Free Extra Time by Morris Gleitzman Page B

wrong?’
    â€˜It’s Gazz,’ sobs Terrine. ‘He’s just so unhappy.’
    Mrs Jarvis sits on the other side of Terrine and pats her other arm.
    â€˜I’d offer you some fishcakes to take back for him,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘But I’m sensing this is a bit more serious than that.’
    Terrine nods and sniffs.
    â€˜He’s miserable nearly all the time,’ she says, drying her tears. ‘And he used to be so happy when he started out.’
    Mrs Jarvis nods.
    â€˜I remember,’ she says. ‘A couple of years after he got in the first team, another club offered forty-three million for him. He was that chuffed.’
    â€˜The longer Gazz spends at the top,’ says Terrine, ‘the more anxious and miserable he gets. Specially when the club loses a few matches. You’ve seen Gazz’s den, Mrs J. There’s about eight screens in there. All the big clubs show their games online and Gazz watches them over and over. He’s panicked the club’s going to buy some younger player to replace him. He’s in there for hours most days. It’s like he’s in prison.’
    â€˜Oh, love,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
    â€˜Even my brother’s happier than Gazz,’ says Terrine tearfully. ‘And he’s actually in prison.’
    Mrs Jarvis murmurs sympathetically.
    â€˜Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened,’ says Terrine. ‘The money, the house, the Scrabble nights with Shane Warne. Sometimes I wish Gazz was back playing football on the council estate where he grew up. He was happy then.’
    Mrs Jarvis sighs again. This is the first time I’ve seen her not know what to say. We both do more patting.
    I don’t know what to say either.
    All I can think of is Matt.
    If his dream comes true, in a few years he could be like Gazz.
    I can’t let that happen. I can’t just stand by while Matt becomes a fabulously successful international soccer star and ends up miserable.
    I’ve got to do something.

‘Where’s Matt?’ I say to Ken, which isn’t easy with a mouthful of fake fur.
    I thought Matt was coming here to the changing room where I’m putting on this mascot costume. So the Aussie media could interview us both together before the match starts.
    â€˜Change of plan,’ says Ken. ‘Matt and your Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are in a VIP box up in the stadium.’
    Ken explains there’s another film crew up there with them. The media people want to film Matt and Uncle Cliff’s faces when they see me in this costume for the first time as I go out onto the pitch.
    â€˜They’ll be pretty amazed,’ says Ken.
    I don’t argue. I’m pretty amazed myself. I thought the mascot outfit would be the club shirt and shorts. Maybe with a sash. I had no idea that one of the world’s most important football clubs would have mascots who are creatures made of brightly coloured fluffy fake fur.
    â€˜Looking good,’ says Ken, smiling in through the eye-holes in my furry head.
    I’m the baby mascot. The grown-up mascot, a woman called Trude who’s been doing it for three years, gives me a thumbs up.
    â€˜Nervous?’ asks the media interviewer.
    â€˜A bit,’ I say. ‘But I want to get good at being a mascot so I can do it when my brother Matt’s playing in the team.’
    The interviewer glances at Ken. She doesn’t seem to know what to say next.
    I want to ask her if there’s ever been a manager in the Premier League who was also a mascot. But before I can get the fluff out of my mouth, Ken hurries me and Trude out of the changing room.
    â€˜Five-minute call,’ he says, which must be a technical mascot term.
    I don’t know which kids have been in this suit before, but it smells strange in here. Sort of like old marmalade.
    The players of both teams are lined up in a tunnel that leads out