Free Just for Kicks by Robert Rayner Page A

moving out to the wing to challenge me.
    â€œGo, Big T.,” Mr. Price shouted.
    â€œGo. Go. Go,” Mrs. Barry echoed.
    â€œCome on, Toby,” Brian called urgently from his goal. “Dribble.”
    â€œMa tells me not to because it’s bad manners,” I said.
    Meredith, gathering speed, roared in to tackle me. I tried to kick the ball ahead but it spun off my foot and out of play.
    â€œPathetic,” I heard one of the Pleasant Valley parents laugh.
    At halftime we gathered around our coach. Dark clouds now filled the sky, except for a thin strip of blue far out beyond the harbour, where the sun, glittering on the sea, made the light at the Harbour Field seem even gloomier.
    â€œThey’re only leading 2–1, so you’re still in the game,” Coach Fleet reminded us. He beckoned me aside. “Do you remember me saying it was time for all of you to get serious about your soccer?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo why aren’t you getting serious, Toby?”
    â€œI didn’t think you were serious.”
    â€œYou don’t need to joke about your soccer ability.”
    â€œI haven’t got any soccer ability to joke about.”
    â€œThere you go again. Do you know why you wisecrack about your soccer?”
    I looked at him. I looked at my feet.
    He went on. “If it’s a joke, it doesn’t matter — right? If you mess up, everyone’s going to be laughing, anyway. But are they laughing at your fooling around — or at you?”
    â€œMy friends wouldn’t laugh at me,” I said quickly.
    â€œBut they’re not the ones who make you nervous, are they? It’s people like me, and the Pleasant Harbour supporters. Did you hear what one of them called you?”
    â€œIt’s not the first time I’ve been called that.”
    â€œThe way you protect yourself against people like me and them — people you feel threatened by — is you wisecrack and fool around. But you don’t have to. You’re not pathetic. Be confident and proud of your ability.”
    I looked at him and nodded.
    â€œNow here’s a tip I learned from a centre forward I used to play with in the Canadian League.” He beckoned me closer and whispered, concluding, “When you see the chance — try it.”
    â€œHow will I know when?”
    â€œI’ll give you a signal — like this.” He flung his arm sideways, pointing.
    It was near the end of the game, and we were still a goal down, when Coach Fleet gave me the signal. I was near the corner of the Pleasant Harbour penalty area. Shay passed to me and, as I trapped the ball under my foot, I saw our coach pointing frantically. I glanced around. There were no defenders behind me, but Quan and Meredith guarded each side, and Olaf was poised in his goal. I set off running diagonally across the field. Quan and Meredith moved with me, closing down the space on each side. I gathered speed. They kept pace with me. I put my foot on the ball and left it behind me but kept running. The defenders stayed with me, just as Coach Fleet said they would. From the corner of my eye I saw Olaf moving across his goal as he, too, followed my direction. I whirled around, ran back to the ball, and fired it towards the opposite corner of the net. Meredith and Quan slithered to a stop. Olaf scrambled desperately to change direction, but the ball soared past him.
    I’d scored — not with my bum or my stomach, but a real goal. A surge of power shot through me. I wasn’t Toby the plodding, wisecracking soccer clod, but Toby — striker supremo!
    Coach Fleet jumped in the air. “Wonderful goal, Toby!”
    Shay slapped me on the back and said, “David Beckham couldn’t have done it better.”
    Julie and Linh-Mai hugged me.
    Brian jumped and swung from the crossbar of his goal. “Yeeay, Big T.”
    With the scores level at 2–2, it seemed as if we were heading for a tie.