leader, arguably worth his place in the team for this quality alone.
Nevertheless, both boys continued to turn the situation over in their minds. The wind had been taken out of Ibrahim’s sails. He had set out this morning to repair his reputation after last week’s unfortunate episode with the tree. Being left out of the team felt like a kick in the teeth, even if it meant nothing. Frowning, Ibrahim put his hand over his exposed armpit and hugged himself.
For Ali, being excluded from the team had come as a total shock. There was no one in the team who could play his role: the tricky winger with the cultured right foot. It seemed that Coach Saleem disagreed.
Whitehaven, kitted out in blue, arrived in their minibus. They belonged to a league and looked confident as they started to warm-up.
‘Hey,’ noted Ibrahim. ‘I just realised. This is our first ever home game!’
‘Yeah,’ said Ali. ‘Another reason I wish I was playing.’
Saleem shook hands with Whitehaven’s coach and agreed that they would referee a half of the game each. Shabab’s coach then darted over to each player to brief him individually on what he wanted to see from him in the match.
His words were largely irrelevant; this was to be ‘The Amir Show’.
At the kick-off, Amir immediately tackled a Whitehaven midfielder, and jinked his way towards their goal. Cutting inside one defender, he then attempted to steal a yard on another player by pushing the ball ahead of himself and bursting after it. His opponent had anticipated Amir’s move, and kept pace with him. The first defender hurried back to lend support, and suddenly Amir had two blue shirts around him.
‘Pass it!’ cried Faris. Amir looked up and pretended to push the ball back to him. Both Whitehaven defenders, one on each side, began to move towards Faris, hungry to steal possession for their team. Instead, Amir rolled his foot over the ball and flicked it in the opposite direction. He spun around and put himself one-on-one with the Whitehaven goalie. As the last man, the keeper raced out to narrow the angle but, just as he was about to close the gap, Amir scooped the ball over his head. The Whitehaven team stared at the ball, utterly shell-shocked, as it plopped into the net.
‘Fabulous goal!’ called a familiar voice from the touchline. Mr Bateman had arrived. ‘This Amir – your son is he?’ he asked Mr Zidane.
‘Yes,’ smiled Amir’s father.
‘I can see why he’s called “The Prince”!’
Mr Zidane was surprised to find this complete stranger talking about his son’s name, but he continued to smile and said nothing.
‘Colin Bateman,’ said Mr Bateman, offering his hand. ‘You must be a very proud father.’
‘My name is Sofiane. Sofiane Zidane.’
‘Zidane eh? I should imagine footballing ability runs in your family!’
‘Well,’ replied Amir’s father amiably, ‘We can always dream of being like the “Zidane”, that legendary footballer! You never know!’
‘Good for you. Although I’m afraid your time may have come and gone, my friend. Your son looks to be an excellent prospect though.’
Amir’s father was just about to respond when Mr Bateman grabbed his coat sleeve excitedly. ‘Look! He’s off again! He’s a whizz, your boy!’
Distracted, Mr Zidane looked towards the pitch where Amir was beating players for fun. Attracting ever more opponents, he found himself confronted by three blue shirts.
‘I’m in space!’ yelled Faris.
From the sidelines, Ibrahim was beginning to feel that if there was one thing Amir was quite incapable of, it was passing the ball to a teammate.
Amir tricked his way around one challenge, and was tempted to try to beat all three opponents, but for once thought better of it. He laid the ball off to Faris on the edge of the area. With a wonderfully clean contact, Shabab’s stand-in striker smashed the ball hard into the bottom corner, beyond the goalkeeper’s dive.
‘Oh, lovely!’ called Mr Bateman approvingly, as Coach Saleem and a number of casual spectators joined in his applause. Only Abdullah, the tip of his tongue protruding as he concentrated harder than ever on his clipboard notes, resisted the urge to clap.
Ibrahim applauded cautiously, genuinely pleased for his friend, but suddenly more worried than ever about where he stood in terms of team selection.
‘Fantastic goal!’ called Khalid, his enthusiasm undiluted. He turned to Ibrahim and Ali. ‘Looks like you boys have got some real competition this time round, eh? What with Faris banging ‘em in like that and Amir running rings around everyone!’
Ibrahim and Ali exchanged glances, each wondering if the other was thinking the same thing: something had to change.
5
Ibrahim Goes Too Far
By the time Saleem blew the whistle to end the first half, the score was four-nil to Shabab al-Nasr, Amir having completed a sublime hat-trick.
Abdullah, having apparently forgotten Amir’s manner with him earlier in the week, rushed over to congratulate him on his performance.
‘I’m rewriting the record books over here, Amir!’ he gushed. ‘95 per cent dribble completion, 83 per cent pass completion from 6 passes, 100 per cent tackle success from 23 challenges… it’s been a debut of epic proportions!’
Amir was sufficiently pleased with himself to smile at Abdullah’s statistical bulletin.
‘I dunno what all of that means but, OK, sweet,’ Amir replied casually.
‘Well,’ frowned Abdullah, ‘dribble completion refers to…’
‘I have a question,’ interrupted Mr Zidane, taking his son by the arm and pulling him out of Abdullah’s earshot, unaware that Mr Bateman was standing only a few metres away. ‘Why is your pass rate so high in the first place? Six passes! Why are you passing it at all?’
Amir shrugged, a look of puzzlement on his face. Mr Zidane gestured to the handful of spectators standing around the pitch.
‘Any of these guys could be one, Amir,’ Mr Zidane hissed. ‘Any one of them could be the scout who takes us to the Premier League. They’re nice lads here, sure, but we’re not here to make friends by sharing the ball around, son. We’re here to make an impact. Remember? That’s why we came to the team who won that tournament last year, isn’t it? More chance the scouts’ll be watching their games, right?’
Amir looked doubtfully at the tiny crowd, as an old man tucked his Sunday newspaper under his arm and ambled away.
‘Not here today, maybe,’ added Sofiane Zidane, reading his son’s thoughts, ‘but they will be at the tournament!’
Whitehaven put up a better show in the second half, but Amir carried on from where he had left off in the first. He quickly added two more unstoppable goals to his tally. Seeming to realise all too late that Amir was the one to stop, all of the
