marked a direct line between the winger and Ibrahim.
‘Pass! Pass the ball, Ali!’ yelled Ibrahim, suddenly anxious at seeing the triangle. ‘I’m open! Pass it along the… hippodrome… no, the wotsisname… hippopota… the long side of the triangle!’
Ali lifted his head up and looked straight at Ibrahim. But Ali didn’t look like Ali any more. He was wearing someone else’s face.
‘I said pass the ball, Amir!’ screamed Ibrahim. ‘Pass it! I’m open!’
Amir smirked, and, to Ibrahim’s delight, slid a low cross perfectly along the neon line. Ibrahim steadied himself and took aim. Suddenly, it was as if Ibrahim had known all along that this was the tournament final, and his heart began to pinball around his chest as he realised he was about to score the winning goal.
Just as the ball was about to reach him, a boot arrived out of nowhere and drove the ball hard into the net. Bewildered, Ibrahim looked up from his feet to see a boy dressed not in Shabab al-Nasr green, but in an immaculate Chelsea shirt and sports trousers, racing away to celebrate his goal. Reaching the Shabab fans, he turned round and pointed toward the name on the back of his shirt. How had he got there?
‘A-mir! A-mir! A-mir!’ chanted the crowd.
‘A-MIR!’ shouted Ibrahim, suddenly bolt upright in bed.
‘Yes, beta? What is it? What’s the matter?’ came his mother’s voice from the doorway.
‘Ammi?’
‘Yes? You were crying for me to come here. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
‘Was I? Did I? Oh, er, sorry, Ammi. Just a bad dream. I’m OK.’
‘OK, beta,’ yawned his mother.
‘Just a bad dream,’ repeated Ibrahim to himself, as she closed the door and left him in the darkness.
When Ibrahim next awoke it was to stop the incessant beeping of his father’s alarm clock. Having found his way to bed very late the night before, he had set it so that he could rise early for breakfast, followed by a leisurely walk to the mosque, arriving well before madrasah began.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mr Bateman, who was applying a new coat of paint to the garden gate and almost dropped his brush when he saw Ibrahim approach. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Don’t tell me the clocks have gone forward!’
‘No,’ smiled Ibrahim.
‘Well now,’ said Mr Bateman, ‘Let’s hear the latest on this football team. Think we’ve got a chance of winning the trophy again this year?’
‘Inshallah, but it will be tough,’ nodded Ibrahim. ‘Sedgecombe Shuttles have won the league again this season. They’ll be out for revenge too, as we beat them last year.’
‘Same team as last time, is it?’ probed Mr Bateman.
‘Er, yeah, I suppose so,’ replied Ibrahim, hoping to avoid the subject of Amir.
‘Ah, but what about your new signing?’ asked Mr Bateman slyly. He intended to test his theory that some of the boys would see Amir as a threat.
‘Who? Oh, you mean Amir?’
‘Yes, Amir! “The Prince”, so my online translator tells me! I understand his performances on the pitch are rather regal too… think he could be crowned the tournament’s star player?’
Ibrahim felt annoyed. He had geared himself up to prove a point today about his own ability, and hearing all about Amir from someone who had never seen him play was particularly frustrating.
‘He’ll have to get in the team first,’ he replied, with an air of defiance.
Mr Bateman picked up on Ibrahim’s feelings. He had his answer. ‘Good lad,’ he said with a wink. ‘Go and remind Coach Saleem why you were top scorer last year. And the rest of us; I’m coming to watch too, you know!’
Pleased with this encouragement, Ibrahim flashed him a smile and continued up the hill to the mosque. He couldn’t help worrying though. What if his name was not on Coach Saleem’s team sheet?
After madrasah, the boys almost ran the short distance to Radwell Gardens. Amir strolled along casually, taking it all in his stride.
‘Steady, brothers,’ cautioned Saleem as he tossed out the Shabab al-Nasr kit. ‘You’ll have to be careful with it. We may have…’
He was interrupted by the loud sound of ripping fabric. Ibrahim peered at his armpit through the hole that he had just created as he tried to put his arms through the sleeves.
‘…a problem.’
‘Er, sorry, Coach…’ began Ibrahim, hot with embarrassment.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Saleem with a grimace. ‘I should have realised that you guys would have grown.’
‘No problems here, Coach!’ said Faris cheerfully. ‘This thing was way too big for me last year!’ Faris was the only player whose shirt fitted him well.
‘We’ll have to get some new ones done, I suppose,’ continued Saleem. ‘Hopefully in time for the second warm-up game.’
‘Second warm-up game?!’ repeated the boys in surprise.
‘That’s right,’ smiled Saleem. ‘Old Roar Rovers, next week! You do know it’s only a fortnight till the tournament, right?’
‘Coach!’ called Ali. ‘What’s the team?’
‘Ah yes,’ replied Saleem. ‘Well, the good news for Ibrahim…’ Ibrahim’s eyes opened wide with expectation. ‘…is that he doesn’t need to worry about that hole in his armpit. At least, not to begin with. Faris is starting up front today.’
‘Faris?!’ exclaimed Ibrahim, before he quickly added: ‘Amir’s not playing striker?’
‘No, Coach Ibrahim,’ said Saleem, smiling but strict at the same time. ‘Amir is going to play in midfield with Junayd. The team in full is: Hasan in goal, obviously… Ismail and Yunus at the back… Amir in midfield with Junayd – you’re captain, bruv – and Faris, striker. Khalid, Ibrahim and Ali start as subs. Any questions? No? Good. Warm up, brothers. Start with a couple of laps.’
Buoyed by their inclusion in the team, the selected six started running immediately around the perimeter of the pitch. The three substitutes looked at each other, somewhat bewildered, and then set off after them.
‘This is Coach Saleem’s new team then?’ wondered Ibrahim aloud.
‘Maybe,’ replied Ali, who had been completely unprepared for watching from the sidelines. ‘You injured, Khalid?’ he asked.
‘Nah, course not!’ said Khalid, suddenly noticing the concerned looks on his friends’ faces. ‘I mean, alhamdulillah, I’m in good shape. Hey, cheer up! You don’t think Coach Saleem’s going to try to win the tournament without us three, do you?’
Ibrahim
