Striker Boy Kicks Out (4 page)

When Nat walked into the kitchen the next morning, Inés was sitting at the table reading a newspaper.

“Are you happy with toast and jam and coffee for breakfast?” she asked, looking up. “We don't eat big breakfasts round here. If you want something more substantial, I can easily make it, though.”

“Toast and coffee is perfect,” replied Nat.

“You're not training at Talorca's La Plaza Stadium,” Inés explained, standing up to put some bread in the toaster. “Talorca are taking turns with the teams in their group to train there. The teams in your group will be based at one of our neighbouring clubs, Sporting El Mar.
El mar
means ‘the sea'.”

Nat knew El Mar. They were in the Spanish second division and had just missed out on promotion last season.

“Their ground is inland,” explained Inés. “Is it OK if we leave in fifteen minutes?”

“That's fine,” nodded Nat.

“I'll be taking you to training every day,” smiled Inés, “and I'll be around to chauffeur you other places if you need.”

Nat, who loved his independence, baulked slightly at this. “You don't have to take me
everywhere,”
he replied. “I'd like to catch a Spanish bus sometime and I'm sure I'll travel some places on the team coach.”

“Whatever suits you,” replied Inés.

Nat ate three pieces of toast spread with tasty peach jam and poured himself a cup of strong coffee.

“There's a piece about the tournament on the back pages of the paper,” said Inés. “Would you like to see it?”

“Er . . . my Spanish is very basic,” responded Nat. “I'd hardly be able to read a word.”

“No problem,” said Inés, taking the paper and scanning the story.

“Oh,” she said after a minute.

“What is it?” asked Nat.

“It's . . . er . . . just something from Talorca's captain, Alberto Tieras. He loves the sound of his own voice. I'm sure you don't want to hear it.”

“No, go on,” said Nat.

“Alright,” she sighed, “here goes. Tieras claims that Talorca should easily win their group and progress to Saturday's final. ‘Marseilles and Hamburg should be no match for us, and we're confident of progressing,' he declared. Asked about the teams in the other group, Tieras paid a minimum of respect to Celtic and Lazio, but
reserved some biting criticism for the late replacement, English team Hatton Rangers.”

Inés looked up from the paper. “Are you sure you want me to go on?” she enquired.

“Absolutely!” nodded Nat.

“In Tieras's words, ‘Hatton Rangers are a tiny outfit from the backwoods of English football. They've only just made it to the top level and spent a whole season facing the drop. We would have much preferred Everton to have been here because they are a big-name club. I mean, Hatton who?' said Tieras.”

Inés grimaced and put the paper down. “I don't think a diplomatic career will beckon for Tieras after he's finished with football,” she smiled apologetically, as if his words were her fault.

“Definitely not,” agreed Nat, a bit shocked that the captain of the tournament's host team would be so liberal in spreading bile about Hatton Rangers before a ball had been kicked.

A few minutes later, Nat was inside Inés's red Fiat, on his way to training. They cut through olive groves and dusty hills, finally picking up a more substantial road until Inés pulled up in front of the El Mar Stadium. It was no La Plaza, but it was surrounded by four pretty chunky stands. Nat knew its capacity was 20,000. That was 10,000 less than Hatton Rangers's Ivy Stadium, but it still looked big. Its front facade was painted in El Mar's colours – purple and white.

As Nat climbed out of the Fiat and thanked Inés for the ride, the Hatton Rangers team bus came into view.

“I'll see you tonight,” said Inés, giving him a wave and driving away.

The Rangers players started filing off the coach.

“Hey Nat!” called Adilson, Rangers's skilful Brazilian midfielder. “How's it going? Did you miss us?”

Nat laughed.

“Don't worry,” grinned Adilson, “the boss had us going to bed early like good boys. But I bet him and Evans stayed down in the bar for a few drinks!”

A red sports car pulled up, driven by an older man with a grey ponytail and large sunglasses. Emi got out of the passenger side. “See you later, Pedro!” he called out, before the sports car sped off. Nat got on well with Emi – a six foot three nineteen year-old, who'd already made ten appearances for the Ivory Coast senior side. There was often a spark of mischief in his intense dark brown eyes.

“That guy is a serious dude!” laughed Emi, walking over to join Nat and Adilson. “He had me up ‘til all hours showing me his poker tricks!”

Nat and Adilson laughed and they followed everyone else through the front door of the stadium, across a marble-tiled concourse, down some stairs, along a corridor that smelt of engine oil, and into a changing room.

It was nowhere near as smart and comfortable as their changing room back at the Ivy Stadium, but it was clean and functional. Stan Evans was placing training kit on the
benches round the room. The club physiotherapist Colin Dempsey and publicity woman Helen Aldershot were the only other members of the Rangers staff accompanying Fox and Evans on the trip.

Nat found a space on the benches and started getting changed.

At that moment, the changing room door flew open and Kelvin burst in. “I am staying with a totally crazy family!” he groaned, making a beeline for Nat and Emi. Kelvin was short and muscular – a dead ringer for Brazilian legend Roberto Carlos. At twenty, he was firmly established as the England under-twenty-ones' right-back.

“Crazy in what way?” asked Emi.

“They have seven year-old twin boys, who got me to sign everything in their house. I mean EVERYTHING – tables, chairs, even their teddy bears!”

“It makes a change to be wanted!” shouted the Wildman.

The whole changing room, including Kelvin, erupted in laughter.

“Listen up!” declared Ian Fox, striding into the room. “This is where the serious business starts!”

Fox was hugely respected both within Hatton Rangers and by the outside world. He'd taken the club from the fourth tier right up to the Premier League in seven seasons, with a limited budget and a skeleton staff.

Nat did up his bootlaces and sat down with everyone else. He could feel the nerves jangling inside him. Here
he was again with the real Hatton Rangers squad, about to start training. No matter how many times he'd sat with these players – who until a few months ago were his heroes on posters and in newspapers – it still felt totally surreal.

“Welcome back to the world of professional football!” boomed Fox.

Emi winked at Nat.

“It's good to see that everyone has reached this point without picking up any serious injuries – no tripping over kids' paddling pools, falling down stairs carrying their kids' computers or getting ruptured stomachs due to excessive ice cream consumption.”

Everyone laughed. Robbie Clarke groaned. He was the one who'd broken his arm after falling downstairs – just before the Tottenham game at the end of the season. Luckily it hadn't been too bad a break and the club doctor had passed him as fit two weeks ago.

“So let's cut straight to the serious bit,” continued Fox. “If there's anyone in this room who thinks this is some kind of jolly, they might as well get changed and make their way to the airport. This is where our new season begins and I am utterly determined to make sure that this season is very different from the last. Being so perilously close to relegation from the off was not good for the nerves or the heart.”

“Too right!” agreed the Wildman.

“Your performance against Manchester United was the
best of the season. After all of my lectures and demands, you finally started playing like a team. And that's what I want you to do out here. The better you gel as a group over the course of this tournament, the better our chance of making a good start to the season back home.”

There were nods all round the room.

“This is not some meaningless kick around in the sun. This is a tournament in which we will be competing alongside five world-class teams – teams who have all won numerous trophies. Our lack of silverware might make them think we're some lightweight outfit, here just to make up the numbers, but we're going to prove them wrong. We start the tournament on equal terms with those other teams. There'll be people back home and all over the world watching these games and we mustn't let ourselves down.”

Nat swallowed nervously.
What happens if Lazio and Celtic completely smash us? It would be such a confidence destroyer before the start of the new Premier League season.

“And there's another important aspect to this tournament,” continued Fox. “Phone Valve – the company sponsoring this tournament – have made a commitment to pouring some sponsorship money into the winning team.”

There were raised eyebrows all round the changing room.

“For the Talorcas and Lazios of this world, the sum we're talking about might be peanuts, but to us it would
represent a fundamental financial leg-up, and take a bit of pressure off our chairman. As you know, Steve Pritchard has put millions into this club.”

Nat knew – because Fox had told him and his father – that if Hatton Rangers had been relegated, Steve Pritchard would have bowed out of the club and bankruptcy would have been a certainty.

“It's high time Mr Pritchard got some value for money. The Phone Valve sponsorship opportunity provides an extra dimension to our need to shine on the field out here. Does everyone get that?”

“Yes boss,” chorused the Rangers players.

“Good,” said Fox, “now let's get out there!”

As the players jogged out of the changing room into the brightness of the day, Nat instantly saw that the pitch was in good condition for a small club. The earth around the goalmouths was exposed but on a par with some pitches back home.

Unlike some other clubs that employed first team coaches, Fox and Evans carried out all training sessions themselves. They wanted to see every move, and shape the way the side played.

“OK,” Fox called out. “We'll start with some warm-ups and then some gentle running – to ease you boys in.”

Nat was delighted to begin in this calm fashion. Since that last game of the season, he'd made sure he stayed fit and as match-ready as possible. He'd gone on long runs in the fields and meadows surrounding the cottage in the first two weeks. He'd also spent hours practising his shooting and free kicks in the large field at the back of the cottage. He worked on his angles, and on the power of his shots and had experimented with hitting balls high and low,
swerving and dipping. He knew that if he had any chance of really making a career out of this, he'd constantly need to put in large amounts of extra work, just like all of his favourite players did.

He'd bought some dumb-bells from a shop in Lowerbury to build his upper body strength. He'd done thousands of press-ups and sit-ups. And the previous week he'd been going to Shelton Park every day to work out in the excellent gym. He'd seen a couple of the players there – Dean Jobson and Andy Young – but most of the squad relished the chance to have a complete break from the everyday pressures of being a professional footballer.

However, in spite of all of the work and time Nat had committed, there were still nagging doubts in his mind about his body strength and his ability. It wasn't a level playing field. The other players were much older than him – some were nearly twenty years his senior. Their bodies were much more developed than his – he was still growing. He knew he could pass and shoot and head the ball, but had his appearances at the end of last season just been flukes? Or had he had an easy introduction to top-level matches because his legs were fresh, whereas everyone else had been exhausted after playing so many games?

Stop worrying about all that and concentrate!

After the warm-ups and gentle jogs, they did some more demanding runs and then some dribbling work with cones in different zones of the pitch. Nat felt himself
getting into his stride. He always enjoyed working by himself on his fitness and skills, but it felt great to be back with the rest of the squad. It also felt liberating to be without bitter ex-Rangers striker Steve Townsend, who had felt so seriously threatened by Nat's arrival that he'd tried to end his career by a vicious tackle in training. Nat had seen a tiny piece in the papers a couple of weeks back, linking Townsend with a couple of teams in the third tier of English football.

They can have him!

“Alright, lads,” called out Fox. “I want defenders and midfielders with me, strikers and keepers go with Stan.”