Football Academy: Boys United Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  BOYS UNITED

  Tom Palmer is a football fan and a writer. He never did well at school. But once he got into reading about football – in newspapers, magazines and books – he decided he wanted to be a football writer more than anything. As well as the Football Academy series, he is the author of the Football Detective series, also for Puffin Books.

  Tom lives in a Yorkshire town called Todmorden with his wife and daughter. The best stadium he’s visited is Real Madrid’s Santiago Bernabéu.

  Find out more about Tom on his website tompalmer.co.uk

  Books by Tom Palmer

  FOOTBALL ACADEMY: BOYS UNITED

  FOOTBALL ACADEMY: STRIKING OUT

  For older readers

  FOOTBALL DETECTIVE: FOUL PLAY

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2009

  Text copyright © Tom Palmer, 2009

  Illustrations copyright © Brian Williamson, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-193284-2

  For Peter, wish you were here too

  Contents

  Jake

  Too Small for Football

  The Manager

  Yunis

  Goal!

  They Think It’s All Over

  The Famous Frenchman

  New School

  Scruffy

  The Deadly Duo

  Ryan

  City Shirt

  Tomasz

  Fame

  United or City?

  Blackburn Rovers v United

  Down the Left

  Aaron

  United v Middlesbrough

  Yunis’s Dad

  The Phone Call

  Dad

  Playing with Dad

  The Appointment

  Attack and Defence

  The Fall

  City v United

  United

  Jake

  Ever since he could walk, Jake Oldfield had played football. And ever since he could remember, he had dreamed of being a professional footballer. Not because he wanted to be rich and famous like Steven Gerrard or Wayne Rooney. It wasn’t that. He wanted to be a footballer because he loved football.

  If football could be his job, that would be great.

  He didn’t want to go to a boring office every morning like his mum. Or to a factory like his dad. Both of them indoors all day. Jake wanted to be on football pitches: running, tackling and scoring goals.

  Jake collected the ball in midfield and looked up.

  There was no one from his village team ahead of him. Nor at the side of him. Just three defenders from the other team, then the keeper and the goal.

  It was down to Jake to win this game.

  When the first defender approached, Jake waited for him to come really close, then tapped the ball forward, sprinting past him.

  One down, two to go.

  The second defender came clattering forward, lunging into Jake at full speed. But Jake just sidestepped him and the defender ended up on his backside in a muddy puddle.

  Two down, one to go.

  The third defender was standing perfectly still. Waiting.

  Jake had tried to get past him several times already during the match. But this defender was quick and had whipped the ball off Jake’s feet, whether Jake put it to his left or to his right.

  So this time… Jake chipped him.

  For a second the defender didn’t know what to do. He just stood there.

  And a second was all Jake needed. With the ball in the air, he ran past the last defender and into the penalty area. And as the ball came down, Jake hammered it towards the top left corner of the goal.

  The keeper dived. But it was no use. The ball was in the back of the net before he hit the ground, and Jake was wheeling away to celebrate his winner.

  After the game, the team manager came over.

  ‘That, Jake, was the best goal you’ve ever scored for us.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Newbrook,’ Jake said.

  ‘It’s a shame it might be your last,’ his manager said.

  Jake looked down at his feet. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘It’s the trial at United this week, isn’t it?’ Mr Newbrook said.

  ‘In two days,’ said Jake. It was all he’d been able to think about for days. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mr Newbrook laughed. ‘Don’t be sorry, Jake. We’re all thrilled for you. If you get a place at United, it’ll be one of the best things that has happened in this village. You’re one of only two players to make it into a professional club – let alone the Premiership.’

  Jake looked at his team‐mates who had gathered at the side of the pitch. If he did get a place at United he wouldn’t be allowed to play for this team any more. Only for United. And that made him sad. But the idea of being a United player made him happier.

  ‘Get some practice in with your dad the rest of this week, Jake,’ Mr Newbrook said. ‘Make sure you’re sharp.’

  Jake looked over at his dad, who was standing at the side of the pitch. Dad gave him a thumbs up.

  ‘I will,’ Jake said, turning to Mr Newbrook again.

  ‘And Jake?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Just remember that it’s what kind of player you are that matters. Not whether you’re tall or small.’

  Jake smiled. Mr Newbrook had read his mind.

  The trial at United wasn’t Jake’s first.

  He had tried out at City, Bolton and Blackburn before. But every time he got that far, he was told that he was a very good player… but that he was too small to make it.

  ‘I will, Mr Newbrook,’ Jake said. ‘And thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Mr Newbrook said. ‘Go and make us proud.’

  Too Small for Football

  The next day Dad took Jake to the library.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Jake asked. ‘It’s the trial tomorrow. Can’t we go and practise?’

  ‘Later,’ Dad said. ‘We need to look at some books first.’

  Jake was puzzled. What was going on?

  Dad had always trained him – ever since he could remember. And not just for an ordinary kick about.

  He’d have Jak
e running at speed on and off the ball.

  Heading, sprinting, tackling.

  Blocking, passing.

  Everything.

  So what were they doing in the library, standing next to a huge Back to School display?

  Then Jake got it. Dad was thinking about school. Not football. The new academic year was about to start – in three days. And it wasn’t just a new school year: it was a new school. High school.

  The new school had been on Jake’s mind. But only the back of his mind. He’d been more worried about the trial at United, so his school nerves had barely registered.

  But he realized he’d have to face it now. School. Books. And his dad was making sure he took it seriously.

  ‘Right,’ Dad said. ‘Where are the football books?’

  ‘In the children’s section,’ Jake replied, surprised. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

  He led his dad over.

  ‘These are good,’ Dad said, looking through a dozen books about playing the game: how to attack, defend or be a keeper. ‘But what about biographies?’

  ‘I don’t know about them,’ Jake said.

  A woman putting books out turned to face Jake and his dad.

  ‘Biography is over there,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dad scanned the biography section, pulling off three books. Biographies of footballers called Kevin Keegan, Alan Ball and David Batty. Jake had heard of one of them – Kevin Keegan – his dad’s favourite footballer from years ago. Dad had a signed photo of him in the front room at home.

  ‘How are these going to help, Dad? Let’s just go and play football.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Dad said. ‘I want you to see them.’ He opened the books at the pictures, showing each of the players in a team photograph.

  ‘What have they all got in common?’ Dad asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jake said.

  ‘Look again,’ Dad said.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘They’re small.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re all small players,’ Dad said.

  Jake looked at the pictures again. The three players Dad had pointed out were smaller than all of their team‐mates. Much smaller.

  Dad leafed to the backs of the books, where each footballer’s playing record was listed. All the games they’d played for club and country. All the goals they’d scored. All the awards they’d won.

  ‘Between them,’ Dad said, pointing at the pages again, ‘these three have played for England nearly two hundred times. They’ve won World Cups, Premierships, European Footballer of the Year awards. And when they were young they were all told they were too small to make it. But they all did make it!’

  Now Jake understood why his dad had brought him to the library.

  The Manager

  Jake was nervous.

  Nervous, because the gateway his dad had just driven him through was the entrance to United’s training ground – and to United’s famous Academy for young players. Dad had always said that nerves were part of the body’s preparation. That Jake needed to be full of nervous energy or he wouldn’t play well at the times it really mattered.

  Jake glanced at his dad.

  Dad smiled back.

  ‘Good thing we haven’t got any City stickers on the car,’ Dad said.

  Jake smiled. He’d tried not to think about the fact that he was a City fan – entering the territory of the enemy, United.

  They were now driving up a long narrow road. It was more like the approach to a stately home than a football training‐ground. On one side there was a long line of trees, all exactly the same distance apart. On the other, a massive garden sweeping up a hill.

  It wasn’t at all what Jake had been expecting. He’d thought it’d be all modern, made of glass and steel, like the new buildings at his old school. But the Academy was built within the old buildings of what must have been a place where seriously posh people used to live. The dressing rooms were in what probably used to be the stables. The pitches were part of the grounds.

  And if you looked carefully through the trees, you could see the old house. As big as a football stadium, with dozens of chimneys.

  Some of the pitches Jake could see were grass and some were all‐weather. He checked for players training. This was the place where six of England’s current squad had learned to play football from the age of eight – three years younger than Jake was now. He could bump into any of them here: it was where they still trained.

  Half an hour later, Jake was standing patiently with fifteen other boys at the side of the pitch – all ready for the trial.

  Some of them were kitted out in United gear; others in plain tops.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said the man who was running the session. ‘I am Steve Cooper, manager of the under‐twelves here at United. You can call me Steve. Let’s get started.’

  Steve was a muscular man of medium height with dark straggly hair. He reminded Jake of the men he’d seen in war films: leaders, barking out orders. His voice was deep and broad.

  ‘We’re going to go through a set of exercises,’ Steve said. ‘To look at your pace. To look at your skills. To look at your character. Then we’re going to have a short game. Eight‐a‐side. We’ll be here about two hours in all. OK?’

  All the boys nodded.

  Jake gazed across to the other side of the pitch to where the parents were standing, a row of twenty or twenty‐five of them. He saw his dad looking back at him, smiling. The sun broke through a cloud and the Academy was suddenly warm and bright.

  Yunis

  After warming up with two laps of the pitch – running forwards, backwards and sidewards – the trial moved on to sprinting. Jake was the fastest; an Asian lad close behind him.

  As he looked at the manager making notes on his clipboard, the Asian lad came up to Jake. He was tall and broad‐shouldered with short dark hair.

  ‘You’re fast,’ he said to Jake.

  ‘So are you,’ Jake said.

  ‘Thanks. I’m Yunis.’

  ‘I’m Jake.’

  ‘I’m glad we started with running,’ Yunis said. ‘I feel better now.’

  ‘Me too,’ Jake said, looking over at the manager again. ‘It makes you feel more confident, doesn’t it? That we’ve done well at something already.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Yunis said. ‘What position do you play anyway? You’re not a striker, are you?’

  ‘No. Left wing. How about you?’

  ‘Striker.’

  ‘Right.’ Jake smiled. That was good: it meant they weren’t in competition with each other for the same place.

  Yunis looked across at the parents who were all standing five metres from the pitch, behind a line that they weren’t allowed to cross.

  ‘Is your dad there?’ Yunis asked.

  ‘Yeah. The one on the end. In the grey jacket,’ Jake said. ‘Which is yours?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Couldn’t he make it?’ Jake asked.

  ‘He could,’ Yunis said. ‘But he doesn’t want to. He thinks football’s a waste of time.’

  Jake shrugged, making Yunis smile.

  ‘I know!’ Yunis said. ‘Like football is a waste of time!’

  For the next hour the boys were asked to dribble round cones, hit one‐touch passes to each other, take dead balls, throw‐ins and try to tackle.

  By now Jake was feeling confident. But he knew it was when the game started that he would have the chance to shine. In the game he could run with the ball and cross it into the box. The thing he liked to do best.

  Jake was put in left midfield for the eight‐a‐side, his favourite position. He was up against a huge right‐sided full‐back. The first time Jake called for the ball it was played to his feet. He took it to the edge of the pitch to beat the defender on the outside, but the defender closed him down and barged him off the ball.

  A shoulder‐charge.

  Jake picked himself up, glancing at the mana
ger, Steve Cooper. He was making more notes.

  Who was he writing about? And what was he writing?

  The next time Jake got the ball he tried to take it round the big defender again. But he was tackled hard again, and he lost the ball.

  He looked at the manager, then at Dad. Jake felt he’d been fouled. But he knew not to make anything of it. If the manager didn’t think it was a foul, then it wasn’t a foul.

  Jake knew what Steve Cooper was thinking: that boy’s barged off the ball easily – he’s too small.

  His heart sank.

  It was happening again.

  Everything was going wrong.

  Goal!

  Jake looked over at Dad. He needed help if this trial was going to get any better. He was losing his confidence.

  Fast.

  Dad was holding his hands flat at the side of his eyes, like a horse’s blinkers. Jake knew immediately what he meant: focus, forget about the manager with the clipboard, play your natural game.

  What had Dad said yesterday at the library? About those three short players. That they’d all played for England. They’d won World Cups. Everything. And they were all told they were too small to make it. But they did make it.

  It helped remembering what Dad had said.

  So the next time the ball came to Jake, he knocked it quickly to Yunis and sprinted past the big defender. The defender tried to lunge at him, but Jake skipped over his legs.

  Then Yunis played it back to Jake. And suddenly Jake was in loads of space.

  But he took his time. He was aware he’d wrong‐footed the big full‐back and that he didn’t need to rush. He ran towards the goal and did a Ronaldo step‐over to beat the next defender. Then he slid the ball to Yunis, who’d run into the box.

  Yunis met the ball with his right foot.

  One–nil.

  Jake heard applause from the manager behind him. But he didn’t look round. He just took up his position for the restart.

  ‘That was great, Jake,’ Yunis said. ‘Thank you!’