Football High: Fire Up Page 6

  So we practise switching up positions, especially with the forwards and midfield, in order to learn in two weeks what it took the Dutch team and players like Johan Cruyff years to master.

  If we don’t get it right on Thursday, Total Football could become a total disaster.

  NSF Fields. State Cup Round Four

  (Final Qualifier for State Cup Finals):

  NSF Cannons vs St Angelos, North Shore

  Week Eight: Thursday

  We line up on the sideline of the NSF fields, waiting to take the field against the boys from St Angelos.

  It’s a cool autumn afternoon with a strong breeze blowing across the ground. I hope the conditions won’t affect the plans we’ve worked on. As we run out onto the field, with Kane watching from the sidelines, I hope it’s enough.

  I look back and Kane gives me a thumbs up. I nod in acknowledgement.

  ‘Come on, boys! Fire up!’ calls Jase.

  I nod to Jase as well but I have to admit I’m feeling very nervous. I look out across the field as the St Angelos boys move into position. They’re fierce and they look big for a junior team. I can see why the school has a good reputation. We’re going to have to do something pretty special to beat them.

  The ref blows the whistle and St Angelos kick off. Straight away they are all about controlling the ball and staying in position. There are no outrageous plays or individual bursts, just precision passing. Now I know what Mr Antonelli meant by the door bolt. They’re locking down the ball, staying deep in their half but slowly working it forward. It’s boring stuff but it’s working. We can hardly get any touches and when we finally do, they have so many players in defence that it’s virtually impossible to break their lines. Even Elvis can’t penetrate. The St Angelos boys are marking us all tightly and their sweeper is stalking the goal area like a leopard. Every time I get half a chance to move into a space in front of the goalmouth, he’s there to shut it down.

  That’s when Mr Antonelli signals from the sideline. He mimes turning a key in a lock. We all know what it means: time for Total Football.

  I start off by chasing down the forward who has the ball, putting pressure on him so that he has to pass back to his defensive line. Marcus follows, moving in from midfield to fill the space left by me so that he’s there when the Angelos forward gets the ball back. Soon all the Cannons players are on the move, rushing in on the St Angelos players to pile on the pressure, while someone else moves into the gap so all the key positions in our 4-3-3 formation are filled. It’s a bit like futsal, come to think of it. Maybe all that position switching in last term’s futsal comp has paid off after all.

  The players on the bench yell encouragement. They can sense the change in pace. ‘Come on, boys! Press!’ cries Kane.

  So we do. But we get impatient and all move in at once, forgetting to fill the gaps. It leaves our back four totally exposed.

  St Angelos counterattack. Their striker chips the ball over the top of our front line and their centre midfielder rushes into the gap left by our advancing players. Joel scrambles across in cover but he slips and Anton has no choice but to rush out of goal and try to clean up the ball. He isn’t quick enough. The St Angelos striker sprints forward and smacks the ball into the back of the net before Anton can lay a glove on it. It’s 1–0 but right now that one goal feels more like a hundred.

  At half-time, we sit on the field in a semicircle, sucking in air and wondering how we can possibly beat these guys. Their defence is too solid and we’re just not experienced enough – or fit enough – with Total Football tactics to keep them up for another 45 minutes.

  ‘Be more patient, boys,’ says Mr Antonelli. ‘Start small. Push the ball around – short, quick passes – then when you see a gap, bust through.’

  I glance around at the other players. Their shoulders are slumped and their heads are down. No one seems to be listening. It doesn’t look good.

  That’s when the girls’ squad shows up. They’ve just finished their own State Cup match against St Mary’s Ladies’ College on the bottom field. From their beaming smiles, it isn’t hard to see they’d won. Lexi looks rapt. Even Grace looks pleased. I ask anyway.

  ‘Did you win?’ I yell.

  ‘Of course,’ says Lexi. ‘Four–one. Too good!’

  ‘Oh boy, you know what that means?’ I say to the team.

  ‘No, what?’ asks Bazzo.

  ‘If we don’t win this game, the girls are going to give it to us for the rest of the year!’ Something comes over me. I repeat what Jase said just before the game: ‘Come on, boys! Fire up!’

  That’s all the motivation the team needs. When we get back on the field, we have a new burst of energy. Suddenly we’re passing the ball quickly from one player to another, zipping in and out of the St Angelos players and creating space. It’s a frenetic mix of non stop running and passing but it is starting to pay off. St Angelos are beginning to hang back in defence, unsure about who to mark. We’re swapping positions so often, then swapping back or moving to the next gap in our formation, that they’re getting confused.

  Then comes our moment. It is a thing of true beauty.

  It begins with Anton returning the ball after an attempted long-range shot from the St Angelos centre midfielder. At first it’s just the backs passing the ball back and forth and looking for a way through. Then Christian channels the ball to Bazzo, who spots me hanging out on the right edge. He curls a pass across the field and I run onto it, catching it on my chest and trapping it with my right boot for a moment as the defence rushes in. I toe it to the left and then hesitate again, waiting for the defence to reach me. Then I send the ball to Marcus. He’s pinned in by two defenders but manages to find Matti on the wing. Matti takes off for a quick jaunt before running into another defender. By then I’ve run into a space and call for it. Matti pops the ball up over the top of the defender and I manage to head it back towards the centre for Marcus to rush up and snatch it before the St Angelos boys can react. Marcus draws in two defenders and then finds me again, sprinting in behind the defence. He pushes back to Bazzo, who has moved up out of defensive midfield. Bazzo puts on a dazzling burst, including a nice 360 turn with the ball that evades a tackle.

  ‘Baaaz!’ I scream. I can see a space and if he gets it to me I know we can score.

  Bazzo fires a long pass through the defence to the hole I’ve run into, on the right side of the field. I’m right there, knocking at the door of the penalty box, when the St Angelos sweeper springs into action. He runs in to cover me but he’s too late. I cross to the left with a floating pass that sits up perfectly for Elvis to head the ball past the keeper.

  GOAL!

  It’s 1–1 and suddenly we have a chance to win and make it to the finals.

  The whole team rushes in to celebrate but I just fall down on the ground in exhaustion.

  I hear the girls’ team cheering us on from the sidelines. I realise that Ms Vale must have come down to watch the end of the game when her voice carries across the field. ‘Come on, Cannons!’ she calls.

  It’s enough to start a chant from the girls.

  ‘Cannons! Cannons!’

  Kane is chanting, too. It feels good, like we’re all united by the little emblem on our shirts.

  St Angelos take the kick-off and lock up the ball again with careful passing and running. It takes a while but we manage to get the ball back. We try to press forward again but St Angelos are more aggressive now. They know they need another goal and no one wants to go to a shootout. We do well in defence, pushing back and shutting down the plays but for the next ten minutes we’re bogged down in our half, defending wave after wave from the opposition.

  Finally Bazzo has had enough. He sends up a high ball into the opposition half and Marcus is there to collect it on his head. He torpedoes it at the goal and I rush in to give it a push.

  But I don’t get to it. I’m on the ground again, kissing dirt. The sweeper has taken me out. Matti comes over and helps me to my feet as the re
f flashes a yellow card at the St Angelos player.

  ‘You got this,’ Matti says, and suddenly I get that deja vu feeling. I’ve been here before. It’s 1–1 and I have a penalty kick. Our future in the State Cup will be decided by my left boot.

  NSF Fields

  A Few Seconds Later …

  I stand in front of the penalty box. The goal looks as if it’s miles away instead of metres.

  I try to clear my mind but it’s off and racing once again, filling up with all that space junk orbiting my brain: Kane, Lexi, Grace, my dad, my mum, my grades, my future … even Garth jumps in there for a moment but only to wave at me and offer some advice. ‘Don’t sweat it, Nick. It’s just like in World of Wizardry when you’re firing the crimson catapult to bring down the walls of the Fire-lord’s castle.’

  Not helping, Garth, not helping.

  ‘Come on, Nick!’ shouts Lexi.

  I glance over at the sideline. Everyone is leaning in, waiting for me to take the shot. Jase, Mr Antonelli, Ms Vale … They’re all holding their breath in anticipation.

  I guess it should make me feel more nervous, but it doesn’t. They are behind me. They want me to score this goal. Even Kane. Especially Kane. He wants to play in the State Cup Finals more than anyone.

  I look at the Cannons crest on my shirt and realise for the first time what being in the school rep team really means. It’s different to Saturday club matches. I’m not just playing for myself, or even for the team. I’m playing for the school. I wonder if this is how my dad felt when he played for the Socceroos in the World Cup.

  I look down at the ball in front of me. My mind isn’t racing anymore. There isn’t any space junk orbiting my brain. The snake in the pit of my stomach is sound asleep. For once my mind is clear and things seem simple. It’s black and white, like the hexagons on a football. All I have to do is put the ball in the net.

  I take a quick breath and run in. I strike the ball cleanly with the inside of my left boot. It curves like a rainbow towards the goal, hurtling past the goalie’s glove and hitting the back of the net.

  I stand there for a moment, watching. Then I’m kissing the dirt again. This time it’s because my teammates are on top of me in a celebratory stacks on.

  But the game isn’t over just yet. We’re up 2–1 with five minutes left on the clock. From the sideline, Mr Antonelli gives another signal. He locks his hands together. So we do just that. We give St Angelos a taste of their own medicine, slowing down the play and locking up the ball with tight passing in our own half. St Angelos throws everything at us but they struggle for possession.

  When the ref blows the whistle for the end of the game, the team celebrates again. This time with the players from the bench as well. Kane pats me on the back. ‘Good goal, Young. Your dad couldn’t have done better – and I’m not just saying that because I hate Arsenal.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I figure there’s not much point in holding grudges.

  ‘Of course, had I been taking the penalty kick, I would have gone for the top left corner,’ adds Kane, ‘but you did all right for a leftie.’

  Well, I guess you can’t change things overnight, can you?

  Walking to Thornberry Station

  Later …

  As Bazzo and I walk to Thornberry station after the game, I decide that I really need to be supportive of Bazzo for a change. He always has my back.

  ‘You know, I get why you like Kristy. She’s intense but she’s a great keeper and she knows her football, like you. So maybe you should ask her out or something.’

  Bazzo looks at me. I can tell he’s a little shocked but then a trademark Bazzo grin breaks out on his face.

  ‘Thanks, dude,’ he says. Then he elbows me sharply in the ribs and I see Grace walking ahead of us.

  I look at Bazzo.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he says.

  I chase after her. ‘Grace!’ I yell.

  She turns and shakes her head, but she stops walking and waits for me.

  ‘What do you want now? Come to yell at me again?’ she asks sharply. She doesn’t seem entirely angry with me but she’s not going to let me off the hook, either.

  ‘I just wanted to say …’

  She looks up at me. Her eyes aren’t green today. They’re big and brown and just a little sad.

  ‘… Sorry for being a jerk.’

  ‘Well, you’re not that big a jerk,’ she says, then smiles. ‘You’re just a little one.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I say and smile back. At least there’s no snub.

  My Bedroom, 15a Banksia Crescent,

  Green Hill

  Week Nine: Wednesday Afternoon

  I stare down at the English essay question on the screen of Garth’s old laptop.

  How has the classic novel you’ve read this term helped to improve your understanding of the world around you? Use evidence and quotes from the novel to support your answer. (500 words)

  I think I’ve figured out something to write: that everything is just a matter of perspective. What may look like a monster at first probably isn’t one. We could all be the monster or we could all be Victor Frankenstein, depending on our point of view. And running away from our problems or hoping they’ll go away really isn’t the answer. Sometimes you have to confront the monster head-on to realise it’s just something you created in your mind. (Oh no. I think I just learnt something from a book …)

  Just as I’m about to start on the introduction, the home telephone rings. I assume it’s another reporter calling about Dad, even though most of the others seem to have given up now and hurried on to the next scandal. But then Mum comes to my door holding the cordless phone in her hand and says something rather unexpected.

  ‘It’s your dad,’ she half-whispers, and she holds out the phone.

  I stare at her in shock. Then I stare at the phone. I don’t move. I can’t move.

  Mum looks at me and sighs. Then she holds the phone out to me again and whispers, ‘Go on …’

  I take the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nick?’ asks a voice on the other end. ‘It’s Shane … It’s me … Your dad.’

  ‘Hi … Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Look, Nick, I’m not sure if now’s a good time but I’d really like to have a chat. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since that night at the match in Sydney. I thought maybe … maybe we could get to know each other better … If that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Um … Yeah, that’s okay,’ I say.

  So we talk. We talk for quite a while. At first it’s difficult but then it starts to feel a little less awkward. Mostly when we’re talking about football. I tell Dad about winning the final State Cup Knockout game and ask him what it feels like to play for Australia and if it’s different to playing for Arsenal. He asks me about the school team and tells me he played in the State Cup when he was in high school. When we finally run out of things to say, Dad gives me his private email and phone number.

  ‘Contact me any time, Nick,’ he says.

  I hang up the phone and after a moment of staring in silence I turn back to my essay and smile to myself. After all, I have a lot to smile about. It’s the second-last week of term. I’m passing all of my subjects, I still have my scholarship, the Cannons are through to the State Cup Finals, Grace is still talking to me and, to top it all off, I don’t have to pretend I know my dad anymore because I do know him. I’d say that qualifies as a pretty successful term.

  Oh, and Kane and I haven’t killed each other. Not yet, anyway.

  Of course, there’s always next term.

  Missed Book One?

  Read on for a sample of

  Football High: Young Gun

  OUT NOW

  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 pena
lty 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.’