‘Have you seen Matt?’ I say.
Ayo shakes his head.
‘Just come to see him play on his big day,’ he says. ‘Better go find a seat.’
‘If you want, you can sit with us,’ I say.
‘Thanks,’ says Ayo. ‘If I can’t find nothing.’
He shakes my hand.
‘Sweet dreams, girl,’ he says.
‘Bye,’ I say. ‘Good luck.’
Ayo heads off and a few moments later Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis come back.
‘Was that Ayo?’ says Mrs Jarvis.
I nod sadly.
‘Poor boy,’ she says.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘What if I offer him my iPod to take back to Africa?’
‘Is it a recent model?’ says Mrs Jarvis.
‘Recent-ish,’ says Uncle Cliff, holding it out.
Mrs Jarvis looks at it. I see her notice the bit of chewing gum on the top to make the earphones work. She shakes her head.
Uncle Cliff sags a bit and puts it away.
Mrs Jarvis puts her hand on his arm.
‘You’re a good man, Cliff,’ she says quietly. ‘There should be more like you.’
I give his hand a squeeze. Mrs Jarvis is right. If everybody had an uncle as kind as Uncle Cliff, the world would be a better place, and I don’t care if the Australian media quotes me on that.
We go up to our VIP box in the stadium. I’ve never heard noise and excitement like it. Jean-Pierre Michel is a publicity genius. Put one Guinness Book Of Records kid in your team and the whole world goes bananas.
Double bananas when the teams come out.
I can see the Chelsea players glancing at Matt like they didn’t fully believe he’d actually be here until this moment.
What a moment.
Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis have both got tears in their eyes. I’m desperately trying to keep mine dry. So I don’t miss a thing. So I can tell Mum and Dad everything, specially the bits they don’t see on TV or online.
Everything about the day their son’s dream is finally coming true.
Except I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell them. Because this is also the day my dream is going down the toilet. My dream of saving my last remaining brother.
Just before kick-off, Ayo comes into our box.
‘No seats,’ he says apologetically.
‘You’re very welcome,’ says Mrs Jarvis, patting the empty seat next to her.
The match starts quietly.
It’s as if, with a fourteen-year-old playing and so many people round the world watching, both teams want to be on their best behaviour.
None of our players pass to Matt at first, and he hangs back a bit, getting a feel for the game. But slowly he starts to get involved, just small touches.
The game speeds up, but friendly and clean and good-hearted.
Even when Chelsea score, the mood in the stadium stays friendly. Mostly. There are a few thousand fans who want to kill Jean-Pierre Michel for putting a kid in the team, but they don’t actually do it.
After a while, I think Matt hears their yells.
Suddenly, about twenty minutes in, he starts to really play. Intercepting passes. Doing runs. Setting up goals.
‘Beautiful run,’ yells Uncle Cliff. ‘Exquisite set-up.’
But he doesn’t yell anything after that because there’s something wrong.
Three times Matt does it.
He takes the ball past loads of defenders, moving his body like one of those clothes-drying racks that fold in all directions, and each time he gets close to the goal, he passes the ball into an empty space.
Where no one is.
Each time he does that, he looks straight across at Jean-Pierre Michel, who’s standing near the touchline, then over at us in our box.
No, not at us, at Ayo.
After the second time, I realise what he’s doing.
So does Mrs Jarvis.
‘He’s telling them that if Ayo was playing,’ she says, ‘Ayo would have scored just then.’
‘Judas H incredible,’ whispers Uncle Cliff.
But it gets even more incredible.
After Matt passes into an empty space for the third time, and players in his team are scowling at him, and Gazz is pleading with him, and Chelsea are laughing at him, Jean-Pierre Michel starts yelling at him.
We can’t hear what Mr Michel is saying from up here, but we can tell from his wild hand movements.
‘Shots, Sutherland,’ he’s saying. ‘Shots from you or you’re off.’
Matt obeys him.
A couple of minutes later he dances the ball to the edge of the Chelsea penalty area and shoots. It’s less than twenty metres. I’ve never seen Matt miss from that close. But his shot slams into the left-hand goalpost and spins away for a goal kick.
‘Bad luck,’ groans Uncle Cliff and about thirty thousand other fans.
This is strange. Matt doesn’t usually have bad luck. Not on the soccer pitch.
A few minutes later Matt does an overhead volley from a corner. The ball slams into the crossbar.
‘Magic,’ says Ayo.
‘So unlucky,’ moans Uncle Cliff.
Soon after, Matt shoots again. He hits the goalpost again.
All around the stadium people are turning to each other and there’s a huge growling buzz. I realise it’s the noise thousands of people make when they’re not quite believing what they’re seeing.
Matt does a long run with the ball, almost the full length of the pitch. Just gliding past tackles. He makes it look as easy as Dad avoiding chandeliers with a mirror.
The Chelsea goalie comes out to him. Matt skips past him and shoots at an empty goal.
And hits the post.
We all can’t believe it.
‘Arghhhhh,’ screeches Uncle Cliff. ‘Unbelievable bad luck.’
It happens again, from a diving header. And then again, from a clever lob near the touchline.
Ten minutes later, when Matt has hit the post three more times and the crossbar twice, people are just gaping as if they simply can’t believe what’s happening.
‘This isn’t just bad luck,’ croaks Uncle Cliff. ‘This is some sort of family curse.’
The players on both teams are glancing at each other nervously as if they’re all having a similar thought. That something really spooky is going on. Which it is, but not in the way they’re thinking.
Mrs Jarvis isn’t saying anything, just watching Matt closely. I think she may have spotted what I think I’ve spotted.
Matt does it again, and this time I’m definitely sure. After blocking a pass thirty metres from the Chelsea goal, Matt gets his balance and shoots. But before he does, he glances at Jean-Pierre Michel, and then at Ayo.
The shot reaches the goal before the goalie can move. It smashes off the crossbar.
And that’s when I know.
This isn’t bad luck, or a family curse.
Matt is doing it on purpose.
At half-time the stadium is in uproar.
More than forty thousand people utterly gobsmacked and yelling about it into their phones.
Pandemonium.
Which is nothing compared to what’s happening in Jean-Pierre Michel’s office. I think there are about forty thousand people in here.
Matt is sitting on a chair in the corner, surrounded by people.
Me and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis and Ayo struggle over towards him through the crowd of journalists and media people and club officials.
‘What you did was remarkable,’ Jean-Pierre Michel is shouting at Matt over the hubbub. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The accuracy and mental discipline to hit the post that many times, incredible. We want to offer you a permanent place in the academy.’
He waits to see if Matt has heard him.
‘It wasn’t just remarkable,’ Uncle Cliff yells at Mr Michel. ‘It was the most generous act ever seen on a sporting field ever. Including when the Rolling Stones did
two encores at Randwick racecourse in 1973.’
‘I agree,’ I say.
I wasn’t actually at Randwick racecourse back then, but I was here today and I’ll never forget what Matt did, or why he did it.
Ever.
Jean-Pierre Michel glances at Uncle Cliff, but you can see he doesn’t really want to talk about why Matt did it.
Matt isn’t saying anything.
But when he sees Ayo, he gives him a look.
Ayo gives him a look back.
I can see Ayo won’t ever forget what Matt did either.
‘A full permanent place in the academy,’ Jean-Pierre Michel is saying to Matt. ‘We see you being in our first team regularly very soon.’
‘Absolutely see you there,’ says Mr Merchant. ‘I’ll put money on it.’
Matt is looking at them all now, but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.
‘Matt’s fourteen,’ says Mrs Jarvis to Mr Michel. ‘Full academy places are for boys of sixteen and over. There are regulations.’
‘We know about the regulations,’ says Ken. ‘Matt will live with his family till he’s sixteen. We’ll bring his parents over and find them jobs and a house.’
I don’t know about Matt, but I’m feeling a bit dazed by all this.
‘What do you say, Matt?’ says Jean-Pierre Michel.
I know what I’m hoping Matt will say.
And he says it.
‘I want Ayo to play in the second half,’ says Matt. ‘With me.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
I don’t expect anyone to hear me, but Mrs Jarvis puts her arm round me and I can see she heard. And she knows why I’m looking at Matt so proudly.
Jean-Pierre Michel frowns. You can tell he was half expecting Matt to say that. He looks at Ayo and at Mr Merchant.
‘Ayo’s a good young player,’ says Mr Merchant. ‘We only decided to let him go because of a problem with his manager. We can do this.’
‘Good,’ says Jean-Pierre Michel.
He turns back to Matt.
‘So, young man,’ he says. ‘No need to hit any more woodwork, eh?’
It’s nearly time for the second half. The officials steer Matt and Ayo through the crowd. But before they go out, Matt turns and looks at me.
He grins.
I grin back.
Suddenly I can breathe more easily than I have for years.
In fact I could do cartwheels down the pitch right now. Because now I know that whatever happens in the future, Matt will always be Matt, and his dear gentle loving heart will be alive and kicking forever.
What’s happening in the second half of this Premier League match against Chelsea is one of the most joyful things I’ve ever seen on a soccer pitch, including our waste ground at home.
The reporters and commentators in the press boxes are going bananas. I can see them doing it through their tinted glass. It’s like they never imagined they’d ever see anything like this.
But it’s really quite simple.
Two fourteen-year-old boys are doing the thing they love best. Fast passing and good balance and very quick running and brilliant footwork and being happy and saying encouraging things to each other.
Matt sets the goals up and Ayo scores them.
Two in ten minutes.
I can see Jean-Pierre Michel and the other club officials down in their seats. They all look totally ecstatic. Every time Matt touches the ball they’re on their feet, applauding. Same when Ayo does.
On the pitch the grown-up players are mesmerised.
Except suddenly they aren’t. Now they’re starting to realise that having kids running rings round them isn’t very good for their careers.
Gradually the Chelsea players start to get back into the game. Lots of skill, and some of the other stuff. Holding and turning and a bit of violent lunging.
Mostly Matt and Ayo are too quick for them.
Our grown-up players don’t want to be left out, so they start working extra hard too, turning on the skill and giving as good as they get.
A bit more than they get sometimes, and Chelsea end up with a free kick just outside our penalty area.
They score.
Two–two.
‘Oh-oh,’ mutters Uncle Cliff. ‘Things could go pear-shaped now.’
‘I don’t think so, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘We’re playing a four-two-four formation. That’s more peanut-shaped. Pear-shaped would be four-four-one-one.’
Uncle Cliff looks at her and just from his face you can tell he reckons he’s the luckiest man in the world.
But he’s right about the match. Things aren’t going so well for us.
Chelsea score again, and then for about fifteen minutes their defence keeps Matt and Ayo locked down with very good tackles and not so good elbows.
But gradually Chelsea start to relax. You can see them thinking to themselves, these two are just kids.
Which is not a good idea with Matt.
He nips in and cuts off a Chelsea pass about thirty metres out from their goal and then there’s one of those moments when forty-four thousand people blink and go dead silent for about two seconds and then thirty-four thousand of them give a humungous roar because the ball is in the back of the net.
I don’t care that much about the goal.
What I care about is that as Matt shoots, just after the ball leaves his foot, he’s crashed into by two Chelsea defenders. He slams into the pitch like a sack of pet food dropped by a careless removalist (not Dad).
I jump to my feet. Matt isn’t moving. His tiny figure is lying down there, way below us on the pitch.
I have to get to him. But I’m high up in a vast stadium. Thousands of people are in the way. Hundreds of steps. Dozens of jammed walkways.
Mrs Jarvis puts her hand on my cheek.
‘Go,’ she says.
Uncle Cliff nods. He thinks I should too.
So I do.
‘Matty,’ I hear Uncle Cliff yelling. ‘Bridie’s coming.’
It takes me about five minutes of leaping down concrete steps and squeezing past rows of seats and ducking under crash barriers. But I’m still quicker than Uncle Cliff or Mrs Jarvis could be because people kindly lift me down from section to section over other people’s heads.
At last I’m on the edge of the pitch.
I see Matt has been carried off and is sitting on a stretcher near the medical bench. A physio is rubbing his legs.
I rush over. I’m breathless and frantic and my heart’s going like an Uncle Cliff drum solo, but the weird thing is, I’m not wheezing.
‘Matt,’ I say. ‘Are you OK?’
Matt signals me to come closer. The physio steps back to give us some privacy, which is kind of him.
‘I’m fine,’ says Matt. ‘I just thought Ayo should have a bit of time on his own to show the club why they should hang on to him.’
He points to the pitch.
I turn and look.
As I do, the stadium explodes with noise because Ayo blocks a pass, weaves past two defenders, does a step-over to confuse the goalie, glances at Matt, and scores.
Just before Ayo disappears under a pile of our players, he gives Matt a thumbs up.
Matt gives him one back.
Then stands up and gives me a hug.
‘I’m not making a habit of all this cuddly stuff,’ he says. ‘It’s just that last time we did some, you were pretty upset.’
I nod.
‘And it was my fault,’ he says.
I don’t say anything.
Matt doesn’t either for a while. When I look up at him, I see his eyes are wet.
I think that’s amazing. There aren’t many big brothers who’d show their feelings in front of forty-four thousand people.
‘Are you OK?’ I say.
‘Very OK now,’ he says. ‘Thanks to you.’
We keep our arms round each other for a couple more minutes till the match is over.
But not completely over, because there’s some emba
rrassing stuff that always happens afterwards when a side has just beaten a really huge club like Chelsea.
It’s sort of like extra time, but it’s not more football. It’s a lap of honour round the stadium by the winning team so their fans can yell themselves silly with joy.
The most embarrassing thing is when certain players get carried on the shoulders of the rest of the team.
Like what’s happening now to Matt and Ayo.
And me.
I know I’m not a player, but they insisted.
‘Who are you again?’ asks the legendary Spanish international who’s carrying me on his shoulders.
Matt grins and reaches over and pulls some of the paper streamers off my head.
‘This is Bridie,’ he says. ‘We’re family.’
I give him a huge grin back.
That’s exactly Judas H right.
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Text copyright © Morris Gleitzman, 2013