Extra Time (2 page)

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.

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 microphone. 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.

I rush over and throw my arms round him.

‘Don't ever do that again,' I say.

Matt is sweaty, but grinning.

‘Don't tell Mum,' he says.

He knows I won't. He knows I wouldn't dream of it. Not even next time I get cross with him for making the toilet roll soggy playing soccer with it in the bathroom.

Uncle Cliff arrives.

‘Matty,' he says. ‘Are you alright?'

Matt nods, still grinning.

The angry officials start to have a go at Uncle Cliff, probably because they think he's Matt's parent or guardian. Uncle Cliff steers them away from us.

Matt's grin disappears. I know why. He's worried they'll tell Mum and Dad.

‘It's OK,' I say. ‘Uncle Cliff's calming them down.'

We watch Uncle Cliff calming down the angry officials.

‘Fair go,' Uncle Cliff is saying to them. ‘If you want cattle running round for the news cameras, you should have warning signs. Health and safety, page one. And production assistants with luminous vests.'

Uncle Cliff is good with angry people. He reckons it's a skill you develop in electrical stores because of the damage electricity does to some electrical products.

Matt is rubbing himself on the shoulder. He sees me notice.

‘One of the cattle pronged me,' he says.

I check him out. But there's no blood. His shirt isn't even torn. Which is a huge relief.

‘Doesn't hurt much,' says Matt. ‘No need to panic.'

Sometimes older brothers can be really dumb. Matt should know by now why I panic. He's had nearly two and a half years to work it out.

It's because I'm scared of losing him as well.