‘What’s happened in the last few days?’ Mr Broadbent was astonished. I knew this because he added, ‘I’m astonished’.

‘I’ve been practising,’ I said. I stood on the goal line and waved my goalkeeping gloves above my head. They were huge and I was probably a dead ringer for Mickey Mouse. With the exception of the ears. Maybe not with the exception of the ears. Andrew’s words about my physical appearance had cut deep.

‘You’ve been … exceptional today, Rob,’ Mr Broadbent said. ‘Absolutely phenomenal.’

I had to agree.

Andrew clearly has a future as a motivational speaker when he grows up. His words about protecting Destry’s face were now inscribed onto my brain. When the football hurtled towards me, all I could see was her face in the ball’s trajectory, her beautiful nose squished. And I could not let it happen. I threw myself from one side to the other. I tipped the ball over the bar, pushed it around the post. On the few occasions when Mr Broadbent allowed other players to try to score against me, I charged straight at them and blocked the ball any way I could. My arms, my legs, my feet. My face. Nothing mattered. I would die to stop that ball getting past me.

I spent an hour in practice. I did not allow one goal to be scored. Suck on that, Mum.

‘You’re in the team,’ said Mr Broadbent when he finally blew the whistle for the end of training. ‘Blankety hell. We could even win this year. Well, get a draw. In all honesty, our forwards couldn’t find the opposition’s goal with a GPS.’