Читать книгу Team Spirit - Jamal Orme - Страница 5

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Latecomer, Newcomer

Ibrahim was late.

He pulled his bag over his shoulder and ran at full pelt out of the front door and into the street. A yawning woman was following her toddler out of a shop and had to yank him back by his hood to avoid the little one being flattened.

‘Sorry!’ called Ibrahim, half-turning to offer a glimpse of his apologetic smile amid an explosion of black hair. He wished he didn’t have to run. Running wasn’t a part of his game. He was built to score goals. And Ibrahim was certainly well-built for his age.

No, he generally reserved his running for emergencies – and this was surely one of those. He vividly recalled the warning: ‘If you continue to be late, Ibrahim… you know what the consequences will be, don’t you?’

He knew. Something too terrible to contemplate. Being excluded from football training – when the tournament was just around the corner.

That would be a hefty blow.

‘OOMPH!’ grunted Ibrahim as, reaching the junction, he was hit suddenly by a cannonball in a coat. His assailant stumbled to his feet. A pair of small, friendly eyes sparkled at Ibrahim from beneath an oversized red woollen hat.

‘Junayd!’ he exclaimed, ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum! Hey, be careful, there’s no need to tackle me here!’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam,’ chuckled Junayd, as he struggled to drag his larger friend to his feet. ‘Sorry man, I’m rushing – I don’t want the “hairdryer” treatment when we get there.’

‘I wouldn’t mention that term. He probably isn’t too familiar with Sir Alex Ferguson. The last thing we need is him blow drying our hair. Come on, race ya.’

The two sped on, the nippier Junayd holding back a little for Ibrahim’s sake. As they turned the final corner before the mosque, a familiar figure came into view, holding up a pair of garden shears.

‘Hello boys!’ called Mr Bateman cheerfully. ‘Haircut anyone?’

‘Hi, Mr Bateman!’ smiled Junayd, slowing to a halt. Ibrahim waved and bent over to catch his breath.

‘Late again boys?’ enquired the mosque’s friendly neighbour, raising an eyebrow. ‘I suppose my friend the Imam might not be too pleased about that. You’d better improve his mood and tell him that he and Coach Saleem are invited to my house for a cream tea this afternoon.’

‘Thanks, Mr Bateman,’ said Junayd. ‘We’ll tell him.’

Ibrahim momentarily forgot the urgency of his situation and began to picture the cream tea.

‘Can I come t…’ he began.

‘Come on, Ibrahim,’ interrupted Junayd. ‘We’re late!’

Imam Munieb’s eyes narrowed as he heard feet stampeding in his direction.

‘Ibrahim and Junayd,’ mumbled a voice from the back of the classroom. The Imam pretended he hadn’t heard and turned to stare at the door.

‘Ibrahim and Junayd!’ he announced as the door swung open. ‘It is all too predictable!’

The class sat back in their chairs, preparing for the boys’ scolding. Ibrahim swallowed nervously. He knew what was coming.

‘Late again, Ibrahim!’ the Imam went on. ‘I warned you about the consequences, didn’t I?’

‘Mr Bateman invited you to his house, Imam!’ interrupted Junayd hopefully. ‘And Coach Saleem! For a cream tea! This afternoon! Er, as-salamu ‘alaykum, Imam,’ he added.

Imam Munieb could not imagine why anyone would want to pour cream into a perfectly good cup of tea, but it sounded interesting.

‘ Wa ‘alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah,’ he said, trying to maintain a look of annoyance. ‘Sit down boys. I’ll speak to you after class.’

Junayd sat next to Ali at the back. The only other vacant seat was next to Abdullah directly under Imam Munieb’s watchful eye. Ibrahim gave an internal groan as his friend patted the chair. Ibrahim trudged over to take his place.

‘As-salamu ‘alaykum,’ smiled Abdullah as Ibrahim plonked himself into the chair. ‘Fifth time you’ve been late since January, you know. Fourth occasion you’ve been more than five minutes late.’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam, Stat-man,’ grumbled Ibrahim. ‘Don’t tell me: One hundred percent of them have been on a Sunday.’

‘Well obviously!’ exclaimed Abdullah, failing to notice the sarcasm. ‘We only have madrasah on Sundays…’

‘May we continue?’ interrupted the Imam, his patience thinning.

‘Sorry, Imam,’ said the boys in unison.

‘Thank you,’ he paused. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. Today, inshallah, we will start with a short reminder, the theme of which is to love for your brother what you love for your…’

A sharp knock at the door stopped him once more. ‘Yes!’ he called in a somewhat exasperated voice. ‘What is it now? Come in!’

The door opened and a tall, shaven-headed man stepped into the room. Under his jacket, he wore a sparkling blue Chelsea shirt, which sloped over his belly. Behind the man followed an athletic-looking boy of equal height, also wearing a Chelsea shirt and sports trousers. He glanced coolly at the boys as the man introduced himself.

‘Imam Munieb? As-salamu ‘alaykum. I’m Sofiane Zidane. And this is my son, Amir.’

Imam Munieb rose from his seat to shake Mr Zidane’s outstretched hand.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah,’ he replied warmly. ‘You are very welcome. And Amir,’ he added, shaking the son’s hand. ‘Are you visiting us?’

‘No, Imam,’ said Mr Zidane before Amir could answer. ‘We’ve just moved here. I have a job in the city and this is a good base for us.’

‘And Amir,’ asked the Imam. ‘You will be going to school?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Mr Zidane immediately. ‘Amir will be going to Brunswick. He’ll be in Year Nine.’

‘We go to Brunswick!’ called Ali, pointing to himself, Junayd and Abdullah in quick succession.

‘Yeah, we’re all in Year Nine,’ confirmed Junayd. Amir nodded, but said nothing.

‘Oh, very good, excellent,’ said Mr Zidane. ‘So you know some people already, Amir.’ He turned back to Imam Munieb and the two began to converse more discreetly.

Ibrahim had been admiring Amir’s pristine sportswear. ‘You play football?’ he whispered.

Amir’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Yeah!’ he replied.

‘We have a club every Sunday, after madrasah,’ Ibrahim told him. ‘You should come. There’s a tournament in a few weeks too – we won it last year!’

‘Sweet,’ said Amir, though he didn’t look particularly impressed.

‘Yeah, we destroyed the others,’ Ibrahim went on. Exaggerating to win the newcomer’s approval. ‘Taught the favourites a lesson in the final.’

‘Well,’ interrupted Abdullah, ‘Sedgecombe did have 81 per cent possession…’

‘What position do you play?’ asked Amir.

‘Striker,’ beamed Ibrahim. ‘I was the top…’

‘Yeah? Me too. Well, forward… or midfield, y’know. So if I join you guys, you’re my competition, right?’

Ibrahim was momentarily silenced by this thought. He looked Amir up and down. Was he likely to be any good? He couldn’t be sure but he was talking the talk. Ibrahim could do that too, of course.

‘Ha!’ he resumed with an air of bravado. ‘You won’t find it easy to break into the side. I don’t think Coach Saleem’ll change a winning team! But don’t let me put you off,’ he added.

‘You haven’t,’ said Amir dismissively. The boys fell silent as the adults’ conversation continued.

‘So, Mr Zidane,’ said Imam Munieb, gesturing towards his own chair, ‘If Amir would like to stay, he is welcome, as you are too. And if he would like to play football at eleven thirty, I’m sure Coach Saleem will be very happy to meet him!’