Soldier's Game Read Online Free Page A

quickly among themselves with a dozen brown leather balls in constant motion. It looked like slapstick comedy. People began tolaugh and cheer. The fans around Ross looked up.
    “Who are those guys?” someone asked.
    But just then a huge roar arose from the crowd. Down at the mouth of the players’ tunnel the real Hearts squad had appeared, dressed in white jerseys and bright maroon shorts. Everyone jumped to their feet and the announcer cried, “Come on you Jambos! Let’s make some noise!”
    The Hearts players thundered out of the tunnel across the pitch. In that instant Jack Jordan and the rest of the ghost squad vanished as though already forgotten.
    ***
    On Saturday morning Ross shovelled down his porridge as Ying waited to chum him down to Harrison Park for a 9.30 kick-off. Finishing his breakfast, he found his kit bag at the front door as usual but no football boots.
    “Anyone seen my boots?” he hollered.
    “Ask me another,” his mother replied.
    And then Ross remembered. It had been so muddy last Saturday, Pat had given him a plastic bag for his boots. He must have left the bag in her porch. He’dnever get there and back to the training ground in time for kick-off. Just then another thought occurred to him.
    Ross dashed upstairs and down the hall to his room. He reached under his bed for the old leather boots and then descended the steps two at a time, stuffing them into his kit bag. He and Ying sprinted down Polwarth Terrace towards the park.
    Ross had never been superstitious. Notions of good or bad fortune didn’t figure much in his thinking. But it had been an odd week and hurrying then to the match he began to wonder if wearing the boots that morning might just bring him luck.
    Only a few spectators had turned up to watch the match. Ross felt a little ridiculous when he sat on the sidelines to lace up the boots. Barry at least was impressed.
    “Those certainly look vintage,” he said, having himself opted that morning for a dark wool pinstripe suit, which made him look like a Chicago gangster.
    Craig Muir and the other S1s were less admiring.
    “Hey, Anderson, get your boots from Oxfam?” Muir called.
    Everyone on the pitch laughed but the grass was wet and Ross figured the boots would at least bebetter than trainers.
    The opening whistle blew and the P7s took first possession. But within a few seconds the S1s had the ball and their centre forward broke free of the defence and made a neat side step around Ying to score the first goal. Things didn’t get any better after that.
    Kicking off again after a second S1 goal – scored from a corner – Calum passed the ball to Owen at centre midfield, who eluded a couple of players before booting it hard down the left wing towards Ross.
    It was an excellent pass, perfectly timed. Ross sprinted down the line to run on to the ball. The boots felt stiff and ungainly. But he managed to check the pass off his inside foot and drive it forward. Looking up he glimpsed Muir hurtling towards him.
    Scary as this was Ross saw an opportunity; the big defender’s momentum would make it hard to change direction. So Ross dodged left and cut back inside. Muir brushed past his shoulder with a curse.
    A cheer rose from the parents on the sidelines. Nothing stood now between Ross and the goalie but open ground. He drove the ball towards the centre, looking for position. The goalie came forward with afrantic wave of his arms.
    “Have a dig. Shoot!” Bob Nelson hollered.
    Ross turned on the ball. It was an easy chip. He’d made countless similar shots in practice. He planted his right foot, but as he followed through, the toe of his left boot scuffed over the pitch, and he stumbled and fell forward into the grass. The ball trickled to the edge of the box.
    “Smooth,” said the goalie and punted the ball back to Muir.
    Ross picked himself slowly off the ground. The rest of the match passed in a blur. He hardly touched the ball again. Over and over the moment replayed in