THE SEMI FINAL

Marcus looked around the field for someone to play the ball to. Nobody wanted it. He shimmied past two midfielders and fired a pass up to Horse. Horse tripped over his own feet. The ball rolled out for a throw-in. Marcus groaned. It was like everyone had put their boots on backwards.

At last, the referee blew his whistle. Half-time.

Marcus took in the panorama. That was what the art teacher had called it. Two tower blocks, a housing estate, a scrap cars yard, the supermarket slip road and Ducie High School 'A' Block. And rain.

'What are you looking at the sky for, Marcus? I said get over here!' yelled Mr Davies, the coach. Marcus jogged over to catch up with the rest of the team by the touchline. He sat on the soaking wet grass sucking on an orange slice as the coach laid into them good and proper.

'You numbing knuckleheads, we might as well all go home. This isn't double maths. Marcus, step it up. Horse, pass, move, look, call, positions! Rocket hug the touchline. Come on. Get past this Chorlton Academy rabble and we're in the final. It's there for the taking. Do you want it?'

'Yeah,' Marcus mumbled, along with the rest of the team. They lost the semi-final last year and the year before that. It felt like things were going the same way now. All the other Years had been knocked out of their Cup competitions.

'I didn't hear you,' yelled the coach, 'do you want it? Or should we all just give up and go home?' There was silence.

'I'll arrange double rice pudding at the canteen for you all if we win,' said the coach. 'Can't get better than that, right? Dinners? Horse?'

Everyone laughed.

'Okay, that's the spirit. Come on lads, up you get. Marcus over here a minute.'

Marcus followed the coach, who, he decided, was built like an upside down street sweeping machine. The coach had a bin-like body and a head of bristle hair that stuck out sideways. And he went up and down in straight lines, making a lot of noise. He liked the coach. Mr Davies led him a little away from the rest of the team to where a tall, thin man was standing.

'Marcus, get the ball and do your thing, it's time to turn it on, right?' the coach said.

Marcus nodded. He looked briefly at the man standing next to the coach. He had the sharp, assessing look of a football scout. They always came to the big matches.

'I'm ready.'

'Go on then, start playing.'

Marcus trotted back towards the centre circle. When he turned round, the coach was deep in conversation. Marcus saw the coach mouth 'estate kids' and 'motivation'. He didn't catch the rest.

He made his way to his position in the centre of the midfield. The wind was coming at them sideways now, driving rain through their Ducie High jerseys.

At the restart, the Chorlton left-winger raced all the way to the touchline then crossed. Only a diving save from their keeper stopped Chorlton scoring.

On the touchline, Mr Davies did a puppet dance in his sleeping-bag-coat (a coat that looked like a sleeping bag), screaming at Dinners and then at Horse, telling them to give Marcus the ball.

Horse booted it to him. The ball dropped at Marcus's feet. Marcus looked up. The Chorlton goalkeeper was leaning on the post, picking his nose. After fifty minutes and not one shot even close to his goal, Marcus could see his point.

Somewhere inside his head he heard his dad singing a song, I Who Have Nothing. He loved that song. His dad was a balding Rasta who loved wailing this ballad by an afro-bobbed disco queen called Sylvester.

Something clicked in Marcus. He slipped the ball through to Rocket who trapped it, sprinted along the touchline then laid if off to Marcus again.

I Who Have Nothing was still playing in Marcus's head. It blanked out everything else except the rhythm of the game and in that moment the football became music.

Marcus danced the ball forward. His marker hesitated, dithering whether to close him down or zone him out wide to the wing.

Meanwhile, Horse was waving like mad, making for the near post, their keeper tracking him.

Their left-back is titchy, Marcus realised. He sped forward, looked up for one last check, then, as the defender's tackle smacked into him, he let the ball fly.

The ball looped up, the wind clawed it, flung it higher. The left-back leapt for all he was worth but the ball was already behind him. Their goalkeeper simply watched. Maybe there was an element of luck. The wind pushed it a metre further inside the upright than he'd intended.

1–0.

Mr Davies danced a jig. Marcus picked himself up and trotted back, taking high fives from Rocket and Horse. Briefly, he scanned the touchline for his dad, even though he knew his dad was on the early evening shift. He saw Leonard, the Ducie substitute, arms folded in the rain. He saw the thin man nodding. But Marcus's dad wasn't there.

'You okay?'

It was Horse. He was pointing to Marcus' left shin. There was a streak of blood where the defender's studs had caught him.

'Looks worse than it is,' Marcus said. 'Switch sides and I'll fly them over for you.'

The final. He was not going to let it go now. Marcus turned it on. From the kick-off they won the ball back from Chorlton and Horse got it to Marcus again. Marcus made a fool of his marker, dragged the ball back twice and span away from him. The Chorlton defence back-pedalled.

Marcus stopped and placed a foot on the ball. Still no Chorlton midfield player wanted to tackle him. The Chorlton coach was chopping the air on the other touchline.

Someone slid in on him. Marcus dinked the ball over the tackler's leg and vaulted forwards.

Ducie poured into the Chorlton penalty area. Marcus could pass to three different players. But he saw the goalkeeper was out of position. He rifled a shot straight into the top middle of the Chorlton net.

2–0.

It was a rout after that. The Chorlton players' heads dropped. They looked like they wanted the game over. Horse barged his way straight through the heart of the Chorlton defence and tapped it to Marcus who danced the ball into the net.

3–0.

Ducie ran out 4–0 winners and Marcus picked up man of the match from the referee. He got to keep the match ball. They made their way to the changing room in a carnival of studs and back-slapping and cheers. As everyone got changed, Mr Davies collared Marcus from the changing room. He pointed. The thin man was waiting to meet him in the coach's changing room office. They went over and Mr Davies introduced them:

'Marcus is our Messi, our Ronaldo. Marcus, this is Mr Peabody, a scout from Manchester United. He's looking to sign someone up as an apprentice.'

Another player popped his head round the coach's office door. 'Sir!' The coach dismissed him:

'Not now, Leonard. Go collect the water bottles.'

Leonard disappeared, but not before giving Marcus an ugly look.

'I'm not the main scout,' Mr Peabody said to Marcus, 'Nobody's sent me to Brazil or Italy yet.' The scout had a friendly face. He stretched out his hand to Marcus. 'Well played lad ... on the whole.'

Marcus shook his hand. He had watched the thin man's lips so he knew he had said a word before 'on the whole' but he didn't know what that word was.

The coach gushed again at Mr Peabody. 'Marcus, he's so calm, in all the noise and fire, he can see an opportunity. He makes the right move every time, just glides in and "bam!" He's...