Extra Time by Morris Gleitzman

can tell from the shape of his shoulders.
    A few minutes later, he beats two players on the edge of their penalty area and sees the rest of the Man U defenders moving into position, which is what a class side will always do. Matt turns away from them and for a while he’s dribbling towards his own goal. Until he turns again and shoots all in one movement. The ball blurs over everybody’s heads and dips into the top corner of the goal before their goalie can move.
    People just stare at him.
    Our players, their players, our trainers, their trainers, our family members, their family members. Even the big black birds in the bare trees look stunned.
    At half-time, as Matt trots off towards the changing rooms, I wave and he gives me a little one back.
    He doesn’t look very happy.
    I don’t understand. Matt is playing brilliantly. He’s scored and he’s using his skill to avoid bruises. Why isn’t he pleased?
    â€˜He doesn’t look very happy,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Is he pooing regularly?’
    I think it probably isn’t that, but I don’t know what it is.
    Then in the second half I do.
    For the first fifteen minutes after the break, Matt goes back to setting up chances for the others. And this time he makes them even better chances. Ayo scores. So does another of our boys.
    Three–one to us.
    After both the goals Matt goes to congratulate the scorer. Both times they ignore him, even Ayo.
    It’s exactly the same problem. We’ve talked about it after training matches, me and Matt, and he says he understands how everyone’s anxious about being the one. But now it’s happening again, he looks even more unhappy.
    I can see him losing interest in the match. He hardly touches the ball for ages.
    â€˜Matt,’ yells Uncle Cliff, waving his arms. ‘Come on. What’s wrong?’
    â€˜He looks like a very disappointed young man to me,’ says Mrs Jarvis quietly.
    I agree with her.
    â€˜Well he doesn’t have to be,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘If he’s disappointed in himself he can do something about it.’
    â€˜I don’t think he’s disappointed in himself, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I think he’s disappointed with what’s happened to top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century.’
    Uncle Cliff thinks about this.
    â€˜Matt,’ he yells. ‘Come on. Don’t let top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century get you down.’
    I don’t know if Matt hears this, or if it’s something else that sparks him, like the elbow in the head he gets from one of his own team as they’re jumping for a high cross.
    But suddenly Matt is on fire.
    Not in a good way.
    A Manchester United midfielder is dribbling and Matt runs at him and tackles him.
    Hard.
    The boy drops like a mattress, and Matt goes sprawling. But it’s legal because Matt played the ball not the man. Legal, but Mum would be horrified. Matt and the Man U player are both looking dazed as they get up. I can hear Uncle Cliff’s leather jacket creaking with tension. I’m glad he wasn’t videoing that bit on his phone.
    â€˜Go easy,’ mutters Uncle Cliff.
    I agree. We both have faith in Aussie leg pins, but there are plenty of other parts of Matt that can get hurt.
    Matt doesn’t go easy. He throws himself into tackles again and again. He’s like a wallaby bouncing off a herd of elephants.
    Then another high cross comes in and lots of the boys jump for it. Except half of them can’t get off the ground because the other half are holding them.
    Including Matt.
    I can’t believe it. He’s got two big fistfuls of another boy’s shirt.
    Soon after, he turns somebody, jabbing his knee behind theirs so they drop to the ground.
    I feel a bit sick.
    But not as sick as I do a few minutes later when Matt goes sprawling after missing a big