Football High: Young Gun Read online

  Can the new recruits kick it with the best young talent in the country?

  Twelve-year-old Nick dreams about football – and his dreams are big: state squad, Joeys, A-League, Socceroos … and that’s just for starters! So when Nick wins a scholarship to the prestigious National School of Football, his dreams look set to come true. What Nick doesn’t realise is that he’s just another young gun in a place brimming with skilled footballers. Enter Bazzo, Lexi, Grace, Kristy and Kane. With schoolmates like these, Nick figures his time at the NSF will be unforgettable. And when word gets out that Nick’s dad is none other than former Socceroo and Arsenal star Shane Young, Nick’s prediction comes true in the worst possible way. All eyes are on him.

  Does Nick have what it takes to make it at Football High or will reality hit like a well-struck football to the back of the net?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Destiny Awaits

  Hello, My Name is Bazzo

  Life in the Shadows

  Football High

  The Secret Scrapbook

  First Touch

  One on One

  Missing the Train

  The Fast and the Futsalous

  Krugified

  Real Football

  Crunch Time

  Step into the Light

  False Nine

  Young Gun

  Book Two Out Now

  Book Two Chapter Sample: Fan Mail

  Next books in series

  Copyright Notice

  For my lifelong friend Roberto Augusto Antonio Basto. Like the character in this book, he is loyal and true. He also introduced me to The Beautiful Game many years ago when he forced me to watch him play for Quakers Hill. Thanks, football brother.

  Montreal, Canada. First World Cup

  Semifinal, Germany vs Australia

  2026

  So here I am, staring into the mouth of the goal and trying to block out the deafening roar of the stadium. It’s all come down to this one moment.

  We’re up 4–3 in the penalty shootout. If I kick the penalty, I can take the Socceroos into the final of the World Cup for the first time in football history. If I miss … Well, I don’t want to think about what would happen if I miss. Millions of Australians are praying that I make this. An entire nation’s hopes and dreams are riding on my shoulders. Or, rather, on my left foot. I will not – cannot – let them down.

  I take a deep breath and look beyond the six-foot-five German goalkeeper crouched like a giant tarantula in his web, waiting.

  This is your shot, Nick, I tell myself. Step up and take it.

  The ref blows the whistle and I run in without hesitation. I strike the ball low on the outside, leaning into the kick and desperately hoping my accuracy will beat the goalie’s speed.

  The ball sails through the air like a white comet through the dark night sky. The goalkeeper goes after it, leaping to his right. The ball floats on as if in slow motion then curves around the goalie’s hand, just outside his reach.

  It lands with a swish in the back corner of the net and the stadium explodes in a blast of cheers.

  Except, of course, that the explosion of cheers is actually a single cheer made by me, and the back corner of the net is, in fact, my mum’s white bedsheet hanging on the clothes line.

  15a Banksia Crescent, Green Hill

  Late October

  ‘Nicholas Arthur Young! What the heck do you think you’re doing? I just washed those sheets!’

  That’s my mum screaming at me. She does that a lot. I can see her face through the glare of the back-porch light and she does not look happy. I look back at the sheet. It’s still shaking from where the ball struck. That’s when I notice the brown ball-shaped mud stain.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I was just practising my penalty shooting.’

  To be honest, there aren’t many week-nights when I’m not in the backyard of our tiny two-bedroom rented villa, kicking around the old soccer ball. Even after training nights and game days for my soccer team, the Green Hill Rovers, I usually end up back outside kicking the ball around for hours on end. I guess I’m a bit of a football freak.

  ‘I’ll be practising my own shooting in a minute, Nick, but I won’t be using a soccer ball,’ says Mum. ‘Now get that sheet into the washing machine and clean yourself up for dinner!’

  I pull the sheet off the line, sending the pegs flying off into the darkness.

  ‘Oh, not like that, Nick!’ says Mum in her ‘highly unimpressed and losing all patience’ tone.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘What’s for dinner, anyway?’

  ‘Lamb shanks,’ says Mum. ‘Hurry up. Garth will be here any minute.’

  Oh great. Dinner with Garth.

  Garth is Mum’s boyfriend. He’s the office manager of the Human Resources department at Green Hill TAFE where Mum works. I don’t really know exactly what Human Resources is but I do know that it sounds lame and boring. A bit like Garth. To be honest, he’s a bit of a geek, too. He has this long, thin hair that he wears in a ponytail, and little round glasses that make him look as if he’s just stepped out of a time machine from the 1970s.

  Garth has been seeing Mum for about six months now, and he’s always trying to impress me by telling really bad jokes and calling me ‘buddy’ and ‘little man’ all the time. I don’t want to be buddies with Garth and I definitely don’t want to be his little man, either, but Mum seems to like him. I can’t remember her ever really having a boyfriend after Dad packed up and moved to England when I was six months old, and I guess Garth’s not too bad. He takes Mum to the movies and to restaurants and sometimes he takes me with them. He even offered to take all of us to Thailand for a holiday but Mum said no because she didn’t want me to miss any of year six.

  ‘Hey Nick, buddy,’ he says when I enter the dining room after throwing the dirty sheet into the washing machine. ‘High five, my little man.’ He slaps my palm. He doesn’t even realise I’m not really high-fiving him back. ‘How’s my soccer star? Scored any goals lately?’

  ‘Not really possible – season’s over,’ I say, trying not to sound too sarcastic. Mum’s always telling me to watch my tone with Garth.

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. You know I’m not that much of a sports guy,’ says Garth, smiling again. ‘I get all my physical vitality from Wing Chun. That’s a special kind of martial arts, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve told me that before,’ I say.

  Mum throws her trademark eye daggers at me. ‘Set the table please, Nicholas.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand, buddy,’ says Garth.

  I grab the cutlery from the kitchen drawer and moments later the three of us are sitting at the table enjoying dinner in the usual awkward silence. I don’t mind the silence, actually. But it only lasts for so long before it becomes awkward talking.

  ‘How about these lamb shanks, Nick?’ says Garth cheerfully. ‘Although I usually like my lamb baaaa-bequed. Hey? Am I right?’

  I stare back at Garth blankly.

  ‘BAAAAA! You know, like a sheep,’ he repeats, then he laughs weirdly at his own joke.

  ‘He knows, Garth, he’s just being rude,’ interrupts Mum.

  ‘Oh. Well, maybe it’s those burgeoning teen hormones getting ready to take over, hey? I remember what that was like.’

  Get me outta here …

  Of course, I wouldn’t have been thinking that way if I’d known that the next thing Garth would say would change my life forever.

  ‘So, Nick, have you decided on a high school yet?’ asks Garth.

  I shrug and try to shovel mashed potato into my mouth a little quicker.

  ‘Prob
ably just Green Hill High, right Nick?’ says Mum.

  ‘Well, actually,’ Garth says, ‘I found something in the local paper that might interest you, buddy. Have it right here in the ol’ man purse.’

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls a scrap of crumpled newspaper out of his bulging leather wallet.

  ‘Check this out,’ he says, spreading the paper out in front of me on the gravy-stained tablecloth.

  * * *

  Are you a talented young footballer?

  If so, we need you at the brand-new National School of Football (NSF).

  The NSF has been carefully designed to offer a balanced mix of sports training and secondary education for the football stars of the future. Our new campus features state-of-the-art education and sports-training facilities while our daily program includes up to two hours of high-performance training and coaching, following a strict curriculum designed to challenge and cultivate Australia’s next top players.

  We offer opportunities for participation in a range of school-based, local, state and national competitions and tournaments, as well as pathways into professional football. If you have a football dream, the NSF can help you achieve it.

  Go to www.nationalschooloffootball.com or call 1300 FOOTBALL for more details.

  Your football destiny awaits.

  * * *

  When I see it, my eyes pop out of my face and my jaw practically hits the table. It’s an ad for a school, but not just any school.

  ‘Wow. I mean … Wow,’ I say. Suddenly I’m very glad Garth came to dinner.

  ‘I thought you might be interested. Like I said, I’m not much of a football aficionado, but I know how much you love soccer. And if you have even half the talent of your old man, I think this would be the perfect high school. Am I right?’

  ‘It sounds amazing, doesn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘Hmmm. I’m not really sure …’ says Mum.

  Right away I can hear the disapproval in her voice. ‘Are you crazy? Mum, this is my dream high school!’

  ‘No, Nick, I’m not crazy,’ she says, eye daggers at the ready again. ‘This school sounds like it would cost thousands in tuition fees. You know I can’t afford that.’

  ‘I know someone who could.’

  ‘That’s not an option. And maybe, Nick, one football star in the family is enough right now.’

  ‘I though you said that Dad wasn’t part of our family!’

  The awkward silence is back again but this time there’s something heavier with it. Mum gets upset when I mention Dad. I think she’s secretly worried I’ll turn out just like him.

  Garth coughs nervously and clears his throat. Mum just stares ahead.

  It’s Garth again who breaks the silence. ‘Well, they’re offering some scholarships for next year …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s on the website. All you need is a recommendation from your club coach, then you fill in the application form and write a letter.’

  ‘Tony would definitely write a recommendation for me. I’m his best player!’

  ‘And so modest,’ adds Mum. ‘But do you think it’s going to be that easy, Nick? There must be a thousand clubs out there with kids who could qualify for these scholarships.’

  ‘What’s it gonna hurt to try?’ I ask. ‘It beats going to boring old Green Hill High without ever knowing if I could have made it.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,’ says Mum.

  ‘Why can’t I get my hopes up?’

  The silence returns for a moment, but this time it’s because Garth and I are waiting for an answer.

  Finally Mum smiles in defeat. ‘If I said no, would you let that stop you?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I say.

  ‘All right, then. Apply for the scholarship. But don’t count on it. I don’t want to be the one picking up the pieces if you miss out.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, but I know it’s too late. As I stare down at the words on the ad, I can’t help thinking about the possibilities.

  Your football destiny awaits.

  NSF Campus

  Term One, Week One, Day One:

  Wednesday

  I hop out of Garth’s ancient orange Datsun 180B (he calls it a classic but Mum calls it a rusty deathtrap) and shut the door with a clunk. There it is, the brand-new campus of the National School of Football. I still can’t believe I got in. The school is enormous. Mega-enormous. It’s built on the site of an old Australian Defence Force base about half an hour out of Green Hill and it seems to stretch on forever. There are six football fields, a basketball court and a gymnasium, as well as the school auditorium, which doubles as the indoor football centre, plus a whole lot of classroom buildings and staff offices, which all face each other. In between them is a large black-and-white concrete area, which is meant to be the ‘village centre’. I know from the photos on the school website that from the air the circle is actually a huge football. It’s pretty cool but also a bit scary. Everything is big and brightly coloured and expensive-looking. It’s so different from tiny, old, rundown Green Hill Primary, where I spent the last seven years of school.

  ‘Excited?’ asks Garth, as he and Mum walk with me towards the shiny new auditorium for the start-of-term assembly.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, although ‘excited’ isn’t quite the right word. ‘About to vomit’ is probably more accurate.

  The thing is, I should be excited. I was when I found out I’d won the scholarship. I ran around the house screaming. I even did my happy dance. That’s the dance I do where I pump my hands up and down while kicking my legs out to the side. It’s pretty lame but it always cracks Mum up. I only ever do my happy dance when something really good happens, like when I win at FIFA on Play-Station. But that was way back in November last year and now it’s February and it’s actually here and it feels more like I’m heading off to war than to school. I’m about to start competing with some of the best junior football players in the country. What if I suck?

  Well, too late to turn back now. I know this because I just tried to turn around and Garth grabbed my arm and stopped me.

  ‘Come on, mate. It’s gonna be great!’ he says, turning me back around.

  I line up to sign in at a bright-orange table outside the auditorium behind a girl with long, wavy black hair. She turns and I notice ‘Grace Valdez’ written across a sticker on her shirt. She is beautiful.

  ‘Next,’ says the lady behind the desk but my eyes are stuck on Grace Valdez. ‘Next!’ she repeats. I finally move forward and the office lady hands me a folder and a sticker to write my name on. ‘You’re in Warren house,’ she says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, then I force a smile at the lady so I don’t look so disappointed when really I’m pretty bummed not to be in Cahill house. I know from the school website that there are four houses, all named after Australian football legends. There’s Cahill after Tim Cahill, of course, and Warren, Farina and Schwarzer. I know the goalie Mark Schwarzer and I’ve heard of Frank Farina – he used to coach the Socceroos and Sydney FC. But all I know about Johnny Warren is that he played way back in the 1960s.

  Before I follow the other year-seven students into the auditorium, I turn to say my goodbyes.

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, barely keeping it together, ‘have a great first day of high school.’ Then she loses it. Tears and snot explode from her face like an erupting volcano. ‘Good luck,’ she bawls, as she mops her face with a hanky.

  ‘Mum, please don’t cry,’ I say. At least Garth isn’t doing anything embarrassing.

  ‘High five, little man. Don’t leave me hanging!’

  Well, not as embarrassing.

  I check that no one is watching before quickly high-fiving him and bolting away to join the rest of the members of Warren house.

  ‘Byeee,’ I hear Mum sob, as she moves off to sit with the rest of the parents at the back of the hall.

  The next thing I know, I’m listening to the school principal, Ms Vale, welcome everyone. I’m sitting nex
t to a lanky kid with dark, curly hair. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Keep calm and play football’. The name tag on his chest reads ‘Hello, my name is BAZZO’.

  Hmmm, that’s different. Mine just says ‘Nick Young’.

  The curly-haired kid notices me looking and for a second I feel embarrassed. But then a big, friendly grin appears on his face. There’s something about that grin that makes me like him straight away. I smile back and mouth ‘Hey’. He motions towards the stage where the principal is droning on about working hard and giving your best and mouths ‘blah, blah, blah’ while rolling his eyes back and forth. I can’t help but snort a laugh.

  A young, stern-looking lady with a sharp, black bob and cold, green cat eyes gives me a death stare that’s even scarier than my mum’s.

  Bazzo laughs into his hand. I can’t believe I’m getting into trouble in the first five minutes of school. I try to listen to what the principal is actually saying but after a few minutes I wish that I wasn’t because I realise she’s about to talk about me.

  At first it’s just the routine pep talk about how great we all are.

  ‘We have a lot of talented young players in our midst and we were especially impressed with those who were awarded scholarships this year,’ says Ms Vale – and that’s when I sense it coming. My scholarship application letter comes flooding back to me. Especially the last sentence I added after Mum and Garth had already read over it and checked it for spelling mistakes. The one about me wanting to play in the English Premier League one day, like my dad.

  I close my eyes. I know what Ms Vale is going to say next and I know it’s going to change the way every kid looks at me. It always does.

  ‘We even have the son of current Arsenal striker and Socceroo, Shane Young, joining us, which is very exciting. Hopefully some of that talent runs in the family!’