Читать книгу Team Spirit - Jamal Orme - Страница 6

2

Amir Makes an Impression

‘Phew,’ breathed Ibrahim with relief, as the wind slammed the mosque door shut behind him. ‘That wasn’t too bad!’

‘Last chance, he said!’ Junayd reminded him. ‘Why are you always late anyway?’

Ibrahim smiled nervously. ‘Well. Actually, I’ve…’

‘I can’t wait for the Hilsham sixes!’ interrupted Junayd enthusiastically, oblivious to the words of his friend. ‘Do you think we can win it again?’

‘Yeah man, definitely! Maybe we can stay fit for the final this time as well!’

Coach Saleem had picked two teams for a practice game. The best defenders were on one side and the strongest attackers on the other. The Blue Bibs featured Khalid, Shabab’s inspirational captain, his trusty defensive partner Yunus and Hasan, goalkeeper extraordinaire. The problem was, hardly any of the Blues had touched the ball yet.

‘Is the ball glued to his foot?’ asked Ismail, as Amir waltzed through the blue defence, before drawing Hasan from his goal, and slotted the ball perfectly between his legs.

‘Er, no,’ observed Faris, with grudging admiration.

‘Come on, Blues!’ called Coach Saleem, grasping another football in his hand. ‘Are you gonna get that ball off him, or do you want this one to play with?’ At Saleem’s side, Mr Zidane chuckled, his look of intense concentration relaxing momentarily.

‘We’re trying,’ grumbled Khalid through gritted teeth. Shabab’s captain enjoyed a challenge more than anyone, but he had spent the last fifteen minutes completely mesmerised by Amir’s bewildering array of skills, and was beginning to lose his cool. Realising this, he whispered a prayer and tried to think positively.

‘What’s the score, Coach?’ the Red’s captain Junayd asked his brother. Sensitive to the Blues’ predicament, Coach Saleem subtly held up five fingers on one hand and made a ‘zero’ with his thumb and forefinger on the other. He shrugged sympathetically.

‘Five-nil,’ stated Abdullah bluntly, looking up momentarily from the clipboard on which he was frantically scribbling.

‘Mashallah,’ exclaimed Saleem. ‘Your son is extremely skilful, Mr Zidane.’

‘Yes. We’ve worked very hard over the years. We’ve had a few professional scouts interested in us, but, well…’ Mr Zidane paused for a moment, ‘we just haven’t been offered the right deal, I suppose.’

Saleem was slightly surprised to hear Amir’s father refer to ‘us’, but he let it pass.

‘You know,’ he added, ‘we’ve got a tournament coming up in a few weeks. We won it last year. I’m guessing Amir would be up for that?’

‘We’ll play,’ said Mr Zidane decisively. ‘We’ll be looking to make an impression. I expect there’ll be a few scouts there, at least. Hopefully we’ll catch their eye.’

Ibrahim had seen little of the ball, despite his role as striker on the Red team. Feeling somewhat redundant, he ambled over to the wing for a quick word with Ali.

‘This new kid,’ Ibrahim began, nodding his head in Amir’s direction, ‘he’s going to want to play in the Hilsham tournament, right?’

‘Yeah man! Hope so!’ said Ali.

‘Yeah,’ muttered Ibrahim, as he strolled back towards Hasan’s goal.

On the other side of the pitch Amir tricked his way past Yunus and then performed an astonishing rainbow flick over Khalid’s head, leaving the Shabab captain bewildered. Amir hared around him to retain possession.

As the Blues scurried back, drawn almost magnetically to Amir and the ball, Ibrahim suddenly found himself in a lot of space.

‘Pass!’ Ibrahim yelled. ‘Pass the ball, Amir! I’m open!’

Amir, one-on-one with Hasan, feinted to pass to Ibrahim, then dropped his shoulder to take the ball around the goalkeeper in the opposite direction.

‘Pass it!’ cried Ibrahim, desperate for a piece of the action.

Surprised by Amir’s exquisite balance, Hasan had lost his own, but he recovered just in time to stretch out a hand as Amir, from a wide angle, chipped the ball over his head with a perfectly executed rabona. Hasan’s fingertips did just enough to divert the ball on to the post, but it bounced out in Ibrahim’s direction, six yards from goal.

Seeing his chance at last, Ibrahim lurched towards the ball, intending to strike it as hard as he could. He was going to burst the net and remind everyone that Amir wasn’t the only player capable of scoring some goals. He leaned back and hit it fiercely. The ball rocketed high over the crossbar and lodged in the branches of a horse chestnut tree, peeping out from behind some leaves.

The boys gave a collective gasp of horror. Ibrahim didn’t notice Amir sniggering; he had buried his head in his hands.

‘Terrible shot!’ came a shout from the touchline. Ibrahim peeked through his fingers to see who was ridiculing him.

‘How did you miss that?’ demanded Mr Zidane. To Ibrahim’s surprise, the man did not seem to be looking at him. ‘Amir!’ shouted Mr Zidane. ‘I said, how did you miss that chance? The goalie was on the floor!’

Ibrahim turned to see Amir looking at his own feet. He looked hurt by his father’s comment. Ibrahim smiled at him sympathetically.

‘What have you got to smile about?’ snapped Amir angrily. ‘You enjoy destroying bird nests?’

Ibrahim shrugged, speechless.

‘OK, brothers,’ announced Coach Saleem diplomatically. ‘Let’s call it a day there. It’s nearly prayer time and I’ve got an appointment with the Imam and Mr B after that. But first,’ he said, craning his head upwards, ‘I’ve got an appointment with a tree.’

‘Tree-mendous,’ grinned Ali. ‘You’ll have a ball, Coach.’

***

‘Come round to the side gate, friends,’ urged Mr Bateman from an upstairs window. ‘Let me show you how the garden’s coming along.’

Imam Munieb, Saleem and Junayd followed the short path to the garden gate. Once inside, Junayd closed the gate behind them.

Junayd had been on his way home when Mr Bateman insisted he join the three men rather than trudge home by himself.

Junayd felt bad. He remembered how Ibrahim had started salivating when Mr Bateman had mentioned cream tea earlier. It would have been just the tonic after his humiliation at the park, too.

The Imam found himself looking at an explosion of large, papery green leaves.

‘Rhubarb!’ shouted Mr Bateman loudly from somewhere inside the conservatory.

‘Excuse me?’ asked Imam Munieb, wondering if his neighbour had trodden on a pin.

‘It’s rhubarb,’ repeated Saleem, confident that he had heard correctly, though he had never seen it or eaten it in his life.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Bateman, stepping into the garden. ‘Might be ready by next month. We can all celebrate with rhubarb crumble when the Victory Boys win the cup again, eh?’

‘God willing!’ smiled the Imam.

Mr Bateman turned to Saleem, his face bright with the eagerness and anticipation of a seasoned football fan. ‘How’s the team shaping up for this year, young man? I haven’t been to watch them practise for a while.’

‘Not sure yet, Mr B,’ replied Saleem, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘All of the other teams have played a competitive season, of course – we’ve just had to make do with practice. But they’re good lads, y’know. Except this one,’ he teased, ruffling Junayd’s hair. ‘And this new boy, Amir… he’s a bit special.’

‘New signing, eh?’ enthused Mr Bateman, his eyes lighting up. ‘How exciting! Transferred to Shabab al-Nasr for two million pounds just before the close of business? Lucky you were able to bring him in while the window was still open!’ joked Mr Bateman. Junayd grinned.

‘Window?’ queried the Imam. ‘No, he came through the front door…’

‘Er, don’t worry my friend,’ said Mr Bateman, gesturing to a wooden bench. ‘Have a seat while I go and put some jam on those scones. Mind you,’ he added as he strolled back to the conservatory, ‘If this Amir is that good, what will the poor lad say who ends up keeping the bench warm?’

Puzzled again, the Imam looked down at the wooden seat he was sitting on. It was left to Saleem to explain. ‘He means, what about the boy who loses his place in the team, Imam. To make way for Amir.’

‘Don’t worry, Coach Saleem,’ smiled Imam Munieb. ‘Funnily enough, we had another lesson in school today about the hadith of our beloved Prophet, sallallahu alayhi wa sallam, that you should love for your brother whatever you love for yourself. I think any of the boys will be OK if they end up heating the bench, as Mr Bateman said.’

Mr Bateman could hear everything from inside the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow and distractedly plopped a scoop of fresh cream inside the teapot.

‘Whoops,’ he said.

Junayd remained quiet. He was looking down at the bench, lost in thought.