The policy of just giving the ball to Fred wasn’t quite working. In that every time he’d got the ball so far, he’d been knocked off it and ended up in a muddy puddle. Not, at least, exactly the same muddy puddle. You couldn’t fault Fred for his work rate: he was, as football people sometimes say, box to box – he was here, he was there, he was every jolly where – being knocked into muddy puddles.

He’d been knocked off the ball and into a muddy puddle in the Oakcroft penalty area; he’d been knocked off the ball and into a muddy puddle at the centre circle; he’d been knocked off the ball and into a muddy puddle at all four corner flags; and – just now – he’d been knocked off the ball and wished he’d fallen into a muddy puddle in the Bracket Wood penalty area where, instead, he’d fallen into their own goalpost, banging his back quite hard. Which had left him too winded to get up and prevent the ball from going in.

The score presently was Oakcroft three, Bracket Wood nil.

As Fred finally got up, he saw most of his team walking sadly back to the centre circle. A number of them – and Mr Barrington, and a fair few supporters, he noticed this time – were looking at him with facial expressions that now said (as well as: What happened?): You were really good in the last game and everyone thought you were our magic ingredient that meant we were going to win; but now, frankly, you’re rubbish. We don’t understand.

They had got quite detailed, those facial expressions.

“What are you doing here?” Ellie asked Rashid. “Don’t you want to watch the game?”

“A bit,” said Rashid. “But I don’t like real football that much.”

“Real football?”

“Yes. I like FIFA. I basically like video-game football more than I like real football. Because real football can get …”

“Boring!” said Ellie.

“Yes!” said Rashid. “But, when you play it on a video game, you can keep it interesting.”

“That’s what I think!” said Ellie.

“Oh good,” said Rashid. “I’m glad. It’s hard to find someone who agrees. So anyway … are you trying to reach that controller?”

Ellie wasn’t sure what to say. But she guessed that lying hadn’t helped the situation much so far. So she said yes. Then, feeling like she should explain, added: “It’s in the tree because—”

“I saw. Fred karate-chopped it out of the football ground.”

Ellie nodded.

“Amazing karate chop,” said Rashid.

Ellie nodded again.

There was a short pause.

Then Rashid said: “Why did he do that?”

There was another short pause. Then, Ellie sighed and said: “Well. It’s a magic Controller. I’ve been using it to control Fred. I work the Controller and when it’s in sync with my brother, he’s like my avatar on a video game and I can make him jump really high and fight really well and dig really deep and play football really well. But then it started losing power and we had a row about it and he kind of tricked me into controlling him to karate-chop it out of the ground.”

There was a longer pause after this. Eventually, Rashid nodded and said: “OK. We’d better get it down then.”

At half-time, with the score now at four-nil, the mood in the Bracket Wood changing room was not good. The players were all sitting on the benches, looking down at their boots. Prajit, who was really too small to be in goal – his nickname was the Cat, not because he was good at leaping and jumping, but because his dad was a vet and he sometimes smelt, therefore, of a mix of fur, cat wee and Whiskas – looked particularly depressed.

“So … shall we stick to the same plan for the second half, Mr Barrington?” said Barry Bennett after a bit.

Mr Barrington, who had been very quiet, and not actually doing what managers tend to do in this situation, which is shout very loudly at the team about how it’s been a disgrace, shrugged his shoulders and just looked at Fred.

“What do you think, Fred?” he said. “Should we stick to the plan? Or should we change it?” Mr Barrington leant in towards him. “Should I, in fact, take you off?”

Fred held Mr Barrington’s gaze. The teacher’s eyes behind his glasses were huge and sad. Fred became aware that everyone else in the room was also looking at him.

As it happens, the last thing Fred had seen before Mr Barrington’s huge and sad eyes was the even sadder sight, as he trudged off the pitch at half-time, of Sven Matthias heading for the exit. So he wanted to say, Yes, please: take me off and never pick me again; never even come near me with a football again; never even SAY THE WORD “football” near me again, but suddenly, as he thought about saying these things, he realised he might cry.

And so, because he didn’t want to cry in front of the whole team, he didn’t say anything.

And so, because Fred wasn’t saying anything, Mr Barrington assumed he didn’t want to come off and said, in a kindly voice: “OK. Go back on for the first five minutes of the second half and we’ll see how it goes.”