Читать книгу Team Spirit - Jamal Orme - Страница 8

4

The Prince Steals the Show

Ibrahim was dreaming of Hilsham again.

With the tournament almost upon them once more, the previous year’s action sometimes transformed into the upcoming event. Right now, Ali had the ball close to the touchline. An opposition defender had moved within range of Shabab’s tricky winger, and Ali was daring him to attempt a tackle. He executed two step overs, at which point the defender lunged in and Ali took the opportunity to skip inside him and race towards the penalty area. Suddenly Ibrahim saw three luminous lines on the pitch, joining to form a triangle. The short line showed where Ali had gone past his opponent; the longest marked a direct line between the winger and Ibrahim.

‘Pass! Pass the ball, Ali!’ yelled Ibrahim, suddenly anxious at seeing the triangle. ‘I’m open! Pass it along the… hippodrome… no, the wotsisname… hippopota… the long side of the triangle!’

Ali lifted his head up and looked straight at Ibrahim. But Ali didn’t look like Ali any more. He was wearing someone else’s face.

‘I said pass the ball, Amir!’ screamed Ibrahim. ‘Pass it! I’m open!’

Amir smirked, and, to Ibrahim’s delight, slid a low cross perfectly along the neon line. Ibrahim steadied himself and took aim. Suddenly, it was as if Ibrahim had known all along that this was the tournament final, and his heart began to pinball around his chest as he realised he was about to score the winning goal.

Just as the ball was about to reach him, a boot arrived out of nowhere and drove the ball hard into the net. Bewildered, Ibrahim looked up from his feet to see a boy dressed not in Shabab al-Nasr green, but in an immaculate Chelsea shirt and sports trousers, racing away to celebrate his goal. Reaching the Shabab fans, he turned round and pointed toward the name on the back of his shirt. How had he got there?

‘A-mir! A-mir! A-mir!’ chanted the crowd.

‘A-MIR!’ shouted Ibrahim, suddenly bolt upright in bed.

‘Yes, beta? What is it? What’s the matter?’ came his mother’s voice from the doorway.

‘Ammi?’

‘Yes? You were crying for me to come here. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

‘Was I? Did I? Oh, er, sorry, Ammi. Just a bad dream. I’m OK.’

‘OK, beta,’ yawned his mother.

‘Just a bad dream,’ repeated Ibrahim to himself, as she closed the door and left him in the darkness.

When Ibrahim next awoke it was to stop the incessant beeping of his father’s alarm clock. Having found his way to bed very late the night before, he had set it so that he could rise early for breakfast, followed by a leisurely walk to the mosque, arriving well before madrasah began.

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mr Bateman, who was applying a new coat of paint to the garden gate and almost dropped his brush when he saw Ibrahim approach. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Don’t tell me the clocks have gone forward!’

‘No,’ smiled Ibrahim.

‘Well now,’ said Mr Bateman, ‘Let’s hear the latest on this football team. Think we’ve got a chance of winning the trophy again this year?’

‘Inshallah, but it will be tough,’ nodded Ibrahim. ‘Sedgecombe Shuttles have won the league again this season. They’ll be out for revenge too, as we beat them last year.’

‘Same team as last time, is it?’ probed Mr Bateman.

‘Er, yeah, I suppose so,’ replied Ibrahim, hoping to avoid the subject of Amir.

‘Ah, but what about your new signing?’ asked Mr Bateman slyly. He intended to test his theory that some of the boys would see Amir as a threat.

‘Who? Oh, you mean Amir?’

‘Yes, Amir! “The Prince”, so my online translator tells me! I understand his performances on the pitch are rather regal too… think he could be crowned the tournament’s star player?’

Ibrahim felt annoyed. He had geared himself up to prove a point today about his own ability, and hearing all about Amir from someone who had never seen him play was particularly frustrating.

‘He’ll have to get in the team first,’ he replied, with an air of defiance.

Mr Bateman picked up on Ibrahim’s feelings. He had his answer. ‘Good lad,’ he said with a wink. ‘Go and remind Coach Saleem why you were top scorer last year. And the rest of us; I’m coming to watch too, you know!’

Pleased with this encouragement, Ibrahim flashed him a smile and continued up the hill to the mosque. He couldn’t help worrying though. What if his name was not on Coach Saleem’s team sheet?

After madrasah, the boys almost ran the short distance to Radwell Gardens. Amir strolled along casually, taking it all in his stride.

‘Steady, brothers,’ cautioned Saleem as he tossed out the Shabab al-Nasr kit. ‘You’ll have to be careful with it. We may have…’

He was interrupted by the loud sound of ripping fabric. Ibrahim peered at his armpit through the hole that he had just created as he tried to put his arms through the sleeves.

‘…a problem.’

‘Er, sorry, Coach…’ began Ibrahim, hot with embarrassment.

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Saleem with a grimace. ‘I should have realised that you guys would have grown.’

‘No problems here, Coach!’ said Faris cheerfully. ‘This thing was way too big for me last year!’ Faris was the only player whose shirt fitted him well.

‘We’ll have to get some new ones done, I suppose,’ continued Saleem. ‘Hopefully in time for the second warm-up game.’

‘Second warm-up game?!’ repeated the boys in surprise.

‘That’s right,’ smiled Saleem. ‘Old Roar Rovers, next week! You do know it’s only a fortnight till the tournament, right?’

‘Coach!’ called Ali. ‘What’s the team?’

‘Ah yes,’ replied Saleem. ‘Well, the good news for Ibrahim…’ Ibrahim’s eyes opened wide with expectation. ‘…is that he doesn’t need to worry about that hole in his armpit. At least, not to begin with. Faris is starting up front today.’

‘Faris?!’ exclaimed Ibrahim, before he quickly added: ‘Amir’s not playing striker?’

‘No, Coach Ibrahim,’ said Saleem, smiling but strict at the same time. ‘Amir is going to play in midfield with Junayd. The team in full is: Hasan in goal, obviously… Ismail and Yunus at the back… Amir in midfield with Junayd – you’re captain, bruv – and Faris, striker. Khalid, Ibrahim and Ali start as subs. Any questions? No? Good. Warm up, brothers. Start with a couple of laps.’

Buoyed by their inclusion in the team, the selected six started running immediately around the perimeter of the pitch. The three substitutes looked at each other, somewhat bewildered, and then set off after them.

‘This is Coach Saleem’s new team then?’ wondered Ibrahim aloud.

‘Maybe,’ replied Ali, who had been completely unprepared for watching from the sidelines. ‘You injured, Khalid?’ he asked.

‘Nah, course not!’ said Khalid, suddenly noticing the concerned looks on his friends’ faces. ‘I mean, alhamdulillah, I’m in good shape. Hey, cheer up! You don’t think Coach Saleem’s going to try to win the tournament without us three, do you?’

Ibrahim and Ali felt reassured by Khalid’s optimism. Leaving out Khalid would be a peculiar decision – astonishing, even. He was not only a fantastic defender, but a natural leader, arguably worth his place in the team for this quality alone.

Nevertheless, both boys continued to turn the situation over in their minds. The wind had been taken out of Ibrahim’s sails. He had set out this morning to repair his reputation after last week’s unfortunate episode with the tree. Being left out of the team felt like a kick in the teeth, even if it meant nothing. Frowning, Ibrahim put his hand over his exposed armpit and hugged himself.

For Ali, being excluded from the team had come as a total shock. There was no one in the team who could play his role: the tricky winger with the cultured right foot. It seemed that Coach Saleem disagreed.

Whitehaven, kitted out in blue, arrived in their minibus. They belonged to a league and looked confident as they started to warm-up.

‘Hey,’ noted Ibrahim. ‘I just realised. This is our first ever home game!’

‘Yeah,’ said Ali. ‘Another reason I wish I was playing.’

Saleem shook hands with Whitehaven’s coach and agreed that they would referee a half of the game each. Shabab’s coach then darted over to each player to brief him individually on what he wanted to see from him in the match.

His words were largely irrelevant; this was to be ‘The Amir Show’.

At the kick-off, Amir immediately tackled a Whitehaven midfielder, and jinked his way towards their goal. Cutting inside one defender, he then attempted to steal a yard on another player by pushing the ball ahead of himself and bursting after it. His opponent had anticipated Amir’s move, and kept pace with him. The first defender hurried back to lend support, and suddenly Amir had two blue shirts around him.

‘Pass it!’ cried Faris. Amir looked up and pretended to push the ball back to him. Both Whitehaven defenders, one on each side, began to move towards Faris, hungry to steal possession for their team. Instead, Amir rolled his foot over the ball and flicked it in the opposite direction. He spun around and put himself one-on-one with the Whitehaven goalie. As the last man, the keeper raced out to narrow the angle but, just as he was about to close the gap, Amir scooped the ball over his head. The Whitehaven team stared at the ball, utterly shell-shocked, as it plopped into the net.

‘Fabulous goal!’ called a familiar voice from the touchline. Mr Bateman had arrived. ‘This Amir – your son is he?’ he asked Mr Zidane.

‘Yes,’ smiled Amir’s father.

‘I can see why he’s called “The Prince”!’

Mr Zidane was surprised to find this complete stranger talking about his son’s name, but he continued to smile and said nothing.

‘Colin Bateman,’ said Mr Bateman, offering his hand. ‘You must be a very proud father.’

‘My name is Sofiane. Sofiane Zidane.’

‘Zidane eh? I should imagine footballing ability runs in your family!’

‘Well,’ replied Amir’s father amiably, ‘We can always dream of being like the “Zidane”, that legendary footballer! You never know!’

‘Good for you. Although I’m afraid your time may have come and gone, my friend. Your son looks to be an excellent prospect though.’

Amir’s father was just about to respond when Mr Bateman grabbed his coat sleeve excitedly. ‘Look! He’s off again! He’s a whizz, your boy!’

Distracted, Mr Zidane looked towards the pitch where Amir was beating players for fun. Attracting ever more opponents, he found himself confronted by three blue shirts.

‘I’m in space!’ yelled Faris.

From the sidelines, Ibrahim was beginning to feel that if there was one thing Amir was quite incapable of, it was passing the ball to a teammate.

Amir tricked his way around one challenge, and was tempted to try to beat all three opponents, but for once thought better of it. He laid the ball off to Faris on the edge of the area. With a wonderfully clean contact, Shabab’s stand-in striker smashed the ball hard into the bottom corner, beyond the goalkeeper’s dive.

‘Oh, lovely!’ called Mr Bateman approvingly, as Coach Saleem and a number of casual spectators joined in his applause. Only Abdullah, the tip of his tongue protruding as he concentrated harder than ever on his clipboard notes, resisted the urge to clap.

Ibrahim applauded cautiously, genuinely pleased for his friend, but suddenly more worried than ever about where he stood in terms of team selection.

‘Fantastic goal!’ called Khalid, his enthusiasm undiluted. He turned to Ibrahim and Ali. ‘Looks like you boys have got some real competition this time round, eh? What with Faris banging ‘em in like that and Amir running rings around everyone!’

Ibrahim and Ali exchanged glances, each wondering if the other was thinking the same thing: something had to change.