The whole school turned up for the game because they didn’t have a choice.

Most of St Martin’s came along as well, in about fifty chartered buses. Students filed off coaches in their maroon uniforms and straw boaters. They clutched little pennants with the St Martin’s flag and motto emblazoned on them. Their motto is, of course, in Latin, and translates as ‘We have poo-loads of money and are much better than you nasty working-class mugs’. Milltown High can’t afford a motto, even one in Australian English, but if we could it would probably be, ‘Wassup?’

Their students took up all the seating on one side of the pitch. We couldn’t afford seating all the way round so, being good hosts, we let them have what was available. This meant our lot had to stand in the mud on the touchline opposite the St Martin’s fans, tiniest students at the front and seniors towards the back. St Martin’s waved their little pennants and looked cheery, probably because they were going to make an effort this year and score forty goals. Our supporters had a haunted look. Offer them a forty–nil scoreline before we started and they would’ve taken it, if only so we could all go home.

I went onto the pitch early because the rest of my teammates were getting changed. I’d been wearing my kit under my school uniform all day, which had been bloody hot. I tried to spot Destry Camberwick, but couldn’t. I saw Andrew, though. He gave me a huge thumbs-up. I would have preferred full body armour or, failing that, a large hole to swallow me up. Now the match was only minutes away, I was fighting to keep a panic attack at bay. I didn’t so much have butterflies in my stomach as wedge-tailed eagles.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.

The players from both sides trooped out to join me and we lined up on the halfway line to sing the Australian anthem. Well, St Martin’s did. None of my team knew the words, apart from ‘let us rejoice’ and ‘girt by sea’, which only gets you so far and therefore involves a lot of mumbling. Then we shook hands.

That’s the thing about St Martin’s. Maybe it’s the thing about all private schools. They give the impression of being civilised and decent and friendly, but up close the truth is revealed. These kids (and some of them looked as if they played prop-forward for the Kiwi National Rugby team in their spare time or had jobs as nightclub bouncers) tried to crush our hands when they shook them. They gazed deep into our eyes as if what they really wanted was to stick their hands down our throats and turn us inside out. Maybe that’s where the sports psychologist came in. After we’d shaken their hands I could tell our entire team felt terrified and defeated. On the sidelines, the St Martin’s students chanted the school song. Our lot looked as if they’d sooner be in maths class working on differential equations.

We won the toss (the only thing we could win – we should have called it a day there and then) and elected to kick off. I think we did this so we could at least say we had the ball in their half once. I trotted back to my goal and jumped up and down on my toes. I still couldn’t see Destry, but I did spot Grandad. He’d asked the principal if he could watch the match and had been politely refused (as politely as a roar or bellow would allow). It was open only to students and staff, he’d been informed. Couldn’t let all parents and relatives come as there simply wasn’t room. So sorry. Hope you understand. Grandad certainly understood. It’s just that he didn’t care. As he expressed it to me later, ‘What are they gonna do? Taser me and drag me off school grounds, an eighty-year-old war veteran with a bad hip? That’ll look blankety great on the evening news.’ So he was there and, as far as I could tell, had avoided being tasered. I was really pleased to see him, which goes to show how desperate I was.

The referee blew his whistle. Our centre-forward kicked it straight to the opposition and St Martin’s poured forward in attack.

I was very busy for the next ninety minutes. I mean busy.