Extra Time by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online Page B

computers and screens. We also see a full-size soccer pitch completely indoors.
    â€˜Wonder if Gazz and Terrine know about this?’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘They could do a patio extension.’
    It’s a good thought, but I don’t really care about patio extensions at the moment. I can only think about one thing. I know Matt is thinking the same. Every time we pass a window, we gaze out at the boys playing on the training pitches.
    â€˜I think we’ve got everything we need,’ says Ken to the cameraman.
    Before the cameraman agrees and we all get whisked back out to the car, I make a suggestion.
    â€˜Why don’t you film Matt playing in a game?’ I say. ‘It’d be great visual variety.’
    The cameraman thinks about this. I hope I got the words right.
    â€˜She’s not wrong,’ says the cameraman to Ken. ‘It would be.’
    Ken looks like a person who just wants to go home and go to bed.
    â€˜Matt hasn’t got any boots,’ he says. ‘You can’t play on a training pitch without boots. And the kit room’s closed for the day.’
    I unzip my Loch Ness Monster backpack and take out Matt’s soccer boots and shorts. No way are we going anywhere on this trip without them.
    Matt and Uncle Cliff give me grateful grins.
    I feel a bit guilty about keeping Ken up. But sometimes, when her brother’s dream is at stake, a manager has to be ruthless.

As we hurry towards the under-fifteen training pitch, I start to get a feeling in my tummy that something isn’t right.
    It’s the right game, soccer.
    And there’s skill all over the place. Which is perfect for Matt because he won’t have to get into any arguments about changing sides.
    And the pitch looks brilliant. Smooth and green and completely free of wombat activity.
    And yet something’s a bit weird.
    Is it the gloomy weather? It’s afternoon, but the sky is sort of dark and it feels like dusk is coming. English people must have good eyes because the boys on the pitch can obviously see the ball, judging by the clever things they’re doing with it.
    Then the floodlights snap on and I blink a few times and see what’s strange.
    The boys playing all have grim faces. So do the trainers. The other adults standing along the edge of the pitch are looking very serious too. They must be parents because they aren’t watching the whole game, just keeping their eyes clamped on their own kids.
    Nobody is laughing, whooping, making jokes, rolling their eyes, howling with joy or tickling each other in the way that soccer is normally played.
    Of course. It must be the cameras.
    There’s other videoing going on apart from our cameraman. The club is doing it too, with cameras set up on each side of the pitch.
    It’s a known fact that people can be a bit stiff and serious when cameras are pointing at them. Look at politicians.
    Ken is speaking to one of the trainers and pointing at Matt. The trainer stares at Matt for a moment. Then he nods.
    â€˜This is it,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’
    The trainer yells at one of the boys on the pitch, who trots grumpily over, takes off his coloured team bib and holds it out to Matt.
    â€˜Thanks,’ says Matt, taking it and putting it on.
    The boy doesn’t reply. Just scowls at Matt.
    â€˜Don’t take it personally,’ I say to the boy. ‘Matt’d do the same for you.’
    The trainer has a word to Matt, and Matt runs onto the pitch to a midfield position. I can see from his lips moving that he’s saying g’day to a couple of the other boys.
    They don’t reply. Maybe in England you have to be introduced first.
    The game starts up again. I see that me and Uncle Cliff aren’t the only people who know about fast passing. This is the fastest passing I’ve ever seen. But there’s something strange about it. Passing is to stop you being tackled. Half the time these