Extra Time (9 page)

I'm keeping an eye on the stadium clock.

That way I'll know when the referee is about to blow his whistle for half-time. So I can get back on the pitch without wasting a second and have a word with him.

I'll remind him how much fun soccer used to be when he was a kid. And when all the players were kids as well. And how grateful everyone would be if he could ask them to play like that again.

And send them off if they don't.

I think it's better if I say it to the referee and get him to say it to the players. They'll probably listen to him more than they'll listen to a fluffy baby creature doing muffled wheezing.

Thirty seconds to go.

Except the referee doesn't actually blow his whistle for another fifty seconds.

I don't blame him. If I had to spend forty-five minutes running around a pitch with such a miserable bunch of players, I'd probably get slightly depressed and forget the time as well.

As soon as the ref blows the whistle, I jump up and waddle towards him as fast as I can. Which isn't very fast because this furry head is a bit big and the eye-holes are in slightly different places to my eyes. Plus I have to remember to wave to the crowd and I'm a bit short of breath.

I lose sight of the ref for a while, but when I adjust my head I see him again.

He's staring at me and talking into the small microphone he's got clipped to his face. He's probably telling the person who makes his half-time cuppa to hold off for a couple of minutes because a mascot wants a word with him.

All the players are staring at me as well.

This is good. If they were all heading straight off for their cuppas, they wouldn't be able to hear what the ref is about to tell them.

‘Excuse me,' I say to the ref, using my biggest voice because of the muffling.

This is hopeless. He can't hear me.

I take my head off.

‘Excuse me,' I say. ‘Remember when you were a kid? I bet when you were on a soccer pitch you didn't stop giggling half the time.'

The referee's mouth is open, like he's completely forgotten all about that.

Or is he just angry?

Then I see what Gazz is doing near the ref. He's placing the ball carefully on the pitch as if he's about to take a free kick.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

‘Get off,' roars the referee, waving his arm angrily at me.

I realise what's happened.

Judas H.

I'm in the middle of the pitch. In the middle of a Premier League match. Forty thousand people are looking at me. And millions on TV.

Except it's not the middle of the match.

Not quite.

I forgot that at the end of each half of a professional football match there's an extra bit added on. It's called injury time. Three or four minutes of extra play, which the teams are waiting to get on with now.

‘Off,' roars the referee at me.

We don't need injury time when we play on our waste ground at home because none of us have ever been injured.

In my case, that might all be about to change.

Angry security guards are sprinting towards me.

I try to run.

I'm struggling for breath.

Suddenly I'm feeling more anxious than all the soccer stars on the pitch put together.

I'm wheezing worse than I have for ages.

I lie down on the grass. The stadium is still very loud, but the noise sounds like we're all under water.

Something is squeezing my chest very tight. Really, really tight. It's not my furry costume, and it's not bubble wrap.

‘Matt,' I try to yell, but I can't.

The managers of big famous football clubs always have big impressive offices. Jean-Pierre Michel's is very big and very impressive.

This would probably take some people's breath away, being here. But I've only just got my breathing back, and I'm trying not to lose it again.

I decide Jean-Pierre Michel probably uses the inner part of his office for private stuff, and the outer part for yelling at mascots who disrupt Premier League matches.

So I'm a bit surprised when Ken takes me into the inner part.

Which is empty.

‘He'll be here soon,' mutters Ken, looking unhappy and a little bit sauce-splattered.

‘Are you in trouble too?' I ask.

Ken doesn't reply.

I can see this whole experience has been very stressful for him. He was stressed when the ambulance officers carried me off the pitch and gave me oxygen. He was stressed after I got changed out of the fluffy suit and he took it away from me and locked it in a cupboard. And he was stressed at the end of the game when he came to the VIP box where I watched the second half with Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis. At first I thought Ken's last bit of stress was because we'd just lost two–nil, but then he told me the manager wanted to see me.

I think Jean-Pierre Michel is a French name. Several of the Premier League managers are French. I think they like working in England because the fish and chips are so good.

I can hear Jean-Pierre Michel talking in the outer office where Uncle Cliff and Matt are waiting. And I can hear Uncle Cliff standing up for me in a loud voice.

‘She's a kid,' he's saying. ‘All kids are idiots sometimes.'

He means well.

Jean-Pierre Michel comes in. He's quite a big man and he's wearing a suit that's really well ironed. But he looks even more tired than Mum and Dad. And now he's here, Ken looks even more stressed.

‘Guv,' says Ken. ‘It's my fault. The Australian media –'

Jean-Pierre Michel puts his finger to his lips.

Ken stops talking.

‘So,' says Jean-Pierre Michel, looking at me. ‘We spend millions of pounds to keep hooligans out of our stadium, and then our mascot turns out to be a hooligan.'

‘That's not fair, Guv,' says Ken.

He's right, it's not.

‘Excuse me, Mr Michel,' I say. ‘I'm not a hooligan. I just think soccer should be fun.'

Jean-Pierre Michel looks like he has a tummy pain.

‘Fun?' he says.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘Fun.'

Jean-Pierre Michel shakes his head wearily. I think he wants us to go.

‘Thank you, Ken,' he says. ‘I just wanted to see your mascot choice for myself.'

Ken looks like he has a huge tummy pain. And it's my fault.

‘All those goals your players missed today,' I say to Jean-Pierre Michel. ‘People can't do their best shots when they're feeling miserable and possibly concussed, it's a known fact.'

I'm not sure if Mr Michel hears me. He's looking at stuff on his desk.

Ken hears me.

‘Come on,' he says anxiously. ‘Time to go.'

He tries to push me out of the office.

I do something I've seen Matt do a lot. I drop my shoulders and roll my hips and slide away from Ken.

‘My friend Gael-Anne,' I say to Mr Michel, ‘she used to hate soccer at school. Then she started having fun with us on the waste ground and now she can do headers and everything.'

‘Bridie,' hisses Ken. ‘That's enough.'

He grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards the door.

Jean-Pierre Michel is standing at his desk with his back to me and it doesn't look like he's heard a word.

That's what I think at first.

But just as Ken is dragging me out the door, Jean-Pierre Michel turns and gives me a stare.

For a second I think he's going to agree with me.

Then his face changes and I can see he isn't.

I wish I could believe you, his face says. But I'm one of the most respected and experienced and highly paid football managers in the world, and you're just a kid with nylon fluff in her hair.

When Mum and Dad see me being a mascot on YouTube, Mum gets upset and skypes.

She says that from now on I have to stay indoors with Mrs Jarvis.

‘No,' I say. ‘Please don't make me. I'm fine.'

‘You didn't look fine on that stretcher,' says Mum, getting more upset.

Poor Mum. It's a big jump, going from me living at home helping with the washing-up to the neighbours telling her at six in the morning I've been carried off a UK Premier League soccer pitch by two ambulance officers and several security guards.

Uncle Cliff explains to Mum that ambulance officers always put people on stretchers, it's their training, even at rock concerts.

‘The more people they carry off,' says Matt, ‘the more they get paid.'

It's good of Matt and Uncle Cliff to try and help Mum feel better.

‘You're still grounded,' Mum says to me.

Dad nods sternly.

‘I can't be,' I plead. ‘Matt needs me at his match tomorrow. It's his bit chance.'

Dad sighs.

‘You're grounded, love,' he says. ‘Don't fight it.'

But I have to.

‘I'm Matt's manager,' I say tearfully. ‘I have to look after him. You don't know how rough and dangerous it is over here.'

As soon as I say it I know I shouldn't have.

Matt and Uncle Cliff are glaring at me.

‘Bridie's being a bit dramatic,' says Uncle Cliff hurriedly to Mum and Dad. ‘It's only a little bit rough and dangerous. Hardly ever. Matt'll be fine. His leg pins are doing brilliantly.'

Mum and Dad glance at each other. They look unhappy.

‘Matt, love,' says Mum. ‘There's something we have to tell you. We should have told you before, but . . . well, at the time we thought it was for the best.'

She hesitates and glances at Dad again.

I can see they feel bad about saying it, whatever it is.

‘What?' says Matt.

We're all getting very tense at this end.

‘Remember what I told you after the accident,' says Mum. ‘How the doctors in the hospital said your legs were fragile because of the pins? Well that wasn't true, love. I made it up.'

We all stare at her.

‘Actually,' says Dad, looking ashamed, ‘the pins make your legs stronger.'

‘I'm sorry, love,' says Mum. ‘I should have told you the truth. But I was just desperate for you to look after yourself and not get hurt any more.'

We all take this in.

Matt specially.

‘We are sorry, Matt,' says Dad.

Matt thinks about it for a bit longer.

‘It's OK,' he says. ‘I don't blame you. But thanks for telling me.'

‘Hope it helps in your match tomorrow,' says Mum quietly.

‘We're proud of you, son,' says Dad.

‘Thanks,' says Matt.

Dad puts his arm round Mum and she takes a deep breath as if she's relieved that's over.

Mrs Jarvis comes in and Mum explains to her that I'm grounded. Mrs Jarvis gives me a sympathetic look.

‘Oh dear,' she says to Mum and Dad. ‘That's a little bit tricky tomorrow because I'm going to the match too. It's a very important one.'

‘Manchester United,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘They're coming all the way from Manchester.'

Mum and Dad hesitate.

I can see they're not sure what to say.

‘What if I promise to keep an eye on Bridie,' says Mrs Jarvis, ‘and make sure she's completely fine.'

Mum and Dad look at each other.

‘Alright,' says Mum. ‘Seeing as it's Manchester United.'

Dad gives us a thumbs up.

After we all say goodbye and click Skype off, Uncle Cliff punches the air.

‘Rock 'n' roll,' he says to Matt. ‘Aussie leg pins.'

Matt looks delighted too. He gives Uncle Cliff and me and Mrs Jarvis high-fives.

I'm relieved but I'm not delighted. Because I know why Matt's so happy. Now he doesn't have to hold back. Now he can throw himself totally into going for his dream and impressing the academy trainers and coaches.

Now he can be as violent and unfriendly as he wants.