Sven Matthias had seen enough. He was a busy man and he didn’t have time to hang around. He was, however, a little confused. He had very good instincts for talent. And he knew those instincts had been set alight by seeing this Bracket Wood boy play in the semi-final.

So now, standing outside the little ground in the middle of the posh school sports field, he was disappointed – and somewhat bewildered – by how bad the kid seemed to be in this game, the final. Maybe, he thought sadly to himself, this one just can’t do it when it comes to the crunch, in the biggest games. Better to know that now than, say, in ten years’ time at the Champions League Final.

He took out his phone.

“Hi, John?” he said. “It’s Sven. I’m leaving. Yes, at half-time. Can you bring the car round to—”

“Excuse me, Mr Matthias?” said a small voice. He looked down. A young girl with braces and glasses and pigtails stood there, next to an Asian boy of about the same age.

Sven moved the phone away from his ear.

“Yes?” he said.

“Can I just hold you up for a second?” she said.