by Jonathan Kebbe
RESPECT
That's what Lewis wants from his classmates. Nicknamed USELESS LEWIS or LOO BRUSH, he's fed up with his stammer, fed up that he can't pluck up the nerve to join the drama club - and fed up that the only football he gets to play is pretend matches with his collection of bottle-tops at home.
Then Lewis's gangly mate Zulfi puts together a team for a five-a-side tournament. And he wants LEWIS to play! Can the bottle-top king burst out of his shell and show everyone the hero inside?
First publication in Great Britain
Copyright © 2001 Jonathan Kebbe
First published by Transworld Publishers, a division of the
Random House Group Ltd
61-63 Uxbridge Road
London W5 5SA
ISBN: 0 440 864674
‘For heaven’s sake, Overfeld, you’re hopeless - what are you, Overfeld?’
‘ H-hopeless, sir.’
‘ You might as well be playing for the other side, you’re a liability, Lewis – what are you?’
‘ A l-liability, sir,’ I bleat obediently, when inside I’m thinking, for goodness’ sake, this is only a wretched friendly against Mrs Okocha’s class, not the bloomin’ Cup Final.
‘ So take my advice, Lewis, when the ball comes to you, ignore it, keep out of it’s way, and whatever you do, don’t attempt to kick it. Understood?’
‘ Yes, sir.’
‘ Why, Lewis?’
‘ Because I’m h-h-hopeless, sir.’
‘ Thank you!’
Everybody laughs and I laugh along to hide my shame.
He’s not so bad, Mr Marvin, he just likes to win. If only he could see that I’ve a feeling for football, that I’ve the kind of mathematical mind you need to dissect defences or curve a ball into the path of a running teammate. I love the geometry of passing, the algebra of defence and counterattack, love seeing a well-crafted move lead precisely to a crisp goal. I hate those goal-mouth scrambles where bodies pile in, the ball squirms over the line and everyone leaps around like they’ve won the Lottery.
I know I can play, but I’ve no confidence; I get flustered. I hate all that puffing and frenzy and players yelling at each other. I’m not someone who pushes and shoves. I queue politely at bus stops and hold doors open for old people and say things like ‘After you.’ But you can’t say ‘After you, mate’ in the middle of a match. You have to get stuck in, I know that. But I’m not a get-stuck-in kind of person. If I bang into someone, I’m liable to say Sorry! which makes Mr Marvin mad.
‘ Lewis, why not offer him a tea cake while you’re at it!’
‘ But, sir, I t-tripped him by m-mistake.’
‘ This is football, Lewis, not ballroom dancing! Get stuck in!’
I hate people shouting at me. I once got so upset in the playground I lashed the ball past my own keeper and stormed off in a huff. I’m a storm-off-in-a-huff kind of person.
It’s hard being a wimp. I try and look relaxed when they tease me but I always go red. Mind you, apart from Lee Jordan, who gets a thrill out of tormenting me, the others don’t mean any harm. They call me pipsqueak, twit-face and swot and I don’t mind because I suppose that’s what I am.
Or is it?
Sometimes, beneath the trembly exterior, I feel another boy bursting to get out.
I long for the nerve to tell jokes, long to stroll coolly into the drama club, long to make my parents see that I’m more than a good little boy. I love good films and imagine myself playing heroic roles. I love football and ache to express myself. I dream of being on the school stage and hearing classmates go, Fantastic Lewis, brilliant! I dream of playing for the school, and Mr Marvin saying, Great goal, Overfeld, didn’t know you had it in you. But all I ever get is, Nice poem, very droll Lewis, or Immaculate homework, gold star, you’re an example to us all.
Gold stars are nice enough – like I suppose what Dad feels when a whisky slips down his throat – and You’re an example to us all warms my cheeks on a grey Monday morning, but if it’s only for a column of fractions or a portrait of Saint Alban or an essay on the Great War, it hardly sets the blood tingling.
I yearn to break out of my fearful little cocoon.
I yearn to put six goals past Matthew Fallon.
Instead I trail home to my chores and homework and then, in the privacy of my room, where no-one can see, I lay out my five-feet by three-feet hardboard pitch with its painted touchlines, penalty areas and centre circle and get out my bottle-tops. I’ve been collecting for years. My mum’s pleased I have a creative hobby but hates me going around with my nose to the ground hunting for suitable players, insisting on drowning them in disinfectant which has to be worse than any germs they might find in the gutter.
I have my favourites, like a gorgeous Mexican beer bottle-top I found in Skegness and a scratched and dented Seven Up top discovered in the lining of a suitcase after forty years in an attic and a mysterious French one called Mâitre Brasseur – GOLDHORN, which could be a cider or a beer and has pour ouvir – tournez around its serrated edge. I generally play eleven soft drinks tops against eleven ales and lagers from around the world, using my left hand against my right. My left hand is my team Middlesbrough, my right represents any of the big guns from Leeds to Lazio.
It’s like Subuteo with bottle-tops. Using a finger, you flick players at a small plastic counter which serves as a ball, with goals cut out of tissue boxes. I play ten minutes each way with time added for stoppages, like when a player’s sent off or rolls under the wardrobe. I’m left-handed, so although I’m nearly as good by now with my right, Middlesbrough usually wins, and if you happen to be passing my door you’ll hear me going, ‘And Lewis Overfeld gathers the ball on the half-way line – superb hit of control – rushes at the heart of Juventus defence – quick one-two with Sparkling Perrier Water, side-steps two tackles, exchanges passes with Cidona and unleashes a terrific shot – oh my word, it’s hit a post with Kronenburg in the Juve goal stranded!’
I go to bed on top of the world after leading Middlesbrough to another famous European trophy, and then lie there dreaming of tomorrow’s games lesson when finally I’ll burst out of my shell and amaze Joey and Winston and Lee Jordan, and of course Mr Marvin, with my remarkable dribbling skills and clinical shooting.
But when I wake in the morning, it’s still me in the mirror. Mum says I’m handsome and have nice eyes and I’ll have lots of girlfriends one day, but all I can see is a stammering twelve-year old twit, always on the outside of things, a childish outline of a boy waiting to be coloured in. And when afternoon games arrives, and we jog around the pitch, I keep up quite well because I walk a lot and I’m fit. But when they’re picking teams and I’m sticking out my chest…
‘ I don’t want him.’
‘ Well I don’t want him.’
‘ You have him.’
‘ No, you have him.’
My heart folds. All those sorry eyes on me. Useless Lewis. The games starts and I put myself about the call for people to pass, but I’m ignored. The wind blows leaves across the pitch and I look up at the sky and wonder if there really is a God and all at once the ball’s at my feet, a chance to display my wondrous gifts, voices shouting Run with it! Pass! or Shoot! or something, but in my fever to impress I stumble around like a clown, miskick, fall over myself.
‘ Oh Lewis, for God’s sake!’ |
