Extra Time by Morris Gleitzman Page A

tackle.
    The Manchester United boy holds out a hand to help him up.
    Matt knocks it away.
    His angry face makes me want to cry. Mrs Jarvis looks pretty upset too. Uncle Cliff looks bewildered.
    â€˜Why’s he playing like this?’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Maybe he’s homesick. Have there been any signs? Has he been calling out the names of Australian TV shows in his sleep?’
    I shake my head.
    But in a way, I realise, Uncle Cliff is right.
    It’s not Aussie TV Matt’s missing. It’s something even more important. The thing he had every day on our patch of waste ground at home. The thing he doesn’t have here, not even when we’re winning three–one.
    The thing that makes soccer worth playing.
    After the match the trainers and coaches are delighted, and Matt’s the player they make the most fuss of. I don’t think it’s just because we won. I think they like the way he played.
    When Matt comes over to us, he’s got a big grin.
    â€˜They want me to play in the next match,’ he says. ‘They want us to stay longer in England. At least another week.’
    For a moment I don’t know what to say.
    Then I throw my arms round Matt to share his joyfulness.
    So does Mrs Jarvis.
    I hug Uncle Cliff as well.
    â€˜Rock ’n’ roll,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I’m over the moon about this.’
    â€˜Actually, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis, ‘if you were over the moon, the atmospheric vacuum would make your brains come out your ears.’
    But she lets him hug her as well.
    Uncle Cliff is right. This is the moment when Matt’s family should rejoice with him.
    But I can’t get rid of a feeling deep in my guts. Something heavy and not-good. An out-of-control cattle truck type feeling.
    I take a big breath and try to ignore it.
    But I can’t.
    Because I know the awful truth.
    If Matt keeps playing like this and makes it through to the first team, it won’t be his legs that are permanently damaged by top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century.
    It’ll be his gentle loving heart.



It’s the middle of the night when I creep into Matt’s room.
    I don’t knock.
    This is too important and too urgent.
    Matt is curled up in bed. The pale light from the street lamp is coming in through the curtains. It makes him look dead.
    The door squeaks.
    Matt opens his eyes and peers at me, blinking.
    â€˜You alright?’ he says.
    â€˜I’ve been thinking,’ I say.
    He pats the doona. I don’t sit down. Some things you say better when you’re standing up.
    â€˜We have to go home, Matt,’ I say. ‘Before it’s too late.’
    Matt sits up, staring at me sleepily.
    â€˜Before what’s too late?’ he says.
    â€˜Everything,’ I say. ‘All this.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’ he says.
    â€˜Top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century,’ I say. ‘What it’s doing to you. It’s turning you into somebody else.’
    Matt doesn’t say anything.
    For a few moments I think he’s going to agree with me.
    I’m wrong.
    â€˜It’s not doing anything to me,’ he says. ‘Few bruises, that’s all. No problem, I’ve got reinforced legs, remember? Anyway, what was it Uncle Cliff said that time he hurt his back trying to walk like Mick Jagger? No pain, no gain.’
    â€˜Let’s go home, Matt,’ I say. ‘Just come home and be with me and Mum and Dad.’
    â€˜That’s stupid, Bridie,’ he says. ‘I’m doing this for them. And you. For all of us.’
    â€˜Do you want to end up like Gazz?’ I say.
    Matt frowns.
    Before I can tell him all the reasons I don’t want him to end up like Gazz, he jumps out of bed and glares at me.
    â€˜Yes, I do,’ he says. ‘Gazz’s parents live in a six-bedroom circular house with a