Soccerheads, Page 2

And girls too.

  And I’m the weakest link!

  As the Wanderers walked onto the other end of the pitch, Hammo told me about their number eleven from last year and his tricky footwork.

  ‘Ya gonna have to shut him down Sammy. That’s what we need ya ta do.’

  This didn’t sound like the easiest game to start the season with.

  Hang in there Sammy.

  After the warm up Mr C got us together for a team talk and ran us through the game plan. They call him Mr C because he has an enormously long name that no one can pronounce.

  He’s never played big-time soccer, but sure knows a lot about the game, much more than my last coach and he has some fancy footwork on the ball. He tells us we punch above our weight, which I think means we play better than many other teams in our league.

  ‘Righto Uni’s, you remember how they dusted us two-nil last time we played them… well, things will be different,’ he stated confidently.

  ‘Now Maggie, it’ll be very important for you today to do your stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’ asked Maggie, downplaying her ‘whoosh’ tactics.

  ‘You know, with that forward of theirs. Look over there and check out the kid with the mop on his head,’ he said, pointing at one of their players doing some fancy footwork in his warm up.

  Well the kid did have a lot of hair on his head. That’s why they called themselves the Woolly Wanderers.

  ‘Even before he gets the ball, get behind him, and when you get that ball, we need Izzy and Buck right in behind you … make a triangle.’

  ‘Buck, are you listening?’

  ‘Yer, triangle. Got it Mr C.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Izzy with her soft voice.

  Buck is the silent type around adults, only saying something when he really needs to.

  ‘Now our formation today is four, four, two. We have to stop them coming forward. Defend, defend, defend.’

  ‘Sammy, I’ll leave you on the bench for starters. You can watch how they play. Then I’ll sub you into your favourite position. Right back. Right?’

  ‘Right, thanks Mr C,’ I replied.

  Suits me fine Mr C. That would give some time to recover from his team talk. Oh man, I was going all dizzy in the eyeballs trying to keep up with the explanation. I had to keep up, or you know what could happen!

  Formations.

  Instructions.

  Everything sounded serious.

  Our number seven right-winger Lefty was coming back into midfield. Everyone calls him that because he never uses his left foot, and Lefty prefers that name to his real name.

  I could hear Lefty mumbling about how it didn’t sound like much fun, probably because he wasn’t playing up front today. The thing is, if you start getting whipped with too many goals, you can start to feel lower than a lizard’s gizzards.

  I learnt that one at my new school. Lizard’s gizzards. I like it.

  There would only be Sofie and Sunwell up front. Sofie is as fast as Buck but she can also dribble and sidestep. She is a handy left-winger wearing the number eleven jersey.

  Sunwell is just as fast too, and uses a tricky two-step shuffle. He’s our striker and wears the number nine jersey. He dribbles forward, does a step over without a touch, his dangly legs a blur and then darts to one side in a flash.

  The defender’s left there shaking his head, sometimes even falling over as Sunwell tricks them into going in the wrong direction. It’s pretty fancy.

  Our team manager Mrs C (yep, you guessed it) got us signed in on the team sheet and then we had our huddle.

  Huddle?

  That’s where we make a close circle and someone says something useful to get us working together. It was Maggie’s turn and she said ‘All for one and one for all.’ I think she got that from a movie but it sounded good. Maybe she has a secret job too! It was pretty fancy.

  Lining up in our positions, the shrill ‘ddddddrrrr’ of the referee’s whistle signalled we were away.

  First half.

  Clearance after clearance. The Woollies came at the Soccerheads like express trains.

  Passes to Buck or Sunwell were quickly intercepted, turning into one of those games when the ball goes back and forth without getting anywhere near the goal. Groan.

  They stacked a heap of defenders back in their half, making us attack against a brick wall of purple shirts.

  Then it happened. Just before half time.

  Two things.

  First thing,

  Mr C subbed me on.

  I had Hammo’s ‘Ya gonna have to shut him down Sammy,’ rattling around in my head.

  Second thing.

  Bang. I’m in the thick of it in two seconds.

  First thing that happens, their number eleven is coming straight at me with the ball, just like an express train, only faster. OK, here goes. I ran up and reached my leg out across to where he lunged with the ball. One hundred percent commitment.

  Got him. My touch tapped the ball out.

  ‘Good one Sammy.’ I heard Hammo from behind.

  The throw in got kicked over the line and in another two seconds Giorgio cleared a ball that landed beautifully just in front me, away from the Woollies. As I turned with the ball, I heard Lefty call out.

  ‘Sammy, quick. I’m free.’

  Nothing like Mooshy United. All I got there was ‘pass it here dipstick, give us tha ball.’ It wasn’t much fun.

  Back to the action.

  I’m right footed but I used my left foot to make the pass. I have my Dad to thank for that, always making me practice with both feet.

  Lefty didn’t even stop the ball, seeing Hammo in the gap and kicking straight off the pass, with his right foot of course.

  Hammo controlled the ball with one touch and was about to let rip from the half way,

  Just then, the kid with the mop did a dirty tactic. He came in behind Hammo and tripped him up.

  ‘What the heck,’ spluttered Hammo, bouncing bolt upright and clenching his fists in readiness to throw a punch at the mop. Things were about to go south.

  I quickly distracted him.

  ‘Hammo, don’t …just take the kick …quick …they’re not all ready to defend yet,’ I hurried him as I saw the back line of Wanderers looking disorganised.

  Hammo unleashed his ammo, thundering home a powerful volley, an awesome missile lifting and sailing over two lines of defence.

  Their goalie missed the ball completely as it drifted into the net. Oh man, what a shot! It was pretty fancy.

  We didn’t celebrate too much with the goal. Mr C says ‘Don’t get ahead of yourselves. It’s not over until the final whistle.’ There was a long way to go in the game.

  Second half.

  The Wanderers got a bit wiser and stacked their defence with a wall of purple, an impassable barricade. Almost.

  Sunwell had it sorted just before full time as he came in faking a hard shot and instead chipping a ball that sailed neatly over the wall and into the top corner, curling away from the keeper’s blocked view. Two-nil. We were off to a good start.

  Ruff let out two ‘Woofs’ as we walked off the pitch, and then checked out a girl dog walking past. Two woofs, two nil.

  ‘Great pass Sammy,’ said Lefty as we walked off the field.

  ‘Thanks Lefty.’

  No one ever used to say anything to me at Mooshy. I hope it was a good pass.

  Just then, I was beside Hammo as he had a dig at Giorgio again.

  The nutso in him was coming out. The girls were right.

  ‘Just as well ya didn’t have to do much mate,’ he chirped to Giorgio, making a gone to sleep gesture with his hands.

  Giorgio scowled back a stern look.

  ‘You not happy with me. You find anotherrrr team Hammo, with yourrr ammo. You go to k@#$%&!’ replied Giorgio, using some Romanian curse word.

  Hammo blinked open eyed in surprise.

  Everyone knows Giorgio is a good keeper. He probably couldn’t wor
k out why Hammo was chipping him that day, and neither could I. Hammo can be careless and cold sometimes, teasing people just for fun. He just goes nutso. Just like the girls said he would.

  I wanted to let him have it, tell him that sort of talk doesn’t help, but he might see me as ruining his fun and then getting annoyed with me.

  Become less of my friend.

  I had only known him a few weeks. Things were all new. I should have said something.

  Ah, you wimp Sammy.

  So much for my job.

  Hammo’s my best friend; a funny dude that will help you, stick up for you and share things with you; but Hammo also has a mean streak.

  That was something I had to work on. Maybe I could invite Giorgio over to my place with Hammo.

  We are the Soccerheads.

  3.Don’t just boot it

  Mr C has some strange ideas, but they all make sense in the end. He always comes along to training with a backpack filled with surprises. Not like my other coach at Mooshy United. Sometimes he didn’t turn up at all!

  Mr C brought along a soccer poster of famous players; Socceroos and Matildas (you know, the girls national soccer team). I’ve got three different posters above my bed. Two of the Socceroos (Tim Cahill’s in both) and one of the A-League player Abbas doing a floating header that scored a goal. It’s pretty fancy.

  My best poster is the Socceroos team photo when they beat Germany, even though it was a friendly, which means not in a competition for points.

  Sometimes there are treats in Mr C’s bag, like chocolates that go to the player that trains the hardest. Sometimes, it’s just a really weird thing.

  ‘Just keep going with your juggling until I get this ready Uni’s,’ he called out from the edge of the pitch.

  My juggling record is fourteen bounces, which is okay I suppose, but Izzy is unreal. She can do over FIFTY bounces; head, shoulder, both feet, knees. I never get tired of watching her.

  The pitch was all thick and spongy from not being mown and my feet were getting all caught up in the tufted grass. I couldn’t even get the ball to roll properly. Not Izzy. She pulled the ball onto her foot with zero effort and started juggling. Ping, ping, ping. Unreal.

  I need to practice more at home. Maybe I should invite her over to my place for a play and to show me some tricks, but I’m not sure what my Soccerhead mates would say.

  Mr C called us over for a talk on some team tactics, taking a map of the world out of his backpack.

  ‘Now what do you notice about this map?’ he asked us as we huddled around. Giorgio was the first to answer.

  ‘Romania. There is Romania,’ he burst out, pointing to the country he had come from.

  ‘Who cares? Only Romeos come from Romania,’ muttered Hammo under his breath.

  I gave him a little elbow dig in his ribs.

  ‘Ouch,’ he snapped, looking at me like he wanted to bash me.

  Then Sunwell saw something familiar.

  ‘Zimbabwe. I come from there,’ as he pointed to a country in Africa.

  There were these strange little stickers over the map, but only on some of the countries.

  ‘Now why have I put those stickers on the map?’ asked Mr C.

  Silence. Suddenly, Izzy’s eyes lit up. She knows a lot about soccer. Her Dad used to play for a big team in Sydney and always watches it on TV. She knows most of the players in most teams, in Australia and overseas.

  ‘They’re the world cup winners,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye and a bit of a smile.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr C.

  Well done Izzy.

  ‘Look at some of the countries that have won it a few times. Which ones are they?’

  ‘Brazil, Italy, Argentina,’ rattled off Rado, but it didn’t sound like that as he said the names.

  Rado is from another country called Croatia and he has an accent. It sounded like ‘Brrrrazeeel, Iiiiitallie, Aaaarrrrggentiiina.’

  Rado is our number three, and has no fear of heading the ball, even if it’s in missile mode. Now I knew he had a good head for other things too.

  ‘I think Holland has been in the final a few times,’ added Izzy. Smart girl.

  ‘And why do these countries keep winning the world cup?’ asked Mr C.

  ‘Because they’re good,’ replied Lefty.

  ‘Blind Freddy can see that Lefty,’ said Bella, our number ten midfielder.

  ‘Who’s Freddy? He doesn’t play for us,’ replied Lefty, not really getting the comment.

  Bella just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  ‘They are crazy about the game,’ explained Mr C, ‘but they all pass the ball lots, they don’t do lots of big kicks and most of all they don’t try to be heroes, you know …trying to dribble through all of the other team.’

  ‘What happens if you do lots of big kicks?’ he asked, looking at each of us fair in the eyes and wanting a respectable answer.

  ‘You lose the ball,’ Maggie replied in a flash.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Small kicks, lots of passing, run into a space and rely on each other to be there for the ball. Keep your triangles.’

  It sounded so simple!

  Control, short passes, moving into a space. Cones, balls, white lines. One pass here. One trap there. Man-oh-man!

  ‘Come on, you have to trap that ball … get it under control,’ he called as he moved among us in the drill.

  I was getting all jittery from Mr C watching me. Don’t muck it up Sammy. You could be gone any time.

  My brain went internally berserk, jumping around inside my skull in fifty directions from all the instructions.

  I was spent after that. Low on energy, lower than a lizard’s gizzards.

  Just when we thought we would have an easy game of six on six (with Ruff on my team), Mr C announced that we were going to play the older Uni’s led by Jabba in a scratch match. I’ll tell you about Jabba in a minute.

  Feelings of exhaustion and near death vanished. I had to be ready. My whole future with the Soccerheads depended on it.

  Older players,

  Bigger players.

  Better players.

  Come on Sammy, you’ve got to show what you can do here.

  Hammo puffed out his chest, all sway and confidence as he readied himself for kick off. I tried the same. It helped.

  We had barely started when Sofie and Bella combined with a ‘one-two’ and Bella chipped it over a defender’s head to Maggie who had her back to the goal.

  Back to goal?

  No problem.

  She scissor kicked it beautifully just over the goalie’s head and into the net. Pretty fancy.

  That sent Ruff into a doggie spin, looking like a bucking horse with a dog’s head. It’s happened before and it means that Ruff is about to do something big very soon.

  No, no, not a big one. Something strange, awesome, incredible; almost unbelievable.

  Jabba’s gang fired up and wanted revenge but they kept bashing long balls straight to us.

  Jabba is called that for a reason. A very good reason.

  ‘Come on Uni’s. Pass it here. Over to Huey on the wing. Oh come on, not so hard. Forward just a bit. Wally, fix up your laces. Oh gees I’m a bit hungry. Is it half time yet?’

  You get the picture?

  He never stops talking.

  He never shuts up.

  It went on and on, and then ‘Boink’ Jabba copped a beauty in the back of the head, a misfired ball from Hammo’s ammo.

  Jabba was too busy talking and not looking at the play. That ‘Boink’ shut him up… for two seconds and off he went again.

  ‘Here Jenny, over to me. Oh gees my head hurts. OK, here it comes. Oahh my head.’

  ‘That might knock some sense into ya,’ Hammo said with a giggle as he jogged past Jabba.

  That didn’t sit too well with Jabba. He ran up to Hammo and gave him a push into the ground. Jabbba’s bigger size and weight sent Hammo down with
a thud.

  Hammo shook himself and staggered to his feet, clenching his fists. Play stopped. A fight. Everyone was waiting for a fight.

  ‘What was that for?’ he hollered innocently.

  ‘Hammo. Jabba. Over here,’ called Mr C.

  ‘But I didn’t do anything,’ reasoned Hammo as he grudgingly walked off the field, where Mr C sinbinned them.

  Ruff was practicing doggie spins near the goal. Look out. Something big was coming.

  The game continued. Tik. Tik. Tik.

  My turn. Watch this Mr C.

  I saw an opening ahead and lofted a pass over the head of a defender to Lefty on the right wing.

  Lefty then crossed into the box for Rado, who came from nowhere for a diving header, launching himself like a torpedo. Oh man, he has a hard head. Bang! That took the score to 2 – 0.

  I had to look across at Mr C. Did he see it? He wasn’t looking at me. That was a good pass Mr C, good enough to keep me on the team.

  Just when the score was looking good, their playmaker Tran set up a goal, sliding the ball into goal after connecting from a long pass. Now it was 2 – 1.

  We were too slow to regroup at kick off and Tran scored another just a minute later. Oh, no, now the score was 2 – 2. Things were not looking so easy.

  ‘Two minutes left,’ called out Mr C.

  Ruff’s ears pricked up.

  A rare event.

  Ruff ran into the goalmouth just as Lefty crossed another one, and in the rush to escape a crowded scuffle of legs and boots, did his own version of a Maggie scissor kick.

  A combination of fortune and fate saw Ruff socking the ball with his back paws into the net, launching his hind legs into thin air and connecting with the ball. Their goalie stood there gobsmacked with his mouth wide open as a buzzy fly flew into it just as Ruff did his stuff.

  Final score 3-2 to us. Every team needs a dog like Ruff.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Jabba, stomping on the half way line, wanting to play on.

  ‘Less talk, more action Jabba,’ Hammo replied, probably thinking he got one back on Jabba for the push.

  Ruff let out three woofs (three goals) as a final comment.