Extra Time

  Contents

  Warm-Up

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  First Half

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Half-time

  28

  Second Half

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  My heartfelt gratitude to Belinda Chayko, Anna Fienberg, Laura Harris, Heather Curdie, Tony Palmer, Anne McNulty, Amrit Bansal-McNulty, Janine Wood, Sam Miller, and the Premier League families who generously shared with me their experiences and friendship.

  Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. After university he worked for ten years as a screenwriter. Then he had a wonderful experience. He wrote a novel for young people. Now, after 34 books, he’s one of Australia’s most popular children’s authors. His books are published in more than 20 countries.

  Visit Morris at his website:

  www.morrisgleitzman.com

  Also by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Gift of the Gab

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)

  Bumface

  Adults Only

  Teacher’s Pet

  Toad Rage

  Toad Heaven

  Toad Away

  Toad Surprise

  Boy Overboard

  Girl Underground

  Worm Story

  Aristotle’s Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Grace

  Too Small to Fail

  Give Peas a Chance

  Pizza Cake

  Once

  Then

  After

  Now

  Loyal Creatures

  For Jono

  ‘Hey, Sutherland,’ yells an unfriendly voice. ‘If you got any last wishes, make ’em now.’

  Matt and the others stop playing.

  We all turn.

  This waste ground next to the cattle yard is the best place in Australia for a kick-around. But it does get a bit crowded sometimes.

  Coming towards us across the crunchy brown grass, dust puffing up from their boots, are six kids.

  Big ones.

  They’re all wearing orange soccer shirts.

  I sigh. Why can’t people leave Matt alone? Sometimes I think he won’t get any peace till every soccer show-off in town has tried to prove they’re better than him.

  ‘Your day of wrecking has arrived,’ says the captain of the orange team to Matt.

  ‘I think you mean day of reckoning,’ says Matt.

  ‘Get your words right,’ I say to the orange captain.

  The orange captain ignores me. That happens quite a bit when you’re a younger sister.

  The orange kids are all glaring at Matt as if they don’t like him, which is really unfair. They don’t even know him.

  ‘Come on,’ sneers the captain to Matt. ‘Let’s see how good you really are. Your lot against us.’

  I wait for Matt to tell them to get lost. But he doesn’t. He’s extremely good-natured. Which is pretty amazing given what he’s been through.

  I’m not so good-natured.

  ‘Get lost,’ I say to the orange lot. ‘We’re in the middle of a game if you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘We’re not here to get lost,’ smiles the orange captain. ‘We’re here to shred your butts.’

  I’m always amazed by our town. It’s not very big, but the people are so different from each other. Some of them are really nice, but some of them, like this orange lot, look like they’ve never had a cuddle in their lives.

  Mum and Dad reckon it’s because so many families tragically break up.

  Uncle Cliff says there’s another reason. Too many big dogs in this town. Too many people have them in their houses as pets, he reckons, and they have to fight with them to get any food.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the orange captain. ‘We’re not doing butt-shredding. We’re just playing for fun.’

  ‘See, I told you,’ says the captain to his team-mates. ‘Matt Sutherland is just a cluck cluck red rooster chicken coward.’

  ‘With a haggle for a kid sister,’ says another one.

  ‘The word’s haggis,’ I say. ‘If you mean the Scottish sausage made from sheep’s guts.’

  The orange kids all snigger.

  I try to ignore them. I know what they’re laughing at. My tartan skirt. Mum got it for me from the op-shop because two of my grandparents were Scottish before they got old and died. In my family we like to remember people who aren’t with us any more.

  Matt is giving the orange team a thoughtful look.

  I think a couple of them actually have got dog bites on their faces. Either that or they’ve been practising shaving with gardening equipment.

  The rest of our lot are giving the orange team a look too. It’s not a look they usually give people. I think they want to take up the challenge.

  I grab Matt’s arm and pull him over to where the others can’t hear us.

  What I should say to him is, ‘Matt, it’s too dangerous, they’re as big as double fridges and there’s no ref and you’ve got metal pins in your legs.’ Which is true, and it’s what Mum would want me to say.

  But Matt would hate it if I said that. He doesn’t like anyone making a big deal about his car crash injuries. He doesn’t mind people looking at the scars on his legs, but not if they get all concerned.

  So instead I just say, ‘Come on, the sun’s getting too hot, let’s go and visit Uncle Cliff.’

  Matt shakes his head.

  ‘People who run away,’ he says, ‘next thing they know, they’re living under their bed.’

  Matt’s fourteen, so he says stuff like that.

  I sigh again and take the sunblock out of my skirt pocket and hand it to him. Part of me admires Matt for giving it a go. Part of me wishes he was safely under a bed right now.

  We walk back to the orange bruisers.

  I just hope if it gets rough, Matt’s skill will keep him out of danger.

  We’ve had too much tragedy in our family already.

  We don’t want any more.

  While Matt and the others decide who’ll be in our team, I quickly think of a game plan. The orange kids are very big. And they look like the sort of kids who don’t get the difference between a soccer tackle (going for the ball with their foot) and a rugby tackle (going for your body parts with their body parts).

  ‘Fast passing,’ I whisper to Matt. I also whisper it to Jayden and Zac and Celine and Callum and Gael-Anne.

  They all give me a nod.

  ‘Haggis not playing with us?’ says one of the dog’s breakfasts, looking at me.

  ‘Bridie gets asthma,’ says Matt.

  Which is true, he’s not just saying that. If I run, I turn into a medical emergency, so I’ve promised Mum I won’t. r />
  The orange team kick off.

  They do some passes, but not very good ones. They’ve all got muscles, but not much balance. Dad’s an expert furniture removalist and he can tell with one glance if an item is top-heavy and wobbly. If he was moving this lot he’d definitely strap them down in the truck.

  The orange kids do another pass and Matt nips between them and gets the ball. One of them tries to kick it away from him. Matt does what he usually does when somebody tries to tackle him. Sways his hips and glides past like an expert removalist getting a big wardrobe through a small door.

  ‘Stop him,’ yells the grumpy orange captain.

  But Matt is halfway down the pitch. He does a short pass to Jayden, who isn’t having a good week. Jayden’s mum is in hospital. Jayden passes back to Matt. Matt whisks the ball past two defenders and passes to Jayden again because regular touches of the ball help take your mind off things when your mum’s having an operation.

  Jayden could go for goal but he obviously doesn’t feel up to it, so he passes back to Matt.

  Matt could score with his eyes closed and one foot in his back pocket, but he doesn’t either. He dribbles across the front of the goal, past lots of orange tackles, doing lots of skill to control the ball because wombats have been at the pitch, and gently taps it to Gael-Anne, who isn’t having a good week either because her family’s washing got stolen, including her sports bra.

  Gael-Anne kicks, misses the ball, kicks again, and scores.

  Her grin is so big we all have to grin too.

  The orange kids aren’t grinning.

  I think they’re a bit stunned. People get like that when they see Matt play.

  ‘Dumbos,’ their captain yells at them. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Go in hard.’

  The orange team are looking hot and miserable. We’re all hot because it’s nearly ten in the morning, but it’s probably worse when you’ve got a grumpy captain.

  I go over to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘We don’t do rough tackles.’

  The grumpy captain squints at me.

  ‘Who are you?’ he says. ‘The referee?’

  I shake my head. That’s dopey. You don’t need a referee when you’re playing for fun.

  ‘She’s our manager,’ says Matt.

  I’ve never thought of it like that. But it’s sort of true. I keep an eye on Matt for Mum and Dad and give the players advice and sometimes I get everyone water from the bubbler.

  ‘Time to swap sides,’ I say to Matt.

  The orange team look confused, but Matt knows what I’m talking about.

  ‘OK,’ he says. He turns to the biggest orange boy. ‘You and me swap?’

  ‘Hang about,’ says the grumpy orange captain. ‘What’s going on? You can’t change sides once a match has officially started.’

  ‘This isn’t a match,’ I say. ‘It’s a game.’

  ‘We always do it,’ says Matt. ‘When my side scores, I swap over to make it fairer.’

  ‘So it’s a better game,’ says Gael-Anne. ‘Not so one-sided.’

  ‘More fun,’ I explain.

  ‘No way,’ says the grumpy captain.

  Me and Matt and our lot look at each other and shrug. We don’t get it. What’s the point of soccer if you’re not enjoying it?

  The orange team kick off again.

  ‘Jeez,’ says a voice behind me. ‘They’re big.’

  It’s Uncle Cliff. He usually keeps an eye on us while we’re playing. His house overlooks the showground, and since he lost his job and Aunty Paula left him, he spends a lot of time on his verandah.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘We’re doing fast passing.’

  Uncle Cliff knows a lot about sport. He watches about a thousand hours of it a week on TV.

  The orange team have got the ball, and their biggest player is powering towards Matt with it.

  ‘Come on, Sutherland,’ says the big orange kid. ‘Tackle me.’

  Matt just backs off, keeping his eye on the ball.

  Uncle Cliff is feeling tense, I can tell. He’s holding his beer can so tight it’s crinkling.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Matt’s too skilful. They can’t touch him even when they go for him.’

  I know Matt won’t go for the big orange kid. Matt has promised Mum no rough tackles and he always keeps a promise.

  ‘Take it off me,’ says the big orange kid to Matt.

  Matt still holds back.

  They’re close to the goal now.

  Suddenly the big orange kid shoots. Matt blocks the shot. The ball spins towards Celine in goal. She catches it, then another orange kid barges into her and sends her sprawling. Luckily she falls onto one of her goal posts, which is a pile of Zac’s mum’s washing from the laundromat.

  The ball bounces out of her arms.

  Matt pounces on it, whisks it past a couple of orange players, and shoots from very long range.

  Up the other end the orange goalie blinks. That’s all he has time to do as the ball flashes past him.

  ‘Rock ’n’ roll,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Good goal.’

  The orange kids are just staring. They’ve probably never seen anyone score from the middle of the pitch before.

  ‘Are you OK, Celine?’ I say, hurrying over to where Matt’s helping her up.

  She nods, rubbing her leg.

  ‘OK, Damian,’ says Uncle Cliff, going over to the orange kid who flattened Celine. ‘Here’s your choice. If you want violence you can go and rent one of those video games where you play soccer and kill aliens at the same time, or you can stay here and play decent. Up to you.’

  ‘Sorry, Cliff,’ mumbles the orange kid.

  Uncle Cliff used to work at the electrical store before it closed, so he knows most people in town. And everyone knows him because of his Rolling Stones hair, which is inspired by a very old rock group Uncle Cliff likes. It’s a sort of tufty hairstyle with bits of jewellery and little feathers tied to the ends of some of the tufts.

  The orange team are looking really miserable. They’ve done what they came to do, see how good Matt really is, and now they’re probably wondering what it’s going to feel like to lose twenty–nil.

  None of us want that.

  I make a manager decision.

  ‘It’s getting a bit hot for running around,’ I say. ‘Let’s play blindfold penalties.’

  Our lot all like the idea.

  I explain to the orange team about blindfold penalties. How the kicker and the goalie both wear blindfolds, so it’s a very entertaining type of penalty.

  Their captain looks doubtful, but the rest of his team look relieved.

  Everyone enjoys themselves heaps. Even the grumpy captain. By the time he’s taken a few penalties he isn’t even grumpy any more. He doesn’t even care when he slices a kick so high it goes over the fence into the cattle yard next door.

  ‘Good Aussie Rules kick,’ says Matt. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’

  Matt heads off towards the fence.

  ‘Matt,’ I yell.

  Uncle Cliff yells at him too.

  Members of the public aren’t allowed in the cattle yard, specially not kids.

  ‘Matt,’ I yell again.

  But it’s too late. He’s already over the fence.

  I’m getting a sick feeling in my guts.

  Most managers get it sometimes. It’s the fear of losing. With me it’s a bit different.

  I don’t mind losing a football match.

  There’s something much more important I don’t want to lose.

  Me and Uncle Cliff sprint to the fence.

  ‘Don’t run,’ says Uncle Cliff to me. ‘You’ll stress your pipes.’

  I can feel asthma coming on, but I have to risk it. Matt is already in the cattle yard.

  I can’t see any cattle, which is good. But I can see people, which isn’t good. If they spot Matt, he’s in big trouble.

  Next to the office, standing in the back of a ute, is a bloke with a mi
crophone. His voice starts echoing out from the auctioneer’s loudspeaker. A crowd of people are listening to him, a couple with cameras.

  ‘Some politician up from the city,’ says Uncle Cliff as we climb over the cattle yard fence. ‘Probably here to tell us the Chinese have bought another million tonnes of our beef.’

  Now I’m nearer, I can see our ball sitting right in the middle of one of the big empty cattle pens. There’s Matt, climbing over the shutes towards it. Just as he reaches it, I hear something else.

  Grumpy bellowing. Even louder than the orange team in a bad mood.

  ‘Oh Jeez,’ mutters Uncle Cliff.

  I see where the bellowing is coming from.

  Crashing along one of the chutes, stampeding out into the pen towards Matt, are a mob of cattle, huge ones. A million tonnes of beef at least. The cattle look like they’re in a panic. They probably think they’re on their way to the abattoir to be turned into rissoles and wallets.

  Matt sees the cattle and freezes. He looks like a skinny rabbit on a highway, blinking at trucks thundering down on him, trucks with horns and snot.

  ‘Matt,’ I scream.

  We run towards the pen. I’m starting to struggle for breath. Sometimes there’s not much difference between asthma and terror.

  Some of the crowd are screaming at Matt too.

  I try to think of a game plan for him.

  Run for it, Matt.

  Too late, the cattle are too close.

  Lie on the ground, Matt. Curl up and put your arms over your head.

  No good, you’ll be trampled.

  ‘Matt,’ I yell again.

  Matt doesn’t do either of my game plans. He does his own.

  As the cattle surge around him, snorting and swiping at him with their horns, Matt starts moving the ball from foot to foot, swaying his hips, tilting his shoulders, crouching, turning, keeping his balance, using his arms as well as his feet, dodging the horns and the huge crushing bodies, gliding the ball through the bellowing herd, doing more skill than I’ve ever seen him do, and that’s saying a lot.

  A huge lot.

  Everyone is frozen now, just watching him.

  I start to breathe again.

  Matt flicks the ball high into the air, ducks between a couple of metal bars, and waits outside the pen to gracefully catch the ball on his knee, which he does.

  Most of the people applaud. A couple of officials glare at him angrily.