Free Silent Striker by Pete Kalu

pitch soon lifted. Tiles of green began flying up in the air with the tackles.
    Marcus watched as Mr Vialli paced up and down the opposite touchline in his suit, clipboard a-go-go, delivering instructions, and roaring his son on. Adele was by her dad, doing star jumps every time her brother made a pass. What if he’d been playing? Marcus thought, who would she have supported then? A whole row of Bowker dads were over there, patting players on the back if they came near the touchline. Marcus looked along their own touchline. The stray dog had left. There was nobody but Mr Davies and himself. Would his own dad have turned up if he’d been playing? Marcus asked himself. Fat chance. Adele waved to Marcus. Marcus did a short, embarrassed wave back, hoping no-one saw.
    The referee blew his whistle and called the two captains over. One too many high tackles had gone in, he was warning them, Marcus could tell. The game calmed a little after that, with Bowker taking the upper hand. At half-time it was 0–0.
    Mr Davies gave out orange pieces and told the team off. ‘What’s wrong with you lot? Nobody ate breakfast? Find your “On” button lads. Rocket’s been waiting on the left wing. Bags of space. He’s like a burglar looking at an open window. Give him the swag bag. Tony push up. Defence, you’re sitting so far back you might as well be in bed. This match … ours for the taking. C’mon. Do the business! Marcus, get the water for them, how many times do I need to tell you? Leonard, we’re still in this only because of you. Snap. Bite. Focus. Everyone, more like Lenny!’
    Marcus seethed. Leonard the substitute was now Leonard the main man and he, Marcus, was reduced to handing out water.
    At the start of the second half, Bowker picked up where they left off. They had placed their biggest tackler alongside Anthony Vialli as a minder and, with a nudge here and a push there, the minder stopped Leonard getting his tackles in. Marcus sniggered as he saw Leonard’s frustration rise. With the tactic effective, the Bowker captain was free to distribute the ball where he liked. Marcus admired the precision of Anthony’s play, he never misplaced a pass. The Bowker attacks were relentless. A heavy rain saved Ducie. It pounded the pitch, mixed in with the mud and started floating the grass turfs up again. The only way to get the ball moving was to kick it high in the air, above all the mud. Bowker Vale’s pass-and-move game was useless. The pitch got so bad the referee called a halt and ordered all twenty two players to replace as many of the grass squares back into their holes in the pitch as they could. Then the ref came over to Mr Davies. ‘Mr Davies, I trust the atrocious state of this pitch is not deliberate?’
    ‘No, not … not at all. We had it re-laid especially,’ Mr Davies stammered.
    ‘Tsk. It’s diabolical. I’ll be making a report.’
    Mr Davies muttered to himself as the referee returned to the centre of the pitch. The rain had stopped. The referee did a quick inspection of the repairs, declared himself satisfied and restarted the game with a drop ball. With the pitch restored, Bowker moved the ball around their team like they were one big pinball machine. Leonard charged around uselessly.
    Mr Davies withdrew Jamil from attack to help Leonard get round Anthony’s minder. Tackle after tackle slammed into Anthony, till the Bowker captain was hobbling. Marcus felt a little sorry for him. Horse slammed another tackle in that upended Anthony. It flung him in the air and dumped him hard on his backside. Marcus winced.
    Mr Vialli had his arms out like a scarecrow, then flapped them like a bird, then clutched his chest, looking like his heart had stopped. All the time his mouth was in overdrive: ‘Referee, have you forgotten your cards? That was an ambulance tackle! You’d better have insurance, matey!’ Mr Vialli wagged a finger at the referee. Behind Mr Vialli, Adele giggled and star-jumped. Then she waved to