like that,” Ollie told him. “Every goalie wants to keep a clean sheet.”
“I’m not all that fussed,” he replied, just as his brothers came along the corridor. He was glad that Nails had not heard what he’d said.
“Said you’d be in!” cried Jake.
“Yeah, you might even get to touch the ball this time, Zero!” smirked Nails.
Jake was not best pleased, though, that he had been moved into midfield to make room for Ollie at centre-forward in the headteacher’s preferred 4-3-3 formation, with Sadiq and Katie on the wings.
“That’s not right,” he complained. “I’m leading scorer.”
“Sorry,” said Ollie, as if it was his fault.
“You can still play up front,” Nails told Jake. “Y’know – push forward, like, all the time. Bet Smiffy won’t even notice.”
The selection of Ollie and Sadiq immediately increased their prestige, at least among the boys. Sadiq was secretly pleased to find himself invited to take part, for the first time, in the lunchtime kickabout on the playing field. They were both even called by their proper names.
“Can’t wait for the big game on Saturday, can you?” enthused Ollie during the afternoon art and craft session.
“It’ll come soon enough,” replied Sadiq, trying to concentrate on his painting. “No rush.”
He was doing a picture of a tropical bird and finding it tricky to get the colours of the feathers quite right.
“There – that’ll do,” he said, putting his brush into the water jar. “All done!”
Even if his life was no longer in danger from Katie, Sadiq was still a potential victim of her spite. She chose that moment to come behind his chair and lean forward to reach across the table for something. Suddenly, the jar was knocked over and the dirty water flowed over his painting and onto his trousers.
“Oops! Soz, Saddo!” she cried, as he jumped to his feet. “Clumsy old me, eh?
“Look what you’ve gone and done!” he wailed. “You did that on purpose.”
“Said I’m sorry,” she retorted. “You can easily paint another budgie.”
“Budgie?” he cried. “That was a parrot.”
Katie moved off before her giggles gave her away or Mrs Gregson could come to investigate the commotion, leaving Ollie to help Sadiq clean up the mess. Sadiq’s anger was not helped by hearing a parrot-like imitation from the other side of the room.
“Pretty Polly!” came the repeated squawk. “Who’s a pretty boy?”