Beatles Read Online Free Page B

place in the team was secure. So I stood rock still. All Ringo had to do was run around me, I was a buoy, and then centre the ball for a clear header on goal. But of course he had to overreach himself, he started with a few crazy step-overs, thinking he was in Brazil, his team were yelling and shouting at him, and then at long last he played the ball forward, lowered his back and ran straight for me. We banged heads and the ball rolled out of play and I got the throw-in.
    ‘Sh-sh-shit,’ Ringo wheezed. ‘B-b-bloody hell!’
    ‘I didn’t even move!’
    ‘H-h-how was I supposed to know. The b-b-back doesn’t usually stand b-b-bolt upright, does he!’
    I think our team won 17–11, and afterwards there was feedback and a review. A couple of players were down as dead certs, Aksel in goal, Kjetil and Willy in attack. And John must have been in, too, the snowplough. George looked quite exhausted and Ringo was peeved.
    ‘There’s a match next weekend,’ Åge shouted. ‘On Saturday. Against Slemmestad. In Slemmestad.’
    No one said anything. The gravity of the situation was apparent.
    The trainer continued:
    ‘And we’ll win this match!’
    We cheered.
    ‘Good lads! Everyone here today meet up at the same place on Saturday at three. We’re going to Slemmestad by coach. And the majority of you will get a run out on the pitch. But if any of you don’t, your chance will come later, okay!’
    The teams dispersed, some boys on their own, some in dribs and drabs. We were left standing in the middle of the huge ground studying each other.
    ‘Reckon all of us’ll get a game,’ John said.
    ‘That idiot over there wouldn’t let me p-p-past even when I a-a-asked him,’ Ringo said, pointing to me.
    ‘But I didn’t even move!’
    ‘Th-th-that’s why! I thought you’d m-m-move left so I headed s-s-straight for you. D-d-dirty trick!’
    All of a sudden John went quiet, stared like an Irish Setter in the direction of the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation building, and whispered in a cracked voice:
    ‘Isn’t that, isn’t that Per Pettersen comin’ towards us?’
    We stared, too. It was. It was Per Pettersen. The man himself. He was strolling towards us in white shorts and a blue and white shirt with a bag slung over his shoulder.
    ‘Must have his autograph,’ John shouted. ‘Any of you got anythin’ to write with?’
    Of course we hadn’t taken a pencil to football training, or any paper. Per Pettersen was approaching and John began to scour the grass in desperation. He couldn’t let the chance slip, but all he found was a Zip chewing gum wrapper. He smoothed it out on his thigh and up came Per Pettersen.
    ‘Autograph,’ John stuttered, passing him the wrapper.
    Per stopped and looked at us with gentle eyes. Then he put down his bag and laughed.
    ‘Haven’t got anythin’ to write with,’ John said.
    Per rummaged in his bag, found a biro and wrote his name on the sweet-smelling wrapper, Per Pettersen with two neat Ps. But as he was about to go Ringo pushed forward, he had been hopping from one foot to the other the whole time.
    ‘Could you have a shot at me, like?’
    Pettersen stopped and swept back his recalcitrant fringe.
    ‘Okay. You stand in goal.’
    Ringo, red-faced, gaped at the rest of us, then sprinted to the goal, positioned himself in the very centre and crouched down like a lobster. Per Pettersen placed the ball on the grass, retreated a few steps and tapped the toe of his boot on the grass.
    ‘Poor Ola,’ George said under his breath. ‘He’s gone soft in the head. If he even gets hold of the ball it’ll carry ’im through the nettin’.’
    Per Pettersen sprinted up and blasted and there was Ringo, sitting on the ground with the ball in his clutches. He hadn’t moved from the spot. He looked bewildered, as though he didn’t know what hadhappened. Then he scraped himself up and staggered over to us. Per Pettersen slung his bag over his shoulder, flicked back his fringe and shouted to