I love my school. When I first arrived I had a problem with the school uniform but Mum and Dad sorted it out, and since then it’s been great. Everyone is friendly. Sure, there are a couple of people like Daniel Smith, but you get them everywhere. And really, the only way to deal with the Daniels of this world is to ignore them.

No, Milltown High is awesome and exceptionally supportive.

I went to see Mr Broadbent, the PE teacher, at recess. He was in the gym, supervising a bunch of kids playing basketball, but he sat down with me on the bleachers and let the game run itself.

I explained. He looked me up and down and whistled.

‘Goalkeeper, Rob?’ he said. ‘You know what they say?’ I didn’t, but figured he’d tell me. ‘You have to be mad to be a goalkeeper. You can get kicked in the head – you almost certainly will get kicked in the head. It’s like a war zone in that penalty area. You have to be incredibly brave. Imagine there’s a fifty-fifty ball coming towards you.’

I tried, but as I had no idea what a fifty-fifty ball was (half ball, half something else?) I failed. So I just nodded.

‘The centre-forward is thundering in, determined to get to the ball before you do. He’s huge and mean and all he cares about is scoring that goal. What are you going to do?’

I thought, If it means that much to him, who am I to stand in his way? But I figured this wasn’t a wise response if I wanted to make the team.

‘I make sure I get to the ball before he does,’ I said.

‘Right. But you’ll be diving headfirst into the ground, while he’s coming in with studs up. Who’s going to get injured?’

‘Me.’

‘Right. Can you do that, Rob? Because if you can’t, you’re no use to the school soccer team.’

‘I can do it, Mr Broadbent.’

He sniffed. ‘Tell you what. The game is in a month. I want you on the oval three times a week after school for training. We’ll see what you’re made of.’

Blood, I thought, if what you said about goalkeepers is true. Blood but nothing in the way of brains.

‘I won’t let you down,’ I said.

I let him down.

Well, for the first couple of training sessions. See, the goals in soccer are really high and wide and I’m not. I stood in the centre, on the goal line (give me some credit for getting the terminology right) and looked to my right, left and up. There were massive spaces, just waiting for a soccer ball to sail through. In fact, from my perspective, you’d have to be unlucky not to score. You’d have to hit it straight at me and hope there wasn’t enough time for me to get out of the way. Mr Broadbent placed a ball on the penalty spot and took a few paces back.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll start with the simple stuff. I’ll kick the ball a little to your right or left. No, wait. I’ll tell you. It will be to your left.’

‘Don’t go easy on me, sir,’ I said. ‘I can take it.’

He ignored me. ‘You must get down, so as much of your body as possible is behind the ball. Understand? Like you’re lying down and the ball is hitting your stomach. No way for it to go through you.’

I nodded and jumped up and down on my toes a little. I saw a goalkeeper do that and thought it looked cool. (Small confession – for research purposes I watched an English Premier League game on the television. Professional goalkeepers are BIG, by the way. Blankety huge, as Grandad might say.)

Mr Broadbent stepped up and side-footed the ball a metre or two to my left. He’s obviously a man of his word. I can’t pretend it went fast. In fact it went so slowly that I can remember all of my thought processes. I probably would have had time to write them down.

You can get that, Rob.

What did he say? Dive. No, he didn’t say ‘dive’. He said, ‘get your body behind it’.

But I could stick my foot out and kick it away. Come to that, I could walk over and sit on it.

He said lie down with your body behind the ball.

Yeah, but that would mean throwing myself on the ground.

So?

So the ground looks really hard. I could hurt myself.

The ball is going slowly, but the way this debate is going it will be past you before you know it.

So, get on the ground or stick your foot out?

Well, do something.

Oops! Too late. It’s a goal.

I remember thinking that I would look like a complete idiot, watching the ball as it slid oh-so-slowly into the goal while I impersonated a statue. So even though it was way too late, I stuck my left foot out. This threw my balance out completely and I fell back hard on my bum, upright, legs splayed. The ball kissed the back of the net, but gently.

Mr Broadbent put his head into his hands and laughed. But gently. Or he might have been crying. I was too far away to be certain.