I talked over Grandad’s plan with Mum and Dad that evening.

I’d given it some thought as I walked home, and although I still believed it was nuts, it didn’t seem quite as nuts as when he’d first mentioned it. See, I really hate being the centre of attention. I freeze when I’m aware that everyone is looking at me, or expecting me to say something in a public forum. I get severe panic attacks. Oral presentations are a classic example. My mouth goes dry and my legs tremble and I simply can’t say anything. Now I have a medical certificate and the school has to find alternative methods of assessment.

Grandad’s plan would mean plenty of eyes on me, but there were, to my way of thinking, two pluses. One, I’d be busy. I wouldn’t be looking at them looking at me, which is guaranteed to bring on a panic attack. Two, I’d be part of a team. There’d be twenty-one other people to look at.

I’d be diluted. Like raspberry and apple cordial.

Nonetheless, the whole notion was basically dumb. I figured Mum and Dad would destroy Grandad’s idea, shred it with the argument that I am of a retiring nature and have no sporting talent. Grandad doesn’t listen and I needed allies. Luckily, I can talk about pretty much anything to my parents, which I know is unusual, if not outright weird for a thirteen-year-old. Most kids my age roll their eyes if parents are even mentioned in passing, but I’m not like that.

The thing is, they’re accepting of who I am. Most people are, if I’m honest, though there are one or two exceptions, Daniel being an obvious example. Anyway, I trust my parents so I got straight down to it while Mum dished up the lasagne.

‘Pop thinks it would be a good idea if I tried to impress Destry with my sporting ability,’ I said.

‘What sporting ability?’ said Mum and ‘Who on earth is Destry?’ said Dad at the same time.

‘Rob is madly and passionately in love with a girl at school. Destry Camberwick,’ explained Mum.

‘And she doesn’t even know who I am,’ I added. ‘So, according to Pop, I need to get her attention by doing crazily brave sporting stuff.’

‘But Rob,’ said Mum. ‘Sport? Really? Write her a love poem – you’re terrific at English – but no one could really say you’re a sporty person.’

A love poem. Brilliant idea. I filed it away for future use. This was going well. Not only was Mum making ally noises but she’d also come up with a practical suggestion.

‘But that’s the point,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit nerdy, but if I could show how brave I am by playing a physical sport in the most dangerous position on the field, no one could fail to be impressed, could they?’ This is called being the devil’s advocate and involves arguing the opposite of what you believe, to firm up your case.

Mum placed a bowl of salad in the middle of the table.

‘I hate to rain on your parade,’ she said, ‘but people normally get picked for a sporting team on merit. You know, actually being good at the sport, rather than being hopeless. A small point, but an important one, I feel. Isn’t that right, Alan?’

‘Destry Camberwick?’ said Dad. ‘Isn’t that an eighties rock band?’

I ignored him.

‘You don’t know for certain I’m hopeless at sport, Mum,’ I said. I wanted her to argue, but I was becoming a little tired of the confident assertion that I’m rubbish at anything physical. Mums are meant to be supportive under all circumstances.

‘I’ve been to countless sports days at your schools, Rob,’ said Mum. ‘You used to get out of the egg-and-spoon race because you reckoned it was dangerous.’

This was an outrageous lie.

She continued. ‘You said that if you fell it was probable you’d poke your eye out with the spoon and possibly insert an egg up a nostril.’

Ah, yes. I remembered. So not an outrageous lie then.

Actually, it still seemed to me a fair assessment of what is obviously a risky sport.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how everyone viewed me. Not just a total loser, but a coward as well? Grandad had called me gutless and I’d agreed, but I thought he’d been joking. Kind of.

‘But you’re older now,’ Mum continued. ‘You might cope with the egg-and-spoon race. Is that what you’re thinking of entering?’

I decided to ignore her sarcasm. Assuming it was sarcasm.

‘Actually, it’s the annual soccer game between our school and St Martin’s,’ I said. I aimed for a cool tone. ‘They’re really good – we haven’t beaten them … well, ever, I think. And we are total rubbish. Last year they won fourteen–nil, and they weren’t even trying in the second half. Our team couldn’t find their goal with a GPS.’

‘I think I spot the flaw in your plan, Rob,’ said Mum, placing a slice of lasagne on her plate. ‘You want to impress a girl by being a hopeless part of a hopeless team? The pity factor will only get you so far, I’m afraid. Plus, even if your school is unbelievably bad at soccer, I’d still find it impossible to imagine they couldn’t find someone better than you. No offence.’

‘Plenty taken,’ I replied. This was turning into a nightmare.

‘Wasn’t Destry the name of a famous gunslinger in the Wild West?’ said Dad.

‘No one wants to be the goalie,’ I continued. ‘James Martin is and he told me he hates it. But he can’t get out of it, since no one is prepared to replace him and the coach won’t let him drop out. So if I volunteer, James will be thrilled and I’ll be in the team.’

‘The goalie is the one who tries to stop the ball going in the net?’ said Mum.

‘Correct.’

‘Then won’t you seem an even bigger loser if you’re the one picking it out all the time? And who’s to say Destry will even see the game? She’s probably not interested in the sport.’

An even bigger loser? I took a deep breath. ‘She won’t have a choice,’ I said. ‘The whole school is forced to watch. And, okay, even if we lose twenty–nil, I’m bound to make some saves, aren’t I? And she’ll have to notice me. All the action will be taking place around me.’

‘What do you think, Alan?’ said Mum.

‘Or was Destry PI an American show from the seventies?’

‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You’ve been brilliantly helpful. Thanks.’ At least he wasn’t insulting me.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said around a mouthful of lasagne. ‘It’s what dads are for.’

‘And, anyway,’ I said. ‘I don’t need your approval, Mum. I’m going to do it. I am.’ This was obviously a time to prove myself to Mum and Grandad. I wasn’t going to be a sook all my life. It was time to break the shackles of everyone’s preconceptions and show I was made of tough material, that I was not afraid of spoons, eggs or even footballs.

I think I saw a small smile play across Mum’s lips as she lifted a glass of water to her mouth, but I might have been wrong.