Free Return to Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan

‘There’re boys on this beach, which is where I live, who play football with me.
They’re the best footballers I ever saw. And there’s one guy . . .’
    The screen went black.
    Many of the children were standing now, with clenched fists. They knew by instinct that something even more special was about to happen. Sam was rigid.
    The screen lit up again, muddy yellow this time. It was hard to work out what you were supposed to focus on: it looked like the sand. The camera moved and a bent Coke can came into view. The
camera drew back and there was a small, brown foot. A girl’s voice – Millie’s voice – said, quietly, ‘OK, dimwit, go.’
    The foot got under the can and with a flick of the toes rolled it up to shin height. With the instep, the can was passed up onto the knee, where it bounced three times. The camera drew back
further, and Sam saw a long-haired boy of eight or nine years. He was wearing tatty shorts and nothing else. He was concentrating only on the can: it went from knee to knee, to foot to head to
shoulder to knee. The kid spun round and caught it with his heel, knocked it up to his shoulder again, fed it back to the head and knocked it higher and higher, jumping now to get the can two, then
three metres, up off his head. He brought it down to his knee, raised it up and suddenly – just as you’d got used to the momentum – he flung himself on the ground, slashing in an
overhead kick. The can came at you like a missile, your hands flew to your face. It struck the camera lens and the film jarred for a moment. Then it was back on the boy’s feet and this time
he was dribbling a football. Sam wiped his eyes quickly: this was ball-control as he’d dreamed of it.
    The boy’s feet leaped and hopped, blurred in the air, and the football zig-zagged as if it was alive. Alive, but on a wire, it scribbled in the air, those feet conducting it upwards and
sideways. It was gone; it was there; it was still; it was snatched away in a blur of brown legs. Sanchez was trying to tackle the boy, but stood no chance. There was laughter, there was wrestling,
but still the magic feet kept the ball and kept it moving.
    ‘No . . .’ breathed Sam. He had to close his eyes: the light was too bright. He was in the lion’s mouth again.
    Sanchez returned and by this time the whole audience was pressing close to the screen in stunned silence. Sanchez was sitting on a wall and the footballing boy was sitting next to him. Both wore
the bright, wasp colours of the new Ribblestrop kit. The little footballer looked self-conscious, smiling at his toes, peeping at the camera.
    ‘This is Imagio,’ said Sanchez, putting his arm round the boy.
    Imagio grinned and said, ‘Hul-lo,’ shyly.
    ‘And this is the surprise. I hope it’s OK if I say it? My father phoned our headmaster a little time ago, OK? He asked if Imagio could come to the school, ‘cause he
doesn’t go to school out here.’
    ‘Yes,’ whispered the children.
    ‘And we were told, yes . So . . . we got Imagio a blazer. And he’s been having English lessons and he’s really good – aren’t you?’
    Imagio had covered his face with his hands.
    ‘So we want you guys to be good and train hard. I mean, we are the best school, so that’s not a problem. But we are going to have the best football team as well in the whole
country!’
    The children couldn’t contain themselves any more: Anjoli was yelling and jumping up and down; Israel was simply screaming, ‘Yes! Yes!’ over and over again.
    As if he knew, Sanchez spoke up. His voice was loud, his gaze firm: ‘A few days, OK? I know we got a lot on, with nature study and stuff. But, Captain – you keep two places for us,
yes? This term is gonna be . . .’ The noise was deafening. ‘The best!’ were his final words, but nobody heard them. Imagio waved self-consciously and then, as if he could stand
the formality no longer, he put a hand over his friend’s mouth and threw himself backwards