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       Ibrahim Goes Too Far

      By the time Saleem blew the whistle to end the first half, the score was four-nil to Shabab al-Nasr, Amir having completed a sublime hat-trick.

      Abdullah, having apparently forgotten Amir’s manner with him earlier in the week, rushed over to congratulate him on his performance.

      ‘I’m rewriting the record books over here, Amir!’ he gushed. ‘95 per cent dribble completion, 83 per cent pass completion from 6 passes, 100 per cent tackle success from 23 challenges… it’s been a debut of epic proportions!’

      Amir was sufficiently pleased with himself to smile at Abdullah’s statistical bulletin.

      ‘I dunno what all of that means but, OK, sweet,’ Amir replied casually.

      ‘Well,’ frowned Abdullah, ‘dribble completion refers to…’

      ‘I have a question,’ interrupted Mr Zidane, taking his son by the arm and pulling him out of Abdullah’s earshot, unaware that Mr Bateman was standing only a few metres away. ‘Why is your pass rate so high in the first place? Six passes! Why are you passing it at all?’

      Amir shrugged, a look of puzzlement on his face. Mr Zidane gestured to the handful of spectators standing around the pitch.

      ‘Any of these guys could be one, Amir,’ Mr Zidane hissed. ‘Any one of them could be the scout who takes us to the Premier League. They’re nice lads here, sure, but we’re not here to make friends by sharing the ball around, son. We’re here to make an impact. Remember? That’s why we came to the team who won that tournament last year, isn’t it? More chance the scouts’ll be watching their games, right?’

      Amir looked doubtfully at the tiny crowd, as an old man tucked his Sunday newspaper under his arm and ambled away.

      ‘Not here today, maybe,’ added Sofiane Zidane, reading his son’s thoughts, ‘but they will be at the tournament!’

      Whitehaven put up a better show in the second half, but Amir carried on from where he had left off in the first. He quickly added two more unstoppable goals to his tally. Seeming to realise all too late that Amir was the one to stop, all of the Whitehaven players began to chase him, almost encircling him. Although he dazzled them with deft footwork, and more than once broke away from his entire band of pursuers, he now found himself frequently crowded out.

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      ‘Just pass it!’ whined Faris, but with the words of his father still ringing in his ears, Amir would do no such thing.

      Mr Bateman chuckled. ‘It reminds me of when my old dad used to play football with us in the street! By the end we’d be pulling on his arms and his legs, trying to get that ball off him.’

      ‘That’s enough for one day,’ mumbled Coach Saleem. ‘Ali, you’re going on for Amir.’

      Amir skipped to the touchline, nonchalantly accepting a high five from Ali as the players swapped over. He anticipated a word from his father, but Mr Zidane was staring in disbelief at Shabab’s coach. Faris and Ismail were also replaced, by Ibrahim and Khalid. Khalid resumed his captain’s role with gusto, as if he’d never been absent. He barked instructions at everyone as if they were desperately chasing a winner, not merely cruising to an easy victory. To Ibrahim’s frustration, his fine header from Ali’s cross, soon after coming on, was disallowed by Whitehaven’s coach, who claimed that he had been offside.

      ‘But Ali passed the ball backwards,’ protested Ibrahim, desperate to have a goal to his name.

      ‘Ref’s decision is final,’ glared Saleem, who had never before had to warn his players about arguing with the officials.

      ‘Learn the rules,’ grumbled Ibrahim. The referee did not appear to hear him, but Saleem seethed from the touchline.

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