Family first

Tuesday morning began with the sort of excitement that usually meant Mrs Brand was going to regret saying, “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

“Come on, boys!” she called. “Football camp!”

Alfie appeared first.

He had his football boots neatly packed, shin pads in place, water bottle filled and a packed lunch containing exactly the sort of food a sensible eight-year-old believed was appropriate for sport.

Barry appeared next.

He was wearing one football boot, one wellington boot and a dinosaur dressing gown.

Marmaduke arrived behind him wearing two football boots, but they were both on the wrong feet.

“I’m ready!” Barry announced.

“You’re not,” said Alfie.

“I am.”

“You’re wearing a dressing gown.”

“It’s my football coat.”

“It isn’t.”

“It could be.”

Alfie sighed.

He had been doing a lot of sighing lately. It was becoming one of his hobbies.

Mrs Brand came downstairs with her phone pressed against her ear.

“Yes, I’ll send that email in ten minutes,” she said. “No, not tomorrow. Today.”

She looked at Barry.

She looked at Marmaduke.

She looked at Alfie.

Then she looked at the clock.

“Why are you wearing a wellington boot?”

Barry considered this.

“Because football happens outside.”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes briefly.

“Fair enough.”

That was how Tuesday began.

Alfie loved football.

He loved playing it properly, practising his passing, working on his shooting and learning new skills.

And, most importantly, Alfie played by the rules.

All of them.

Every single one.

If the coach said the ball had gone out, Alfie accepted it.

If the referee awarded a free kick, Alfie took it.

If somebody fouled him, he got up.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t complain.

He certainly didn’t tackle people from behind and then pretend it had been an unfortunate collision with gravity.

Unfortunately, there was somebody at camp who seemed to have a rather different approach to football.

He was the school bully.

The school bully had been in Alfie’s year at school for a while, and he had never been Alfie’s favourite person.

At Sports Day last term, Alfie had beaten him.

The school bully had not enjoyed this.

Not one little bit.

He had complained.

He had blamed the starting whistle.

He had blamed the weather.

He had blamed his shoes.

At one point he had even suggested that the grass was “slightly sloping”.

Nobody had known what that meant.

Now the school bully was back from a holiday abroad, apparently refreshed, relaxed and completely ready to behave like a person who had never met a consequence in his life.

When he saw Alfie at football camp, he grinned.

“Remember Sports Day?”

Alfie nodded.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Okay.”

The school bully walked away.

Alfie watched him go.

Barry watched Alfie.

Barry was four.

Barry noticed everything.

He especially noticed things that adults wished he hadn’t.

The first session was passing practice.

Alfie was brilliant.

He moved quickly, kept his head up and passed accurately.

Barry and Marmaduke were in the younger group, where their main objective appeared to be remaining inside the boundaries of the pitch.

This was not going particularly well.

“Barry!” shouted the coach.

“Yes?”

“That’s a cone.”

“I know.”

“Why are you kicking it?”

“It was in my way.”

“It’s supposed to be there.”

“Oh.”

Marmaduke ran over.

“Barry! Look! I can kick it too!”

“No!”

The coach intercepted Marmaduke before he could demonstrate.

“Let’s leave the cones alone, boys.”

Marmaduke nodded solemnly.

“Okay.”

He immediately looked at Barry.

“Later?”

Barry nodded.

“Definitely.”

Meanwhile, Alfie’s group had started a small-sided game.

Barry wandered over to watch.

And that was when he saw it.

The school bully went in hard on Alfie.

It was a legal tackle… Just.

Alfie went down.

He got straight back up.

“Sorry,” the school bully said.

But he didn’t sound sorry.

Then came another tackle.

Then a little shoulder.

Then a comment.

“You’re not as good as you think you are.”

Alfie said nothing.

Barry frowned.

Marmaduke appeared beside him holding a football.

“What’s happening?”

“The school bully’s being mean to Alfie.”

Marmaduke looked concerned.

“Are we allowed to be mean back?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Alfie says we’re not allowed.”

Marmaduke thought about this.

“Could we be extremely polite while doing something annoying?”

Barry looked at him.

“That is an excellent idea.”

At lunchtime, Alfie sat quietly with his sandwich.

Barry sat opposite him.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

“You look sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

“You look cross.”

“I’m not cross.”

“You look like you’re thinking about something.”

“I am.”

“What?”

Alfie sighed.

“Nothing.”

Barry knew this wasn’t true.

He had seen it yesterday.

When Mum had asked Alfie how football had gone, Alfie had said:

“Fine.”

Just one word.

And Barry knew that “fine” did not mean fine.

It meant:

Please don’t ask me because I don’t want to make Mum worry.

Barry had noticed.

Barry always noticed.

He just didn’t always understand.

This time he did.

Alfie didn’t want to tell Mum because she already had work.

Dad had work.

Marjory had work.

Everyone was busy.

So Alfie was trying to handle it himself.

Barry looked across at Marmaduke.

Marmaduke was attempting to open a yoghurt using his teeth.

“Don’t,” said Barry.

Marmaduke stopped.

“Why?”

“Because Alfie will tell you it’s wrong.”

Alfie looked up.

“Thank you.”

Marmaduke used his spoon.

Barry leaned closer.

“We need to help Alfie.”

Alfie frowned.

“How?”

Barry smiled.

“I have a plan.”

Alfie immediately looked worried.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Barry’s plan was not, as Marmaduke had hoped, to hide the school bully’s football boots.

It was not to put mud in his water bottle.

It was not to put a snail in his lunch.

These had all been suggested.

Instead, Barry had a much better idea.

“We’re going to beat him.”

Marmaduke’s eyes widened.

“Like in football?”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re four.”

“I know.”

“The school bully is eight.”

“I know.”

Barry paused.

“That’s why you’re doing it.”

Marmaduke’s face dropped.

“Oh.”

“No,” said Barry. “We’re not actually going to play him.”

Barry explained.

They would help Alfie.

They would cheer for him.

They would make sure Alfie kept playing his best football.

And they would not break one single rule.

Not even one.

This was, frankly, a revolutionary concept for Barry.

The afternoon game began.

The school bully was on Alfie’s team.

Barry and Marmaduke stood at the side of the pitch watching.

“Come on, Alfie!” shouted Barry.

“Go on, Alfie!” shouted Marmaduke.

The school bully rolled his eyes.

The game started.

Alfie immediately moved into space.

He received the ball.

Passed.

Moved.

Received it again.

Passed.

Shot.

Goal.

“YES!” screamed Barry.

Marmaduke jumped up and down.

“ALFIE SCORED!”

The school bully stared at Alfie.

Alfie simply jogged back.

Then the school bully tried again.

He went into another tackle.

Alfie sidestepped him.

 The school bully missed.

Alfie passed.

Another teammate scored.

Barry screamed so loudly that one of the coaches turned around.

“Barry, inside voice.”

“Sorry!”

Three seconds later:

“COME ON, ALFIE!”

“Barry.”

“Sorry.”

Then the school bully did something different.

He started sniping.

“Lucky.”

“Your pass was rubbish.”

“You think you’re amazing.”

Alfie ignored him.

Barry could see Alfie’s jaw tightening.

Marmaduke whispered:

“Is Alfie going to explode?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Probably.”

The ball came to Alfie.

The school bully charged toward him.

Alfie controlled it beautifully.

He turned.

Connor lunged.

Alfie passed.

The ball went straight to another player.

“Brilliant!” shouted the coach.

The school bully looked furious.

The ball came back to Alfie.

This time he ran.

Past one player.

Then another.

The school bully chased him.

Alfie reached the edge of the box.

He shot.

Goal.

The coach blew the whistle.

“Great football, Alfie!”

Barry punched the air.

“That’s my brother!”

Marmaduke shouted:

“THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER!”

Nobody was entirely sure why Marmaduke thought this needed clarification.

Then the school bully made his mistake.

He shoved Alfie.

Not a tackle.

Not a collision.

A proper shove.

Alfie stumbled.

The referee blew the whistle.

“Free kick.”

 The school bully protested.

“I barely touched him!”

Barry immediately stepped forward.

Marmaduke grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?”

Barry took a deep breath.

He remembered the plan.

No hitting.

No shouting at the school bully. 

No cheating.

No tricks.

Just football.

He turned to Alfie.

“Come on, Alfie.”

Alfie looked at him.

Barry smiled.

“You know what you’re good at.”

Alfie nodded.

“Playing football.”

“And?”

“Playing fairly.”

“And?”

Alfie smiled.

“Winning.”

Barry grinned.

“Exactly.”

Alfie took the free kick.

The ball curled over the wall.

Straight into the corner.

Goal.

For a moment, everybody was silent.

Then the coach shouted:

“WHAT A GOAL!”

Barry and Marmaduke celebrated like England had just won the World Cup.

Alfie ran back, smiling.

 The school bully stood still.

He looked absolutely furious.

And Barry realised something.

He hadn’t needed to get one back on Connor.

Alfie had done it himself.

The right way.

At the end of the day, the coach called the boys together.

“Great session today. And Alfie?”

Alfie looked up.

“You were excellent.”

“Thanks.”

“You didn’t get drawn into any nonsense.”

Alfie glanced at the school bully. 

“No.”

“You kept playing your football.”

“Yes.”

“And you followed the rules.”

Alfie smiled.

“Yes.”

The coach nodded.

“That’s what good players do.”

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“We’re good players.”

Marmaduke looked down at his boots.

“But we didn’t actually play.”

Barry shrugged.

“Details.”

That evening, Marjory came round.

Mrs Brand was making dinner while simultaneously answering an email.

Mr Brand was on a work call.

Marjory had just arrived home from the hospital.

Alfie sat at the table drinking water.

“How was football?” asked Marjory.

“Really good,” said Alfie.

Mrs Brand looked over.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Barry immediately joined in.

“Alfie was AMAZING.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“He scored goals and did very good passing and the school bully was being horrible but Alfie didn’t do anything wrong.”

The room went quiet.

Mrs Brand lowered her phone.

Marjory looked at Alfie.

“The school bully?”

Alfie hesitated.

Then he nodded.

“He’s been picking on me.”

Mrs Brand put her phone down completely.

“Oh, darling.”

Alfie shrugged.

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Marjory sat beside him.

“You don’t have to make a fuss. But you do have to tell people when someone is treating you badly.”

Alfie nodded.

Barry climbed onto a chair.

“I knew.”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“You knew?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because I’m very clever.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“And because Barry watches everyone.”

Barry looked pleased.

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Well, I’m glad you were looking out for your brother.”

Barry grinned.

“I did.”

“What did you do?”

Barry paused.

This was the moment.

The moment where honesty was required.

“I encouraged him to win.”

Alfie smiled.

“And he did.”

Mrs Brand hugged him.

“Well done, Alfie.”

Barry smiled.

Marmaduke smiled.

Even Marjory smiled.

Then Barry said:

“Tomorrow I’m going to teach Marmaduke how to do a bicycle kick.”

Alfie nearly choked on his water.

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re four.”

“So?”

“Because you can’t do a bicycle kick.”

“I can.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

“Can you?”

Marmaduke thought carefully.

“No.”

Barry nodded.

“Right. We’ll practise.”

Alfie stared at them.

“Please don’t.”

Barry grinned.

And, unfortunately for everyone, tomorrow was Wednesday.

Which meant there was still another whole day of football camp.

And Barry had already decided that Wednesday was going to be the day he finally learned the difference between a bicycle kick and falling over backwards.

They were, after all, basically the same thing.

Probably.