Extra Time (14 page)

When we get back to the house, Mrs Jarvis meets us at the front door.

She looks grim.

‘We've got a visitor,' she says.

She takes me and Matt and Uncle Cliff into the lounge room and we see who the visitor is.

Mr Nkrumo. He's sitting with a cup of tea, looking grim too. And upset. And sort of anxious.

We all sit down.

‘You'd better start at the beginning again please, Mr Nkrumo,' says Mrs Jarvis.

Mr Nkrumo looks like he wishes he was somewhere else. I'm glad he's here. I want to know what's happened to Ayo.

‘We're Ayo's friends,' I say. ‘We want to help.'

Mr Nkrumo suddenly looks cross.

‘Just because Ayo is an African boy,' he says, ‘everybody thinks Ayo needs help.'

‘He does need help, you daft pillock,' says Mrs Jarvis, ‘And the reason he needs it is you.'

I'm shocked by the tone of her voice.

Mr Nkrumo sags.

‘Ayo is being released,' says Mrs Jarvis.

She must know what that means because she's looking really upset.

‘What's released?' I say.

‘The club is sending Ayo home,' says Mr Nkrumo. ‘They don't want him any more.'

I'm shocked. I look at Uncle Cliff and Matt. They are too.

‘Poor Ayo,' I say. ‘That's terrible.'

‘It gets worse,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Tell Bridie and Matt and Cliff what you told the club, Mr Nkrumo.'

‘I told them that Ayo comes from the poorest part of Nigeria,' says Mr Nkrumo. ‘His village is at the mercy of everything. Bandits, disease, drought.'

I nod. I know about drought.

‘Every few years,' says Mr Nkrumo, ‘when the drought comes, many people die in the village.'

I stare at him. I don't know about that sort of drought.

Mrs Jarvis and Matt and Uncle Cliff are staring at him too. Mrs Jarvis is biting her lip.

‘A wonderful thing happened to the village,' says Mr Nkrumo miserably. ‘A boy was taken to England. To play football. To earn money. So that when the drought comes, his village can buy water.'

I don't know what to say.

Yes I do.

‘This isn't fair,' I say. ‘Ayo's a good player. Plus he's kind. He shouldn't be forced to go home just because all the stress made him a bit violent and he got sent off.'

Mr Nkrumo hesitates. He sees Mrs Jarvis looking at him.

‘Ayo isn't being sent home because he got violent,' says Mr Nkrumo. ‘He's being sent home because what I just told you isn't true.'

I gape at him.

‘I made it all up about the village,' says Mr Nkrumo miserably. ‘To make the club feel sympathy for Ayo and give him a better chance.'

‘But it wasn't really for Ayo, was it?' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘How much of Ayo's future salary do you get as his manager?'

‘Eighty percent,' says Mr Nkrumo in a small voice.

I'm stunned.

I can see Uncle Cliff and Matt are as well.

‘But,' says Matt, ‘Ayo told me about his village himself.'

‘Ayo comes from the city of Nairobi,' says Mr Nkrumo. ‘I made him tell the village story. I told him if he didn't, I would send him home. But he told the club it was a lie, and now the club is sending him home.'

Nobody says anything for a while.

We're all just taking this in.

Poor Ayo. It's not fair. A person shouldn't have their dream shattered just because of a manager.

‘I feel very bad,' says Mr Nkrumo. ‘I've come here today because you are Ayo's friends. I'm hoping there's some way you can help Ayo.'

‘Help Ayo,' says Mrs Jarvis, ‘or help you?'

‘It is true,' says Mr Nkrumo, ‘that the club has said they won't consider any of my young clients in future. Unless perhaps you, Mrs Jarvis, could have a kind word to your friend Mr Merchant.'

‘I've had a word to Mr Merchant,' says Mrs Jarvis grimly. ‘Mr Pig-Headed Merchant says they won't change their mind about Ayo or you.'

Mr Nkrumo sags.

The rest of us look at each other.

Ayo's the one we're worried about.

Of course we want to help him, but how?

‘Go on strike?' says Matt.

He's totally horrified. He stares at me. There's a lump of fishcake on his fork that's he's completely forgotten about. That's how I know how horrified he is.

‘Not exactly go on strike,' I say, wishing I'd thought of a different word. ‘Just tell Jean-Pierre Michel you won't play in the first team tomorrow unless Ayo's in the team too. So Ayo has another chance to show what a good player he is. Too good to send home.'

Matt is frowning, elbows on the table. He's still not seeing the positives we can take out of this.

‘It's like what Mum did at the factory,' I say. ‘When the manager wouldn't fix the wiring. She got all the others to agree. No work until they were given sewing machines that didn't, um . . .'

I can't think of the word.

‘Short out,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘It's an electrical term.'

He glances at Mrs Jarvis to see if she's impressed.

‘Unusual,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Sewing machines usually have a two-phase step-down capacitor that overrides short circuits with a rotating oscillator field.'

Uncle Cliff gazes at Mrs Jarvis, like I imagine he would if the real Mick Jagger walked into the room.

I try to get through to Matt.

‘It's just helping others in a friendly way,' I say. ‘It's what we always do. Mum had a different word for it, but it's the same thing.'

‘Solidarity,' says Uncle Cliff.

‘Good word,' says Mrs Jarvis.

Uncle Cliff glows.

Matt puts his fork down so hard two brussels sprouts jump off the table. He doesn't flip them back up with his feet like he usually would.

‘I'm not hungry,' he says. ‘I'm going to my room.'

He goes.

I get up to follow him.

Uncle Cliff puts his fork down.

‘I'll come too,' he says.

‘Your choice, Cliff,' says Mrs Jarvis, picking up the brussels sprouts. ‘But you'll miss out on the chance to come into the kitchen and help me wash up.'

She gives Uncle Cliff a look.

Uncle Cliff hesitates. Mrs Jarvis looks at me and flicks her eyes towards the door. She knows that some conversations are best between a soccer star and his sister.

I hurry upstairs.

Matt is in his room, but not on his bed flipping something between his feet like I'd expected.

He's standing up, staring out the window.

‘Ayo's our friend,' I say. ‘We always help our friends.'

Matt turns to me and grabs my shoulders.

I'm shocked. He's never done that before. It doesn't hurt or anything. It's just that Matt's more the egg-flipping type.

‘I can't,' he says. ‘I can't risk losing my chance.'

It's almost like he's pleading with me.

‘Ayo's your friend,' I say.

I don't know how else to put it.

Matt takes his hands off my shoulders and stares at the floor. His face goes so determined it's like Gazz's ancient Greek goalie that's made of stone.

‘Mr Merchant told us something at training the other day,' says Matt. ‘He said that friends are a luxury. Because getting to the top is hard. And friends make you soft.'

I can see how much Matt is struggling to believe it. His eyes are almost as big as Lamborghini headlights.

Suddenly I want to cry.

Matt looks like he does too.

I put my arms round him and hold him tight. My face is pressed into his chest. This is the closest I've been to him for ages. I can feel my tears wetting his shirt.

‘I'm sorry,' he says.

I can't speak. But if I could, I'd tell him I'm sorry too. Because it was my job to protect him from all this. My job as a manager and a sister.

And I've failed.

We skype Mum and Dad to tell them about Matt's success. About him playing in the first team tomorrow. And how the club wants him to stay on for another month.

Mum and Dad tell Matt how proud and excited they are, and how much they wish they could be there in person.

‘Thanks,' says Matt.

Mum blows him a kiss.

‘The club wants to fly both of you over as soon as you can come,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘They'll arrange some help for your old folk while you're away.'

Mum and Dad say they'll be here in a couple of weeks, three tops.

I'm not saying much.

I don't want Mum and Dad to see how in despair I am.

Mum frowns.

‘Isn't it a bit dangerous,' she says. ‘A fourteen-year-old playing with grown-ups?'

‘He's been doing it all day in training,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘We haven't had the first-aid kit out once.'

‘To be honest, love,' says Mrs Jarvis to Mum, ‘there are risks. But Matt is a very skilful player. He knows how to look after himself.'

‘Stella's right,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘I mean Mrs Jarvis is.'

Mrs Jarvis rolls her eyes at Mum and Dad.

‘Cliff,' she says. ‘You're a grown man with your own hair concept. You're allowed to call me Stella.'

Mum and Dad laugh.

‘Matt'll be fine,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘Specially with Bridie looking after him.'

I try to smile.

‘We're proud of you, Matt,' says Mum.

‘We are,' says Dad. ‘Very. Oh, and Cliff, great photos on your Facebook, mate. All those ones of the big mansion and the yellow Lamborghini, very interesting. But not many of Bridie and Matt. Can you give us more of them?'

‘Please,' says Mum.

‘Right-o,' says Uncle Cliff.

‘Don't stress too much,' says Matt to Uncle Cliff. ‘They've got heaps of photos of Bridie and me at home.'

Uncle Cliff gives him a look.

‘I think what they're saying, Matty,' he says, ‘is that they care about you and Bridie about a million times more than they care about rich clobber.'

Mum and Dad nod.

‘Well put, Cliff,' says Mrs Jarvis.

I look at Matt.

He's staring at the floor. I'm not sure if he's even paying attention any more.

After we say goodbye to Mum and Dad, there's more skyping to do. Lots more people from home want to say congratulations and good luck to Matt.

Jayden, Zac, Celine, Callum and Gael-Anne are all at Celine's place.

‘Score a hat-trick,' says Celine.

‘Two,' says Jayden.

Even a couple of the orange team want to say g'day.

‘Go in hard,' says the orange captain.

He means well.

While Matt is thanking them all, I see at the bottom of the screen it says that 28,659,822 people are on Skype right now. I wonder how many of them are feeling as proud and excited as Mum and Dad and our friends.

Probably not many.

I wish I was.

The stadium is even noisier than when I was a mascot.

A humungous thundering wave of noise that Uncle Cliff says is louder than being right down the front at a Stones concert the day after you've had your ears syringed specially.

And we're not even up in the stadium yet.

We're outside the first-team changing room, giving Matt a hug.

He doesn't want us to. The other first-team players are all inside and none of them have got sisters or uncles or landladies hugging them.

‘Be careful,' says Mrs Jarvis.

‘Break a leg,' says Uncle Cliff, giving Matt a wink.

‘I'll be fine,' says Matt.

‘You'll be brilliant,' I say.

And I mean it. This is Matt's big day and I'm trying my hardest not to feel bad and selfishly spoil it just because he's turned into somebody else.

Jean-Pierre Michel arrives.

‘OK Matt,' he says, ‘time for the pre-match team talk. Don't be put off if they're not very pleased to see you at first.'

Mr Michel gives us all a smile, which looks to me like a slightly nervous one, and takes Matt into the changing room.

Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis have a sudden need to go to the toilet. Stress can do that to people over thirty.

While they're gone I slump against a wall and try not to think about Matt going through the rest of his life without any friends. Except maybe a big fierce dog if he gets desperate.

Somebody taps me on the shoulder.

It's Ayo.

‘Hello,' I say, surprised and happy and concerned all at once.

There's heaps I want to say, to try and help him feel better, but I don't know how.

‘Just want to say goodbye,' says Ayo. ‘I'm going tomorrow and I just want to say sorry too. Bad story I spun, that one.'

‘It's OK,' I say. ‘Mr Nkrumo explained. It wasn't your fault.'

‘Still feel bad,' says Ayo.

I try to see on his face if he knows. That Matt could have tried to help him. And didn't.

‘Have you seen Matt?' I say.

Ayo shakes his head.

‘Just come to see him play on his big day,' he says. ‘Better go find a seat.'

‘If you want, you can sit with us,' I say.

‘Thanks,' says Ayo. ‘If I can't find nothing.'

He shakes my hand.

‘Sweet dreams, girl,' he says.

‘Bye,' I say. ‘Good luck.'

Ayo heads off and a few moments later Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis come back.

‘Was that Ayo?' says Mrs Jarvis.

I nod sadly.

‘Poor boy,' she says.

‘I've been thinking,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘What if I offer him my iPod to take back to Africa?'

‘Is it a recent model?' says Mrs Jarvis.

‘Recent-ish,' says Uncle Cliff, holding it out.

Mrs Jarvis looks at it. I see her notice the bit of chewing gum on the top to make the earphones work. She shakes her head.

Uncle Cliff sags a bit and puts it away.

Mrs Jarvis puts her hand on his arm.

‘You're a good man, Cliff,' she says quietly. ‘There should be more like you.'

I give his hand a squeeze. Mrs Jarvis is right. If everybody had an uncle as kind as Uncle Cliff, the world would be a better place, and I don't care if the Australian media quotes me on that.

We go up to our VIP box in the stadium. I've never heard noise and excitement like it. Jean-Pierre Michel is a publicity genius. Put one Guinness Book Of Records kid in your team and the whole world goes bananas.

Double bananas when the teams come out.

I can see the Chelsea players glancing at Matt like they didn't fully believe he'd actually be here until this moment.

What a moment.

Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis have both got tears in their eyes. I'm desperately trying to keep mine dry. So I don't miss a thing. So I can tell Mum and Dad everything, specially the bits they don't see on TV or online.

Everything about the day their son's dream is finally coming true.

Except I don't know if I'm the right person to tell them. Because this is also the day my dream is going down the toilet. My dream of saving my last remaining brother.

Just before kick-off, Ayo comes into our box.

‘No seats,' he says apologetically.

‘You're very welcome,' says Mrs Jarvis, patting the empty seat next to her.

The match starts quietly.

It's as if, with a fourteen-year-old playing and so many people round the world watching, both teams want to be on their best behaviour.

None of our players pass to Matt at first, and he hangs back a bit, getting a feel for the game. But slowly he starts to get involved, just small touches.

The game speeds up, but friendly and clean and good-hearted.

Even when Chelsea score, the mood in the stadium stays friendly. Mostly. There are a few thousand fans who want to kill Jean-Pierre Michel for putting a kid in the team, but they don't actually do it.

After a while, I think Matt hears their yells.

Suddenly, about twenty minutes in, he starts to really play. Intercepting passes. Doing runs. Setting up goals.

‘Beautiful run,' yells Uncle Cliff. ‘Exquisite set-up.'

But he doesn't yell anything after that because there's something wrong.

Three times Matt does it.

He takes the ball past loads of defenders, moving his body like one of those clothes-drying racks that fold in all directions, and each time he gets close to the goal, he passes the ball into an empty space.

Where no one is.

Each time he does that, he looks straight across at Jean-Pierre Michel, who's standing near the touchline, then over at us in our box.

No, not at us, at Ayo.

After the second time, I realise what he's doing.

So does Mrs Jarvis.

‘He's telling them that if Ayo was playing,' she says, ‘Ayo would have scored just then.'

‘Judas H incredible,' whispers Uncle Cliff.

But it gets even more incredible.

After Matt passes into an empty space for the third time, and players in his team are scowling at him, and Gazz is pleading with him, and Chelsea are laughing at him, Jean-Pierre Michel starts yelling at him.

We can't hear what Mr Michel is saying from up here, but we can tell from his wild hand movements.

‘Shots, Sutherland,' he's saying. ‘Shots from you or you're off.'

Matt obeys him.

A couple of minutes later he dances the ball to the edge of the Chelsea penalty area and shoots. It's less than twenty metres. I've never seen Matt miss from that close. But his shot slams into the left-hand goalpost and spins away for a goal kick.

‘Bad luck,' groans Uncle Cliff and about thirty thousand other fans.

This is strange. Matt doesn't usually have bad luck. Not on the soccer pitch.

A few minutes later Matt does an overhead volley from a corner. The ball slams into the crossbar.

‘Magic,' says Ayo.

‘So unlucky,' moans Uncle Cliff.

Soon after, Matt shoots again. He hits the goalpost again.

All around the stadium people are turning to each other and there's a huge growling buzz. I realise it's the noise thousands of people make when they're not quite believing what they're seeing.

Matt does a long run with the ball, almost the full length of the pitch. Just gliding past tackles. He makes it look as easy as Dad avoiding chandeliers with a mirror.

The Chelsea goalie comes out to him. Matt skips past him and shoots at an empty goal.

And hits the post.

We all can't believe it.

‘Arghhhhh,' screeches Uncle Cliff. ‘Unbelievable bad luck.'

It happens again, from a diving header. And then again, from a clever lob near the touchline.

Ten minutes later, when Matt has hit the post three more times and the crossbar twice, people are just gaping as if they simply can't believe what's happening.

‘This isn't just bad luck,' croaks Uncle Cliff. ‘This is some sort of family curse.'

The players on both teams are glancing at each other nervously as if they're all having a similar thought. That something really spooky is going on. Which it is, but not in the way they're thinking.

Mrs Jarvis isn't saying anything, just watching Matt closely. I think she may have spotted what I think I've spotted.

Matt does it again, and this time I'm definitely sure. After blocking a pass thirty metres from the Chelsea goal, Matt gets his balance and shoots. But before he does, he glances at Jean-Pierre Michel, and then at Ayo.

The shot reaches the goal before the goalie can move. It smashes off the crossbar.

And that's when I know.

This isn't bad luck, or a family curse.

Matt is doing it on purpose.