THE SILENT STRIKER Read online

  ‘Only you, Marcus!’ shouted Mr Davies, ‘Nobody else could pull that trick! Alright, again!’

  This time Marcus lost Horse easily. He slipped Leonard with a trick called a flip-flap, then zoomed the ball to Jamil again. He’d bamboozled Leonard so badly this time that Leonard had fallen over. It was Marcus’s turn to grin.

  ‘Alright, forget zonal,’ called Mr Davies. ‘Horse, swap with Leonard, Leonard, man to man on Marcus, stick to him like chewing gum … soon as he gets the ball … the tackle in, annihilate him. Like you’re his anti-matter. Wallop! Let’s go!’

  Before the ball had even come to Marcus, Leonard grabbed Marcus’s shirt. Just as Marcus was about to cry foul, Leonard let go of the shirt. Suddenly released, Marcus over-ran the ball. Leonard got it and walloped it away.

  ‘He had my shirt!’ Marcus protested.

  ‘Get over it,’ Mr Davies shouted to him. ‘Football’s not a game for fairies, that’s badminton!’ Mr Davies imitated a badminton player wafting the air. Everyone laughed. ‘Good work, Leonard,’ the coach continued, ‘let’s go again.’

  This time, as Leonard tried to grab his shoulder, Marcus shoved Leonard off him, broke clear and collected the ball. He turned to pass only for Leonard to slide through him, slicing off his shin guard and dumping Marcus on his backside. Marcus looked at his leg. Blood oozed from his left shin again, the old injury. He’d seen the look as Leonard had slid in. Leonard had deliberately reopened the wound he’d picked up in the semi-final.

  ‘Idiot!’ Marcus muttered at Leonard.

  ‘Way to go, Leonard!’ called out Mr Davies.

  Leonard was right on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Bleed easy, don’t you?’ Leonard said to him.

  Marcus ignored him. He turned away, looking for the ball. Concentration.

  ‘You’re a wuss,’ Leonard continued. ‘Crying in Miss Podborsky’s …? A big girl. Waaa!’

  Marcus felt his face heat up. He turned. ‘What?’

  ‘What? Can’t hear can you either? Eh? Eh? Eh?’

  That was it. Marcus swung a fist at Leonard’s face.

  He missed but Leonard still fell to the grass and rolled. Marcus fell on him.

  Then Mr Davies was between them, shouting. ‘Hey, Marcus, Marcus, don’t take it personal, it’s an exercise.’ Mr Davies held them apart.

  ‘He’s opened my shin up again. He’s hit it three times tonight,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Coincidence,’ Leonard smirked from the ground where he’d stopped rolling to reveal his perfectly unmarked face.

  ‘C’mon, boys, no need for handbags at dawn. Marcus, keep cool. Leonard, well done, good job. You got him riled, as I asked. Do that in the match with Anthony and it’ll wreck his rhythm. Okay. Again!’

  Leonard was the sneakiest player on the pitch, Marcus decided. If he wasn’t pulling his shirt, tugging his shorts, chatting shit in his ear, then he was blocking his view or standing on his foot. When all of that failed, Leonard simply clattered him and conceded the foul. Mr Davies loved everything Leonard did. Going deeper had no effect, Leonard simply followed him. It was a battle. Marcus learned to face Leonard rather than have him at his back, and to push off him at the last moment before he got the ball. Then, when he collected it, Marcus controlled it and passed it first touch.

  Slowly, Marcus’s one-touch moves began to make Leonard look clumsy. When, in six attempts one after the other, Marcus escaped Leonard and made the pass to Jamil, everyone could see Marcus had the beating of him.

  ‘Chin up, Leonard,’ Mr Davies rallied, as Leonard’s head dropped. ‘Anthony Vialli can’t play tight like Marky, you’ll eat Anthony alive, Leonard. Keep on!’

  Finally Leonard hacked Marcus down in the middle of the pitch, with the ball nowhere near them, right on the left shin injury. Marcus fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Leonard stood over him. ‘Fairy!’

  ‘Alright, alright!’ called the coach, over them fast. ‘Jamil take Marcus’s place. Marcus lose that frown, Leonard’s only carrying out orders. Easy on Jamil, Leonard, we need him for the match. And don’t bother with the verbals any more, you’re just too good, Lenny!’

  ‘He calls me a fairy and he’s going to Neverland!’ proclaimed Jamil, fists high. ‘I’ll smack him that hard!’

  Everyone laughed, even Leonard.

  Marcus limped off and the session went on without him. He was bruised all over. His left sock was soaked red with blood. He stood alone by the side of the training grid, watching Leonard call all the shots and the coach love Leonard for it.

  THE LEAGUE DECIDER

  Marcus was on the touchline, shuffling his feet. He hated it there. He belonged in the centre of the pitch, where Leonard was now. The wind was clipping his neck, whipping in from the other side. Over on that side, he could make out Mr Vialli, giving it large with a clipboard and a stopwatch. So Adele was right about that one, her dad had taken over as Bowker coach. He missed Adele. He remembered her fooling around in the car the first time they’d met. The Bowker team was all around Mr Vialli. Marcus spotted among them Dwayne and Mohammad, two of the Bowker players he had teamed up with at Summer School. Around the Bowker players were a bunch of keen parents, two Labradors and a Chihuahua. Adele spotted Marcus looking and waved. Marcus waved back quickly. He wanted her to run over to him but he knew that was not on. He quickly texted her a ‘hiya’ instead. Then he looked along the Ducie touchline.

  Mr Davies was next to Marcus in his sleeping-bag-coat-thing, talking with the Manchester United scout. A stray dog appeared to be listening in. ‘Have you ever seen a better pitch?’ Mr Davies was saying. ‘Look at that semi-circle, we re-turfed it, same with the goal-line and the penalty spot zones. We’ve had the …ker up and down it for …age, then rollered it. See how level it is? Got to … the best pitch in the schools league or my name’s not Larry.’

  The stray dog sniffed Mr Davies’s bottom half-heartedly.

  ‘It looks a good pitch, Mr Davies,’ the scout smiled, ‘Why’s Marcus … playing?’

  Mr Davies scowled, swiping at the dog behind him. ‘Disciplinary matters. I begged the head of year, but he’s a sandwich short, doesn’t understand football at all. One point … the league’s ours for the first time in a decade, yet he pulls our best player – sabotage. Like I say, a sandwich short, between you and me. You’ve got to give leeway with the council estate kids, lower your expectations; parents’ chaotic lifestyles and all that.’ Mr Davies’s eyebrows wiggled to emphasise the point.

  The coach turned to Marcus. ‘… discipline issue, Marcus?’

  Marcus was about to open his mouth, but Mr Davies’s wiggling eyebrows jumped in before he could say anything.

  ‘You know what they’re like at this age, the hormones. They kick off over anything. Marcus slammed a door too loud, something like that, and he’s very sorry. Right, Marcus?’

  Marcus nodded.

  The scout kissed his teeth. ‘Pull this guy from your team on the eve of a league decider? By my standards he’d had to have murdered someone.’

  ‘Like I said, a sandwich short, the head of year is,’ Mr Davies agreed. ‘The new kid’s good though. Watch him. Leonard. It’s a more defensive line-up. We only need one point. We’ve got tactics. It’s the Christmas tree formation, but without the baubles. Leonard’s slotted right in. We’ve been through it in training, we can do this. Right, Marcus?’

  Marcus duly nodded.

  The scout checked his watch and Mr Davies became even more eager. ‘Got my full set of coaching badges this summer … appointments arise, I’m your man. I left Bowker for Ducie, you know. I wasn’t sacked for poor results, despite what they say. Left for the toughest council estate school in the borough. Tougher challenge. And it’s come good now, just watch. When it comes to coaching I’m up there, though I say so myself. Ready for the next challenge. If Man United want me, even in a part-time or voluntary capacity for their youth teams …’

  ‘Well, good luck, Mr Davies,’ said the scout, cutting him short. He shook Mr Davi
es’s hand then offered his hand to Marcus, to Marcus’s surprise. Marcus turned away, flipped his ATC onto his head and balanced it there.

  ‘Please yourself,’ the scout said. ‘Tell you what, Mr Davies,’ the scout shouted, ‘that boy can sulk!’

  Mr Davies mouthed ‘stupid boy’ silently at him. Marcus ignored Mr Davies and watched the scout make his way across the pitch to where the Bowker Vale camp were gathered. Only the stray dog remained with Marcus and Mr Davies on the Ducie touchline.

  Marcus’s phone vibrated. He checked it. From Adele:

  Hiya

  It pulled Marcus’s mood up a bit. The whistle went. Bowker kicked off. The game started tentatively, both teams finding their feet. Leonard slammed a tackle in, collected the ball, fed it to Horse. Horse skidded in the mud, steadied himself, turned and flighted it high up in the air towards the Bowker Vale goalmouth. Jamil jumped and, if he’d reached it with his head, it might have gone in.

  ‘Nice try, Jamil, keep it up!’ yelled Mr Davies, by Marcus’ side. ‘Horse, more like that! We’ve got them on the run!’

  Slowly, Bowker began to assert themselves. Marcus watched as, in the way that Marcus had predicted, the Bowker captain, Anthony dropped further back in midfield to lose his zone marker and collect the ball. Then, although he never went past anybody, Anthony did the simple pass well and made himself available for the return, moving Bowker up the pitch as he did so. His team responded to his prompts. They were brilliantly organised. Bowker started to look formidable. They held onto the ball. Ducie chased around uselessly.

  ‘Leonard, what did I say? What’s the plan? Shift it!’ Mr Davies called out, exasperated.

  Leonard galloped up the field and began man-marking Anthony, slamming into him whenever he received the ball and before he could choose his pass. Horse went with him, ready to follow up. The tactics suffocated the style out of Bowker and the game started turning in Ducie’s favour again.

  ‘They’re not up for it, get in there!’ Mr Davies called out.

  Despite himself, Marcus had to admire the way Leonard and Horse worked. They were like hunting dogs. Their tackles were early and committed, just as they’d trained. Anthony was strangled totally out of the game.

  On the other side of the pitch, Mr Vialli started yelling and waving his clipboard. Bowker stepped up their own tackling. Feet began flying everywhere. The new turf in the middle of the pitch soon lifted. Tiles of green began flying up in the air with the tackles.

  Marcus watched as Mr Vialli paced up and down the opposite touchline in his suit, clipboard a-go-go, delivering instructions, and roaring his son on. Adele was by her dad, doing star jumps every time her brother made a pass. What if he’d been playing? Marcus thought, who would she have supported then? A whole row of Bowker dads were over there, patting players on the back if they came near the touchline. Marcus looked along their own touchline. The stray dog had left. There was nobody but Mr Davies and himself. Would his own dad have turned up if he’d been playing? Marcus asked himself. Fat chance. Adele waved to Marcus. Marcus did a short, embarrassed wave back, hoping no-one saw.

  The referee blew his whistle and called the two captains over. One too many high tackles had gone in, he was warning them, Marcus could tell. The game calmed a little after that, with Bowker taking the upper hand. At half-time it was 0–0.

  Mr Davies gave out orange pieces and told the team off. ‘What’s wrong with you lot? Nobody ate breakfast? Find your “On” button lads. Rocket’s been waiting on the left wing. Bags of space. He’s like a burglar looking at an open window. Give him the swag bag. Tony push up. Defence, you’re sitting so far back you might as well be in bed. This match … ours for the taking. C’mon. Do the business! Marcus, get the water for them, how many times do I need to tell you? Leonard, we’re still in this only because of you. Snap. Bite. Focus. Everyone, more like Lenny!’

  Marcus seethed. Leonard the substitute was now Leonard the main man and he, Marcus, was reduced to handing out water.

  At the start of the second half, Bowker picked up where they left off. They had placed their biggest tackler alongside Anthony Vialli as a minder and, with a nudge here and a push there, the minder stopped Leonard getting his tackles in. Marcus sniggered as he saw Leonard’s frustration rise. With the tactic effective, the Bowker captain was free to distribute the ball where he liked. Marcus admired the precision of Anthony’s play, he never misplaced a pass. The Bowker attacks were relentless. A heavy rain saved Ducie. It pounded the pitch, mixed in with the mud and started floating the grass turfs up again. The only way to get the ball moving was to kick it high in the air, above all the mud. Bowker Vale’s pass-and-move game was useless. The pitch got so bad the referee called a halt and ordered all twenty two players to replace as many of the grass squares back into their holes in the pitch as they could. Then the ref came over to Mr Davies. ‘Mr Davies, I trust the atrocious state of this pitch is not deliberate?’

  ‘No, not … not at all. We had it re-laid especially,’ Mr Davies stammered.

  ‘Tsk. It’s diabolical. I’ll be making a report.’

  Mr Davies muttered to himself as the referee returned to the centre of the pitch. The rain had stopped. The referee did a quick inspection of the repairs, declared himself satisfied and restarted the game with a drop ball. With the pitch restored, Bowker moved the ball around their team like they were one big pinball machine. Leonard charged around uselessly.

  Mr Davies withdrew Jamil from attack to help Leonard get round Anthony’s minder. Tackle after tackle slammed into Anthony, till the Bowker captain was hobbling. Marcus felt a little sorry for him. Horse slammed another tackle in that upended Anthony. It flung him in the air and dumped him hard on his backside. Marcus winced.

  Mr Vialli had his arms out like a scarecrow, then flapped them like a bird, then clutched his chest, looking like his heart had stopped. All the time his mouth was in overdrive: ‘Referee, have you forgotten your cards? That was an ambulance tackle! You’d better have insurance, matey!’ Mr Vialli wagged a finger at the referee. Behind Mr Vialli, Adele giggled and star-jumped. Then she waved to Marcus again. He ignored her this time.

  Anthony Vialli trotted over to his father on the touchline. A cloud of spray went up around him as his father applied Spray Ice all over his son’s shins. Anthony came back on and began running without the hobble.

  The referee showed four yellows over the next ten minutes and Mr Davies told Horse and Leonard to cool it, in case they got sent off. Bowker got their breath back.

  Marcus bit his lower lip. Ducie were hanging on. In twelve minutes the match would be over. A draw would do for Ducie, they’d win the league. Only a win was good enough for Bowker though.

  Anthony Vialli drove Bowker forward. He played three quick one-twos and found himself within five metres of the goal, the net staring at him, the ball at his feet. Marcus could only look through his fingers. Anthony drew back his sharp, left foot. Just as he was about to hammer the ball home, Horse slammed into him with a tackle that defied the laws of science by propelling Anthony forwards and the ball backwards. The referee blew. ‘Penalty! No tackling from behind!’

  There was pandemonium. The referee waved all the protesting Ducie players away with a traffic policeman’s icy glare and stiff hand, then, when things calmed, he reached into his upper pocket. He gave Horse a second yellow, quickly followed by a red card. Horse thought to say something. Mr Davies yelled like mad for him not to. Horse bit his tongue and sloped off. When he reached the touchline, he flung himself on the grass. Marcus bent down and put an arm around his neck. ‘Hey, you did your best.’

  ‘Wasn’t good enough though, was it?’ Horse muttered, accepting the water bottle Mr Davies offered him.

  ‘C’mon, get up,’ Marcus said, hauling Horse to his feet. ‘There’s a penalty on!’ Together Marcus and Horse ran down the touchline to get a closer view of the penalty.

  Anthony placed the ball on the spot. Luke, the Ducie keeper, smacked his gloves toget
her and spat into them, then bounced up and down on the line, trying to make himself look bigger than he was. He had been the keeper since the start of Year 7, but for some reason he had not grown since then and was now looking a bit small compared to all the other players. But he was a brilliant gymnast, Marcus knew, and could jump higher than kids twice his size.

  Anthony Vialli placed the ball on the front edge of the white circle that marked the penalty spot. He strode back. As he did so, he looked up at the sky and did the sign of a cross like a Catholic. He turned to face the goal, lowered his head, shuffled one measured step right then ran up and whacked the ball.

  As he whacked it, his right foot slipped.

  He hit the ball powerfully with his left foot.

  The ball soared way over the cross-bar.

  Anthony. Had. Missed.

  Marcus’ disbelieving eyes followed the ball soaring away like a kite. Cool headed Anthony Vialli. Marcus looked from the shrinking sphere in the sky to the player. Anthony was kneeling on the grass. He had a tile of turf in his hands and was pounding it into the ground in frustration. Mr Davies was doing a jig. Horse was whooping. Marcus joined in. Something else was kicking off on the pitch though. All three of them stopped and watched. The Bowker Vale players were surrounding the referee. Who was pedalling furiously backwards. From the Bowker touchline, Anthony’s dad stormed onto the pitch and into the thick of it. Other Bowker parents followed him.

  ‘No way, referee! No way!’ Mr Vialli’s big voice was booming. He had a square of turf in his hand and was waving it. It looked at one point like he was going to smash it over the referee’s head. Marcus understood then what the protest was about. Bowker were blaming the loose turf. They wanted the kick taken again. It was too much for Marcus. He ran into the melee, Horse ran with him. Mr Davies ran after them. They joined the Ducie team protesting against the Bowker protests. The referee was still running backwards, waving everyone away, but he was out of puff now, and slowed to a stop, allowing himself to be surrounded. Mr Vialli stormed to the front of the Bowker players. He jabbed his big finger at the referee.