as-salam,’ replied his friends cheerfully.
‘Got some exciting news,’ said Junayd, trying to sound mysterious. ‘Guess what it is.’
‘Ha! As if you can wait to tell us!’ laughed Ali, who knew that Junayd could never keep exciting news to himself. ‘Who’s the new teacher?’ he added, deliberately frustrating his friend by making him wait just a bit longer to reveal all.
‘I believe we’re about to be enlightened,’ said Abdullah, as the man began to write the word ‘Mr’ on the board.
‘Mr Ball!’ announced Mason from the back with an exaggerated chuckle. ‘His name’s Mr Ball!’
‘Hey, when did you learn to read, Mase?’ smirked Conor, earning himself a thump on the arm. ‘Ouch!’
‘Hey Sir, what’s your first name? Foot?’ chimed in Mutib.
‘Nah, it’s Beach!’ sniggered Conor, rubbing his arm, which was still throbbing.
‘Oh dear,’ announced Abdullah. ‘It’s going to be one of those lessons.’
‘If I could have your attention, please,’ said Mr Ball nervously.
‘If I could have your attention please!’ mimicked Mason.
‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ continued Mr Ball, looking rather cross and somewhat flustered.
‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ repeated Mutib from behind his hand.
Ali turned round and rolled his eyes at the three class clowns, wishing Mr Rose were here. He never had such problems, even with troublemakers. Ali wanted to say something, but it was difficult, treading a line between doing the right thing and being seen as the ‘teacher’s pet’.
‘All right you lot,’ he said, trying to sound casual and unruffled, ‘Save your comedy routine for “Britain’s Got No Talent”, yeah?’ He winked for good measure, so they would know he wasn’t showing them any serious disrespect.
‘Well, you’d know all about that, scally Ali,’ growled Mutib, but the others only pulled faces. They couldn’t say much about talent to the most skilful footballer in Year Nine.
Grateful for silence at last, Mr Ball opened his mouth to speak again. At that moment, the classroom door swung open and Ali saw a face he knew, but couldn’t name. Abdullah did it for him. ‘Amir Zidane!’
Amir looked over. He recognised Abdullah, who had come to him after football and congratulated him on ‘39 completed dribbles, an individual Sunday Practice record’. He nodded to Abdullah then saw the two boys next to him. They looked familiar too. He realised that one of them was the football coach’s brother, so he made up his mind to sit with them, for today at least.
‘And you are?’ enquired Mr Ball, trying to sound more assertive than previously.
Amir pointed nonchalantly at Abdullah. ‘Like he said. Amir Zidane.’
He took a seat, nodding coolly at Mason and his friends before he did so. Mason nodded back and the others followed his lead, though they were suspicious of his connection to Ali and his friends.
‘Why’s he sitting with that lot?’ said Mutib disapprovingly, loud enough for them to hear.
‘Amir. Sounds Islamish. Must be a Muslim thing,’ suggested Conor.
‘Uh? I’m Muslim,’ protested Mutib, watching Abdullah as he flicked through his lesson notes from the previous week. ‘But you wouldn’t catch me sitting with Geek of the Week.’ Mason and Conor chuckled. This time Ali pretended that he hadn’t heard.
Geography was the last lesson of the day, and the boys were relieved when it was over.
‘I hope Mr Rose is going to be back next lesson,” moaned Junayd. ‘I don’t like substitute teachers.’
‘What was your last school like?’ Ali asked Amir.
‘School’s school,’ replied Amir dismissively.
‘I’m guessing you were in the school football team though, right?’ asked Junayd.
‘Course, man!’ said Amir, suddenly animated. ‘We had a great team. Won the district cup for the last two years.’
‘D’you play striker?’ asked Ali.
‘Nah, midfield. Could’ve played striker but we had two guys up front from Premier League academies, so the teacher picked them. I was better than them though. They were just lucky to get spotted. Besides,’ added Amir, ‘I like midfield – like to get some tough tackles in.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Junayd, contemplating who would have to make way for him. ‘Midfield?’ he repeated, with a sudden dryness in his throat. ‘I didn’t know you played… there.’
‘I can play anywhere. I could even play in goal. Probably better than that goalie on the Blue team yesterday.’
‘Better than Hasan?’ snorted Abdullah. ‘Unlikely!’
‘What would you know?’ demanded Amir, his eyes narrowing. ‘Being “King of the Clipboard” doesn’t mean anything. You ever kicked a football in your life?’
‘Yes,’ answered Abdullah truthfully. ‘My first…’
‘He’s not dissing you,’ Ali intervened, anticipating that Abdullah might be about to share some statistics on his personal footballing history. ‘It’s just that Hasan has been a brilliant goalie for us. He’s a hard act to follow, you know.’
‘Hmmph,’ scoffed Amir doubtfully. ‘Anyway, this is boring. I’m going. Laters.’
‘See you late…’ Ali began.
‘Oh, wait!’ cried Junayd suddenly. ‘I completely forgot!’
‘What?’ asked Ali.
‘Whitehaven! Football match! This Sunday! There’s a match! Practice for the Hilsham tournament. This Sunday! We’re playing! In a match! On Sunday!’
‘I think we may infer,’ said Abdullah calmly, ‘that there is a match on Sunday, against Whitehaven, by way of preparation for the Hilsham tournament.’
Amir looked contemplative for a moment. ‘Hmm. Interesting. I wonder where the coach is going to play me. I guess we’ll find out on Sunday.’
He walked away, leaving the boys alone with their thoughts.
4
The Prince Steals the Show
Ibrahim was dreaming of Hilsham again.
With the tournament almost upon them once more, the previous year’s action sometimes transformed into the upcoming event. Right now, Ali had the ball close to the touchline. An opposition defender had moved within range of Shabab’s tricky winger, and Ali was daring him to
