love for your brother what you love for your…’
A sharp knock at the door stopped him once more. ‘Yes!’ he called in a somewhat exasperated voice. ‘What is it now? Come in!’
The door opened and a tall, shaven-headed man stepped into the room. Under his jacket, he wore a sparkling blue Chelsea shirt, which sloped over his belly. Behind the man followed an athletic-looking boy of equal height, also wearing a Chelsea shirt and sports trousers. He glanced coolly at the boys as the man introduced himself.
‘Imam Munieb? As-salamu ‘alaykum. I’m Sofiane Zidane. And this is my son, Amir.’
Imam Munieb rose from his seat to shake Mr Zidane’s outstretched hand.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah,’ he replied warmly. ‘You are very welcome. And Amir,’ he added, shaking the son’s hand. ‘Are you visiting us?’
‘No, Imam,’ said Mr Zidane before Amir could answer. ‘We’ve just moved here. I have a job in the city and this is a good base for us.’
‘And Amir,’ asked the Imam. ‘You will be going to school?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Mr Zidane immediately. ‘Amir will be going to Brunswick. He’ll be in Year Nine.’
‘We go to Brunswick!’ called Ali, pointing to himself, Junayd and Abdullah in quick succession.
‘Yeah, we’re all in Year Nine,’ confirmed Junayd. Amir nodded, but said nothing.
‘Oh, very good, excellent,’ said Mr Zidane. ‘So you know some people already, Amir.’ He turned back to Imam Munieb and the two began to converse more discreetly.
Ibrahim had been admiring Amir’s pristine sportswear. ‘You play football?’ he whispered.
Amir’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Yeah!’ he replied.
‘We have a club every Sunday, after madrasah,’ Ibrahim told him. ‘You should come. There’s a tournament in a few weeks too – we won it last year!’
‘Sweet,’ said Amir, though he didn’t look particularly impressed.
‘Yeah, we destroyed the others,’ Ibrahim went on. Exaggerating to win the newcomer’s approval. ‘Taught the favourites a lesson in the final.’
‘Well,’ interrupted Abdullah, ‘Sedgecombe did have 81 per cent possession…’
‘What position do you play?’ asked Amir.
‘Striker,’ beamed Ibrahim. ‘I was the top…’
‘Yeah? Me too. Well, forward… or midfield, y’know. So if I join you guys, you’re my competition, right?’
Ibrahim was momentarily silenced by this thought. He looked Amir up and down. Was he likely to be any good? He couldn’t be sure but he was talking the talk. Ibrahim could do that too, of course.
‘Ha!’ he resumed with an air of bravado. ‘You won’t find it easy to break into the side. I don’t think Coach Saleem’ll change a winning team! But don’t let me put you off,’ he added.
‘You haven’t,’ said Amir dismissively. The boys fell silent as the adults’ conversation continued.
‘So, Mr Zidane,’ said Imam Munieb, gesturing towards his own chair, ‘If Amir would like to stay, he is welcome, as you are too. And if he would like to play football at eleven thirty, I’m sure Coach Saleem will be very happy to meet him!’
2
Amir Makes an Impression
‘Phew,’ breathed Ibrahim with relief, as the wind slammed the mosque door shut behind him. ‘That wasn’t too bad!’
‘Last chance, he said!’ Junayd reminded him. ‘Why are you always late anyway?’
Ibrahim smiled nervously. ‘Well. Actually, I’ve…’
‘I can’t wait for the Hilsham sixes!’ interrupted Junayd enthusiastically, oblivious to the words of his friend. ‘Do you think we can win it again?’
‘Yeah man, definitely! Maybe we can stay fit for the final this time as well!’
Coach Saleem had picked two teams for a practice game. The best defenders were on one side and the strongest attackers on the other. The Blue Bibs featured Khalid, Shabab’s inspirational captain, his trusty defensive partner Yunus and Hasan, goalkeeper extraordinaire. The problem was, hardly any of the Blues had touched the ball yet.
‘Is the ball glued to his foot?’ asked Ismail, as Amir waltzed through the blue defence, before drawing Hasan from his goal, and slotted the ball perfectly between his legs.
‘Er, no,’ observed Faris, with grudging admiration.
‘Come on, Blues!’ called Coach Saleem, grasping another football in his hand. ‘Are you gonna get that ball off him, or do you want this one to play with?’ At Saleem’s side, Mr Zidane chuckled, his look of intense concentration relaxing momentarily.
‘We’re trying,’ grumbled Khalid through gritted teeth. Shabab’s captain enjoyed a challenge more than anyone, but he had spent the last fifteen minutes completely mesmerised by Amir’s bewildering array of skills, and was beginning to lose his cool. Realising this, he whispered a prayer and tried to think positively.
‘What’s the score, Coach?’ the Red’s captain Junayd asked his brother. Sensitive to the Blues’ predicament, Coach Saleem subtly held up five fingers on one hand and made a ‘zero’ with his thumb and forefinger on the other. He shrugged sympathetically.
‘Five-nil,’ stated Abdullah bluntly, looking up momentarily from the clipboard on which he was frantically scribbling.
‘Mashallah,’ exclaimed Saleem. ‘Your son is extremely skilful, Mr Zidane.’
‘Yes. We’ve worked very hard over the years. We’ve had a few professional scouts interested in us, but, well…’ Mr Zidane paused for a moment, ‘we just haven’t been offered the right deal, I suppose.’
Saleem was slightly surprised to hear Amir’s father refer to ‘us’, but he let it pass.
‘You know,’ he added, ‘we’ve got a tournament coming up in a few weeks. We won it last year. I’m guessing Amir would be up for that?’
‘We’ll play,’ said Mr Zidane decisively. ‘We’ll be looking to make an impression. I expect there’ll be a few scouts there, at least. Hopefully we’ll catch their eye.’
Ibrahim had seen little of the ball, despite his role as striker on the Red team. Feeling somewhat redundant, he ambled over to the wing for a quick word with Ali.
‘This new kid,’ Ibrahim began, nodding his head in Amir’s direction, ‘he’s going to want to play in the Hilsham tournament, right?’
