Striker boy kicks out, p.1
Striker Boy Kicks Out, page 1
“This tense wish-fulfilment adventure scores on every level, with attractive characters, fast-paced plot and a feel good finale.”
Daily Mail
“A real page turner, valuable for reviving the reading experience of any jaded sports fans. They’ll love it for the insight and info into Premier League footie alone, and, as the real hook, probably think . . . if only it were me.”
Books for Keeps
“Brilliantly paced football excitement on and off the pitch in this fast moving adventure.”
Lovereading4kids (Julia Eccleshare)
“A cracking read . . . everyone will be swept up in the action thriller.”
School Librarian
“A gripping read for soccer fans.”
Irish Examiner
“A satisfying wish-fulfilment epic.”
Jewish Chronicle
“Nat’s emotions are believable, and came across loud and clear. There were plenty of edge of the seat moments.”
Nayu’s Reading Corner
STRIKER BOY
KICKS
OUT
Jonny Zucker
Text copyright © Jonny Zucker 2011
The right of Jonny Zucker to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988 (United Kingdom).
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by
Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4
Torriano Mews, Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ
www.franceslincoln.com
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-84780-079-4
eBook ISBN 978-1-78101-027-3
Printed in Croydon, Surrey, UK by CPI Bookmarque Ltd. in June 2011
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1: Passport Fear
CHAPTER 2: Night Welcome
CHAPTER 3: Living the Dream
CHAPTER 4: Break-out
CHAPTER 5: Season Set-up
CHAPTER 6: An Edgy Start
CHAPTER 7: Poolside Chill
CHAPTER 8: Hunted
CHAPTER 9: Fierce Opponents
CHAPTER 10: Back in Business
CHAPTER 11: Hidden from Prying Eyes
CHAPTER 12: Talking it Out
CHAPTER 13: Burglar Territory
CHAPTER 14: Crashed Out
CHAPTER 15: The Real Thing
CHAPTER 16: The Match Comes to Life
CHAPTER 17: Get in, Get Out
CHAPTER 18: Microphone Madness
CHAPTER 19: Hire It
CHAPTER 20: The Deal on Offer
CHAPTER 21: News Shock
CHAPTER 22: Lazio Loom
CHAPTER 23: A Possible Spy
CHAPTER 24: Crunch Time
CHAPTER 25: The Shock
CHAPTER 26: A Mystery Chase and a Night-time Excursion
CHAPTER 27: A Criminal Checks In
CHAPTER 28: The Threat
CHAPTER 29: Protect and Survive
CHAPTER 30: Handover
CHAPTER 31: The Plan that Worked
CHAPTER 32: An Unwelcome Knock
CHAPTER 33: Free Kick Frenzy
CHAPTER 34: Inside the Cauldron
CHAPTER 35: A Crushing Blow
CHAPTER 36: A Despicable Act
CHAPTER 37: Perfect Strikes
CHAPTER 38: Silverware at Last
CHAPTER 39: A Shocking Discovery
CHAPTER 40: The Truth Dawns
CHAPTER 41: The Aftermath
CHAPTER 42: Wrapping Up
To the inspirational Mr Simon Putman and all of the fantastic staff and pupils at Deansbrook Junior School
CHAPTER 1
Passport Fear
The heat and humidity of the Spanish night hit Nat as he stepped out of the plane. He loosened his vertical green-and-white striped Hatton Rangers Football Club tie, and walked down the steps. It was three years since he’d last visited Spain, but this trip would be very different from that time.
A ripple of excitement unfolded inside him.
“Keep moving, lads,” shouted Stan Evans, the Rangers assistant manager. Nat strolled across the tarmac to the terminal building with his two best mates – tall central-defender Emi Adeyo and right-back Kelvin Bartlett.
They passed through the sliding glass doors of the terminal building, climbed two flights of stairs and walked down a long corridor – its walls covered with Spanish flags.
At passport control, Nat hung back with Stan as planned. When everyone else had gone through, Nat and Stan deliberately approached a female customs official, in the hope that she’d be less likely to follow football than her male colleagues. Evans explained to her in basic Spanish that Nat was a youth team player who had come along for the experience. She held out her hand.
Nat unzipped his jacket pocket and handed over his passport. He gulped nervously as she checked his face against the photo. It showed a boy with light green, almond-shaped eyes, a snub nose and an l-shaped dimple on his chin. His hair was closely cropped, a marked change from the long mane he’d sported until he’d joined Rangers.
The official looked from the photo to Nat and back again. His insides doubled over in anxiety. Was she a football fan who followed the English Premier League? Had she recognised him from his three appearances as a substitute? The wait was agonising, but finally she stamped the relevant page and arched an eyebrow for him to proceed. He walked through quickly, relief coursing through him, slipped the passport back into his pocket and refastened the zip.
It was critical that none of the other Rangers players ever saw Nat’s passport. To them, he was Nat Dixon, a sixteen-year-old professional footballer. His passport, however, told a different story. It revealed that his real name was Nat Cartwright. And that he was only thirteen.
The only people who knew the truth were Nat and his father Dave, Stan Evans, and Hatton Rangers manager Ian Fox.
“Well done,” said Evans, his clear blue eyes smiling with satisfaction, his steps affected by his slight limp, as he rejoined Nat after being waved through. They hurried to catch up with the rest of the Rangers party.
“You alright, mate?” asked Neil ‘the Wildman’ Duffy, the club captain, when he saw Nat approach. The Wildman was the sort of player anyone would wish for in the heart of their defence – built like a mountain, with an apparently endless supply of strength and bravery.
“Yeah,” responded Nat, placing a protective hand over his jacket pocket and the passport inside.
“Good,” replied the Wildman. “Although I’m warning you, getting back into training will be a shock to your system. You’ll feel your joints groaning tomorrow night.”
Nat smiled. This was typical of the Wildman – he told things as they were, without intending to frighten or undermine anyone. It was one of the qualities Nat liked best about him.
It was hard to believe that the last game of the season, a three-two victory over Manchester United which had saved the club from relegation thanks to Nat’s last-minute strike – had been just three weeks ago. Nat and the rest of the Rangers players had expected to turn up at Shelton Park, the Rangers training ground, for the first session of pre-season training this morning, yet here they were in Spain. Life could deliver great surprises.
“Look sharp, lads!” called Ian Fox, marshalling his troops in the direction of the baggage reclaim carousels. Fox, with his black hair streaked with grey, his sharp, angular nose and thin lips, could look and act harshly, at the best of times. But he was a good man, you just had to try not to get on his bad side – something Nat had done in the past, to his regret.
Twenty minutes later, everyone had their luggage and they walked out into the pale yellow lights of the arrivals lounge. Several people stood behind a metal barrier holding up placards. A man in a dark blue suit with a chauffeur’s hat held a sign reading HATTON RANGERS. A woman in an orange skirt and top held up a piece of cardboard with the word ADEYO, and a small, nut brown man with wispy grey hair had a piece of paper marked BARTLETT. Further down stood a young man of about seventeen, with dark brown eyes and long brown hair that was held in place by a thin black headband stretching across his forehead. His features were flat, as if someone had hammered them into place. The sign he was holding read DIXON.
“Your carriage awaits you,” said Stan Evans, nodding in the direction of Nat’s sign. “Get a decent night’s sleep and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Nat nodded and went over to Emi and Kelvin to say goodbye. As the three youngest players in the squad, they’d been given the short straw when it was discovered that the hotel the club had booked couldn’t accommodate the entire squad.
“I can’t believe we miss out on the hotel,” sighed Kelvin.
“Don’t worry,” said Emi, “we’ll still be spending loads of time there.”
They all shook hands and headed off to their respective greeters.
& nbsp; Nat’s Spanish adventure was about to begin.
CHAPTER 2
Night Welcome
“Hi,” said Nat.
“I’m José,” replied the boy. “Welcome to Andalusia. You’ll be staying with my mother and me. Shall I take your bag?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“The car’s just outside,” said José, leading the way.
Nat took a quick look over his shoulder and saw Emi and Kelvin heading off with their hosts, and the rest of the Hatton Rangers party clambering onto a large coach. Nat followed José out of the building. They turned left and walked to a short-stay parking bay. José took Nat’s suitcase and dropped it onto the back seat of an old and battered green ex-army jeep. He motioned for Nat to climb into the front passenger seat.
The jeep roared away from the parking bay, past the Hatton Rangers coach. They drove down a long road that ended in a T-junction. The signpost pointing left read ALMERÍA. The one pointing right said TALORCA/MÁLAGA.
José turned right. The road curved to the left, and after a few minutes, Nat spotted the inky-black waters of the Mediterranean Sea on his left. On his right was dry open land covered in the silhouettes of evergreen trees – one of the only types of foliage that could withstand the baking, rain-starved summer months of Andalusia.
“It’s good of you to have me to stay,” said Nat.
“No problem,” replied José, his eyes firmly on the road.
“How was it arranged?” asked Nat. “Are you connected to Talorca FC?”
José nodded.
“What’s the connection?”
“My father used to work for them.”
“Cool,” nodded Nat. “Are you into football?”
“It’s OK,” responded José, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Are you a Talorca fan?”
José shrugged again.
“Do you ever go to matches?”
José moved his head a fraction, though whether this was a nod or a shake of the head was impossible to fathom.
OK, thought Nat, so José isn’t the world’s number one conversationalist.
The road curved left again until they were driving right beside the sea. Nat smelt the salty freshness of the water. In the distance ahead he saw the silhouetted outlines of a city skyline. But before they approached Talorca’s outskirts, José took a right, away from the sea, and onto a much smaller road that climbed a steep hill. They drove through a vast olive grove, the jeep’s tyres kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. When they reached the brow of the hill, José sped down the other side and applied the brakes as they reached the bottom, next to a small whitewashed villa.
A compact red Fiat was parked beside a fence. There was a courtyard to the right of the villa, containing a small pear tree, a wrought-iron bench and a basketball hoop attached to one of the walls. On the far side of the courtyard was a dilapidated wooden shack with a sloping corrugated plastic roof punctured with holes.
José climbed out of the jeep, grabbed Nat’s suitcase from the back seat and walked towards the front door, with Nat following behind.
They went inside and Nat found himself in a small entrance way, the floor of which was covered in shoes, old tennis rackets, a fishing rod, piles of fashion magazines and an assortment of hats, hanging on a thin oak hatstand. In front of him was a corridor with a series of rooms leading off it on both sides. Paintings of flowers in bold bright colours adorned the corridor walls.
To his right was a small passageway, and it was from a door at the end of this that a woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling broadly. She was wearing a flowing emerald green dress and had long, curly brown hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. Her sparkling eyes matched her dress, and her narrow features were very similar to José’s.
“Hello Nat,” she said warmly, offering him her hand, which he shook. “I’m Inés, and you’ve obviously met my son José.” Her English was spoken with only the barest trace of an accent.
José put Nat’s suitcase on the ground, said something to his mother in Spanish and walked off down the corridor, disappearing into the second room on the left.
“It’s lovely to have you here,” smiled Inés. “I’ll show you around and then we’ll eat supper, or cena, as we call it.”
Nat had picked up a bit of Spanish on his travels and was keen to learn more. He took hold of his suitcase and the tour commenced. Inés pointed out the bathroom and her bedroom, the first on the left of the main corridor, the second facing it. The doors to these rooms were open so he took a quick look inside as they passed. Inés’s room was neat but sparsely furnished, with a bed, a wooden dresser and a wardrobe. The bathroom had a simple shower and a sink. José’s bedroom was next on the left but his door was firmly shut and angry chords from a Spanish heavy rock band spilled out from under his door. Facing that was a small office with a desk and a computer. The last room on the left was a toilet, and facing that was another bedroom.
“This is your room,” declared Inés, opening the door.
It was a square-shaped space, housing a single bed next to a latticed window, a tall cupboard, a small writing desk and a pile of old board games on the floor. Inés opened the cupboard door. It was empty inside.
“We want you to feel at home here,” she smiled. “Please arrange the room however you wish.”
“It’s fine like this,” replied Nat, parking his suitcase next to the bed and dropping his wallet and keys onto the desk.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
“Of course.”
“How come your English is so good?”
Inés laughed. “I’m an English teacher,” she replied. “It doesn’t pay very well but I absolutely love it. I teach Spanish teenagers to speak and write your language. Some of them are good learners, while others are better at looking out of the window. We’re in the middle of the school holidays at the moment. Having you stay here is a great opportunity for me to practise my own English with a genuine Englishman!”
Nat laughed.
“Get comfortable and come to the kitchen for something to eat in, say, half an hour?” said Inés.
“Sounds great,” nodded Nat.
When Inés left, Nat lay down on the bed and shut his eyes. Once again he thought about the unbelievable situation he found himself in. He was thirteen but he’d already appeared three times as a Hatton Rangers substitute, and these hadn’t been insignificant games. They’d been high-octane, Premier League matches against Tottenham, Liverpool and Manchester United. Nat still had to remind himself that being part of the Rangers set-up was real. Some mornings he woke up expecting to discover the whole thing had been part of an elaborate dream. But it wasn’t. It was really happening. And more than anything else, he wanted to keep it going for as long as was humanly possible.
CHAPTER 3
Living the Dream
It had all started because of an incredible piece of luck.
Nat and his father, Dave, had been at a Hatton Rangers ‘in the Community Day’. Nat had been playing a superb cameo role in a five-a-side match when Stan Evans happened to be passing. The Rangers assistant manager had been blown away by Nat’s speed and the ferocity of his shooting. Rangers were in deep trouble at the bottom of the Premier League. Evans saw amazing potential in Nat, just from those five short minutes, but he’d been very disappointed to discover that, despite Nat’s size and maturity, he was only thirteen, and so could be of no use to the team.
But when Evans told Rangers manager Ian Fox about this ‘wonderkid’, the two of them hatched a plan. Nat and his father had been out of the country for seven years and had broken off all contact with anyone they’d ever known in the UK. So no one knew them, or knew that they were back.
This meant that Hatton Rangers could tell the world that Nat was sixteen, making him eligible to play for Rangers. It was mad. It was risky. But it might just work.
Dave had initially been dead set against this plan, but Nat had finally won him round.
So Nat had finished the season as a Hatton Rangers player, in addition to thwarting a massive match-fixing scam involving the Hatton Rangers goalkeeper Chris Webb. It had been a quite remarkable few months.
