but adds an extra five free minutes to the rental period so I donât have to hurry to where the car is parked.
Which is very kind and friendly. Exactly the sort of thing weâre planning to encourage at the academy.
Then we rent a barbecue. The party supply rental person doesnât give discounts either. Neither does the butcher (sausages) or the supermarket manager (onions, rolls and fizzy drinks).
It doesnât matter. They say no in a friendly way. And at least we get the sausage sizzle set up in time.
âCome on, lads,â calls Uncle Cliff from the academy carpark as the under-fifteens troop off the training pitch. âHave a sausage and a drink, then weâll have a kick-around, just for fun.â
The boys all look at him blankly.
So do their parents.
I can feel my insides going sausage-shaped. This felt like such a good idea. An Aussie-style barbie and kick-around. To remind the academy boys how much better football is when itâs fun. And to get everyone relaxed so Matt can make some friends.
But not one kid picks up a sausage.
Well, one.
âPut it back,â says his mother. âItâs not on the club diet. Iâve got your protein powder waiting at home.â
The boy puts the sausage back and gets into a car with his mother.
I see Ayo heading towards a minibus with Mr Nkrumo.
âAyo,â I yell. âCome and have a sausage.â
Mr Nkrumo says something to Ayo, who looks across at us, gives us an apologetic shrug and gets into the minibus.
A cold grey wind springs up and blows away the yummy sausage and onion smells.
All the other boys and parents are getting into their cars.
Matt, whoâs been hanging back and looking embarrassed, comes over.
âGâday, Matty,â says Uncle Cliff. âHope youâre hungry. Thereâs thirty-six sausages here for the three of us.â
âWhat are you doing?â says Matt. âMost of these kids live miles away. Their parents spend hours driving them here. Nobodyâs got time to hang around for a dopey barbecue.â
I try not to feel hurt. And I hope Uncle Cliff doesnât either. We both know poor Mattâs under a lot of pressure.
Mattâs shoulders droop.
âSorry,â he says, picking up a sausage. âItâs a good barbecue. Iâm just a bit stressed and hyper cos Iâve been given a place in the under-fifteen team against Manchester United on Sunday.â
We both stare at him.
âJudas H brilliant,â I say, giving him a hug. âMatt, youâve done it.â
âRock ânâ roll,â says Uncle Cliff, giving Matt a hug too. âTeam Sutherland.â
âThatâs it,â says a loud voice. âFinish. Pack it up.â
A stern-looking person in a tracksuit is striding towards us across the carpark. Itâs Mr Merchant the head coach.
âWeâre celebrating,â says Uncle Cliff. âHave a sausage. Six if you like.â
Mr Merchant ignores the offer.
âGo and get changed, Matt,â he says.
Matt looks uncertain. Then he heads off to the changing room.
Mr Merchant gives the barbecue a sour look.
âWhen youâve got this unauthorised facility packed away,â he says to Uncle Cliff, âplease regard yourself as banned from the academy grounds.â
We stare at him.
âSo thatâs no to a sausage?â says Uncle Cliff.
âThis club,â says Mr Merchant, âhas just made a significant gesture of faith in Matt. Foolish antics like this are not helping him.â
âAm I banned too?â I say.
Mr Merchant looks at me. He shakes his head.
âYouâre a child,â he says. âYou canât be expected to know any better.â
âThis barbecue was my idea,â I say indignantly.
âExactly,â says Mr Merchant, giving Uncle Cliff and me very stern looks, like he wants to put us off helping Matt for good.
Heâs wasting his time.
When