The High School for Boys was just outside the sleepy town of Ribblestrop. It had been built on an expanse of wasteland and, as you approached, it looked rather like a nuclear power station set in three acres of crumbling army barracks. A high wire fence surrounded it and a man on the gate waved them through, radioing ahead.
The Tacks had got lost, partly due to Millie’s erratic directions, so it was lucky they’d set off so early. The Ribblestrop team rolled in just before kickoff.
Another security officer pointed out the road toward “recreational facilities,” and radioed ahead. The vehicles trundled round a bend and you could see the pitches laid out below.
The floodlights were on already, it being a dull afternoon. A vast crowd had gathered, surrounding the grass and turning it into an arena. Two thousand? Three thousand perhaps. You could hear their singing, but as the van appeared it rose into an ecstasy of whistling. The High School for Boys had invited the High School for Girls, and they were all corralled together behind high, chainlink fences. Teachers patrolled the touchline nervously as the whistling turned to a monstrous baying.
“Don’t be intimidated,” said Ruskin.
“We are the better side,” said Millie.
An official with an Alsatian beckoned the Ribblestrop vehicles onto the pitch and advised the drivers where to park for a quick exit. The children piled out with their one soccer ball and spread out toward the farthest goal. The noise of the crowd made conversation difficult. The children kept their heads down, aware that green banners were being unfurled, and they were marooned in a sea of green scarves and painted faces. The pitch was rock hard. A million cleats had worn it to brown dust. It was more suited to Christians and lions than to soccer.
“I want a clean game,” said Harry Cuthbertson. The two captains looked at him. “This is not to be a grudge match, all right?”
“Tails,” said Millie.
“Remember, Darren. We’ve got a man from Highbury coming down next term, that’s the only reason we’re keeping this fixture. Fitness training, this is.” He said to Millie, “This lad’ll turn pro when he leaves us.”
“How’s your brother?” said Millie.
“Good. He’s looking forward to seeing you. Unfinished business, apparently.”
“Tell him I’ll be waiting.”
“You know he’s Deputy Chief Constable, do you? It was announced yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard,” said Millie. “What I really want to know is, who’s more bent? You as a ref, or him as a copper?”
Harry Cuthbertson went so red and stiff he couldn’t toss the coin. He gave kickoff to the high school and blew his whistle hard and long. Darren clipped the ball forward and there was a tumultuous roar from the crowd that seemed to lift the very dust; it was like playing in a gale. The Ribblestrop players stared at one another in fear. All around the ground, the metal fence was being picked up and shaken. It was the sound of chains rattling.
The high school were on the offensive fast, and their tactics hadn’t changed. The boys weren’t quick, but they were powerful and hard, and tackling them was always going to be dangerous. The Ribblestrop team were brave but skittish, and concentration in the din of howling was almost impossible. Everyone was remembering the cruel tackles of the last meeting, and it was clear that the first ten minutes were going to be the hardest.
The penalty, when it came, was outrageous. Cuthbertson was in the right place to see what happened, so his decision was cynical and absurd. Henry had moved in firmly, as a high school player tried to break. Henry played the ball; the other lad went down in a theatrical stage dive, throwing his arms in the air and somersaulting twice. A hurricane of screams and whistles came from all sides, so intense that the referee’s own whistle was inaudible. It was the ref’s decisive pointing at the penalty spot that confirmed the unbelievable decision. The dive had taken place a good two meters outside the penalty area, but Cuthbertson yellow-carded Henry and simply walked through the scrum of protesting Ribblestrop players and planted the ball on the penalty spot.
In the visitors’ box, which was a small concrete bunker halfway down one side of the pitch, Mr. Tack was aghast. Captain Routon—whose face was red anyway due to the blistering—had turned a frightening plum color.
Sanchez bounced on the goal line.
The high school captain backed off for the kick. He had a smug smile on his misshapen face, which turned into a glare as he prepared to run. Sanchez didn’t see the ball as it smashed into the top lefthand corner of his goal. He didn’t even move.
The crowd noise turned into a jet engine during takeoff. One of the metal fence panels was breached, and there was a brief pitch invasion before a handful of hardy teachers linked arms and filled the gap. As Ribblestrop kicked off, it was as if the ground had tilted and they were playing uphill in a tornado.
Five minutes later, Millie was tackled from behind several seconds after she’d passed the ball. Her shoe was torn off in the assault, and she spent five minutes on her back. Her sock was soaked red, but no foul was given.
Just before halftime Asilah was sent off because the ball hit his arm: handball. Sanjay, Sam, and Israel all had black eyes from off-the-ball encounters; Vijay had been hit by something—he hadn’t seen the missile, but his forehead was cut. Anjoli’s shirt was in shreds. The Ribblestrop tempers were bursting; the crowd was baying with glee.
“You can see his tactics,” said Captain Routon at halftime. His voice was hoarse with rage. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt last time, but this is outrageous!”
Ruskin said, “I’m going to write a letter. This will not go unchallenged.”
Millie had her head in her hands. She said, “The thing is, they’re so useless! Every move they make is so blindingly obvious, we’re ten times more skillful.”
“It’s still one-nil,” said Asilah, bitterly.
“What can we do?” said Sanchez. “Shall we push Henry forward?”
“No, he’s much better in defense.”
“We’ve lost Asilah, though! We’ve got to do something.”
“Can I say something?” said Mr. Tack.
Everyone looked at Sam’s father.
“Certainly,” said Routon.
Mr. Tack and his wife were sitting in a couple of canvas chairs. They had ham sandwiches and a flask of tea, all of which was being passed among the starving Ribblestrop team, as no refreshments had been offered.
“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, “and I certainly don’t want to pretend I have any special skill in this area. But I’ve seen Sam play a fair bit, and that little chap—what’s your name, son?”
“Anjoli,” said everyone.
“He and Sam are working together like a dream.”
“That’s true,” said Routon. Anjoli grinned.
“If I were you,” continued Mr. Tack, “I’d change your attack and do the unexpected. Sam has a rather stylish touch with his head, and I have a feeling it’s a secret weapon. The last things those lads are expecting is aerial bombardment—you’ve been keeping it so low. What’s your name, my dear?”
“Millie,” said everyone.
“You have a superb touch when it comes to passing. Instead of trying to get too far forward, I’d push it out to either Sam or Anjoli. Let them play the wings a bit more. Then, depending on who’s clear, if you feed it to Sam, he’ll cross to Anjoli. If you get it to Anjoli—”
“I cross to Sam,” said Anjoli.
“Try it,” said Millie. “I’m happy.”
“But you’ll have to make space, boys. Then it’s hard crosses. Treat them like shots and get them in the goalmouth. Oh, and—last thing—remember to keep them high. Both you boys can jump, so keep the ball high. Their fullbacks are as slow as old tanks.”
*
The Ribblestrop team trotted out with a new sense of purpose. Unfortunately, so did the high school. They wanted three-nil. Darren wanted his hat trick because it was quite true, a spotter from Arsenal had accepted an invitation for a fixture next term and would be looking at his score sheet.
After five minutes, the whole crowd started to sing, “Easy! Easy!” Encouraged, the high school forwards hacked into the defense. Henry caught an elbow in the throat and was brought down hard and dirtily five minutes later, stud marks up his calf. He was dazed and bloody, but no fouls were given. They were getting through to Sanchez too: the shots were piling in and the boy rolled and dived, punching the ball clear again and again. The ball seemed permanently in the Ribblestrop half; it was corner after corner.
Looking back at the game, the felling of Henry was the turning point. The high school players were so thrilled to see the Ribblestrop giant on his back that they relaxed. Even the defenders came forward, confident that the opposition defense was broken.
The ball fell in no-man’s-land, and Millie won possession with a neat little sliding maneuver. She then tricked the ball to Ruskin, who tripped over it, so it fell nicely for Podma. He had the one technique: the forward pass, which he’d been working on every day for the fortnight. He found Sam, who was through before the defenders were aware of the attack. Anjoli was on his left, so he punted the ball right and leaped the lethal swinging foot that tried to chop him down. He steamed elegantly forward and once again the ball seemed to hang in the air asking to be smashed. He booted it as hard as he could and high, just as his father had advised. Anjoli was there in the goalmouth; he leaped like a salmon and reached twice his own height, a blur of ragged shirt and flying hair. His head snapped at the ball and swatted it down. The goalie was beaten and the crowd was stunned into silence.
One-one.
It was even again. The silence on the pitch was like deafness. Darren looked bewildered but the Ribblestrop players simply trotted back to position, as if they wanted only to press on. Of course, the high school boys reacted. Of course, they were enraged. But the Ribblestrop boys were well versed in dealing with that, and with an even score they were inspired. For the first time they were able to ignore the screaming, jeering crowd. The noise seemed not to matter. There was a new determination, razor sharp. All the passing practice had paid off. They kept the ball moving and, as the high school tired and slowed, Ribblestrop got faster and more dangerous. Yes, they missed Asilah, for Millie could not complete the elegant triangles he’d been part of, she just couldn’t run as fast. But the tactic suggested in the interval was a good one, and the high school boys seemed too stupid to anticipate. She kept on moving the ball up to Sam or Anjoli, and it kept getting through.
With ten minutes to go, they had their chance. This time it was Henry sweeping up to Ruskin. Ruskin lunged bravely for his heaviest kick of the game: the ball bounced through his legs and fell perfectly for Millie. Ruskin shrieked for the return pass and ran forward, arms waving. Millie saw him but tweaked it out to Anjoli, who was way over on the left. He danced it round a defender and brought it inside. Sam’s father was shouting, “Shoot!” The headmaster was roaring. Professor Worthington and Mrs. Tack were in each other’s arms, and Captain Routon was out of his wheelchair, his bandages unfurling. Ruskin made for the six-yard box, still calling and calling . . .
It was probably both. Anjoli took Mr. Tack’s advice again and smacked the ball hard and high, just like a shot. Sam, like an arrow from a bow, simply flew: he was a mixture of javelin and cat, and he headed the ball hard. Physics took over. The ball slammed into the goalkeeper’s elbows and it ricocheted hard to the ground. A defender swept it away in a half volley, brutally hard, and the ball caught the still-running Ruskin—two meters from the goal—full in the face. His spectacles disintegrated, but the ball rebounded straight and unstoppable into the top lefthand corner of the net.
Two-one.
Ruskin knelt in the mud, utterly bewildered. He was carried off the pitch shoulder high, laid in the recovery position by the Ribblestrop teachers, and quickly subbed. Onto the pitch ran Tomaz, representing his school for the first time. Ribblestrop wanted three, and the high school needed the equalizer. The next goal would be crucial and there was no time to look after the injured.
It all started with Sanchez.
He kicked longer and deeper; Vijay crossed to Millie. Millie was desperate to score and saw at once her opening. She so didn’t want to pass. Anjoli had scored and so had Ruskin: it was her right. She feigned a shot and the goalie went left. A high school defender got to the goal line, closing down the angle. It was almost impossible. Almost, but there was some slim chance, if she could drive it into the top corner—a voice in her head was screaming, shoot!
Weeks ago, she would have shot. But this time, she passed.
It was a skillful little flick and it found Anjoli, who took it like a pro. He flipped it sideways and booted it hard and high; there was Sam, rising by the far post, a bald torpedo of a boy climbing higher and higher, way above the bar. He connected. He nodded it down and the high school was beaten. The goal net swished again, and it was three-one to Ribblestrop.
“They’ve done it,” whispered the headmaster. The man was on his knees. Professor Worthington had her arms round him, and they were both crying. Harry Cuthbertson blew the final whistle five minutes early and the high school team walked shell-shocked from the field. Their supporters were openmouthed and speechless. The Ribblestrop players were equally dazed.
The head of high school security had been alerted, and he reversed the Tacks’ people carrier right up to the center line. As the children climbed in, Captain Routon touched every child’s head; he couldn’t shake hands because of the pain. He was crying too, and he could only squeak their names. As if to mark the miracle, there was a roll of biblical thunder, like the applause of a god—and a breeze washed over everyone.
Professor Worthington saw the first distant crackle of lightning and went rigid.
“Headmaster,” she said.
“Yes, my dear?”
The blood had drained from her face. “Where’s the car? The storm’s early. I need to get back, quickly.”
The vehicles rolled out of the high school as the clouds rolled in.