‘Am I the best teacher in the world?’ Lue repeated, calmer than he had ever been before.
‘No,’ said Goose, and the bell rang.
I got E+, the same as Seb. Gunnar and Ola got a C.
‘When we break up for the summer we’ll have to buy a present for Lue,’ Gunnar said.
‘But what?’ Ola asked.
‘Don’t really know. We just have to buy him somethin’ to make him a bit happy.’
‘We could give ’im a Beatles record,’ Seb suggested.
‘Not sure he’s got a record player,’ Gunnar said.
‘It’s the thought that counts. That’s what my dad always says,’ I said.
‘Then we don’t need to b-b-buy ’im anythin’,’ Ola said.
The atmosphere on the bus was excited and intense. Åge stood by the driver talking tactics. The battle would be won in the midfield. As right back, I saw a long day ahead of me. Fortunately it was sunny. I was sitting next to John and behind us were Ringo and George. George was just staring out of the window without listening. It was always like that with him, he didn’t listen, but somehow understood everything all the same, an innate ability, I supposed. Ringo, on the other hand, looked very concerned. The historic save of his was a distant memory now, although it had only happened a few days ago. In fact, he had begun to doubt that it had happened at all – perhaps he had just dreamt it. Besides, Aksel, a mercurial custodian from Hoff, was the regular goalkeeper in the team and no one could threaten his position at present.
Gloomily, Ringo stuck his head between John and me.
‘This ain’t going to go w-w-well,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Not go well!’ John exploded. ‘We’re gonna grind the Slemmestad saps into the grass!’
‘For m-m-me,’ Ringo continued in the same tone. ‘G-g-gonna s-s-score an own goal. Can feel it in m-m-my legs.’
‘It’s not that easy to score against Aksel,’ I said.
‘My legs,’ Ringo mumbled. ‘They w-w-won’t obey me. G-g-gonna score an own goal.’
Ringo slumped back into his seat as we approached Slemmestad, which, for me, after standing on the jetty in Nesodden in the summer throwing tin cans in the water, amounted to no more than white smoke issuing from the cement factory.
It wasn’t until we were in the dressing rooms, however, that the gravity of the situation presented itself as barbs in our stomachs. There was a smell of Stone Age sweat and old gym shoes. We sat on the benches with bowed heads staring at our still clean football boots, the long white laces and the knots. Åge stood by the door, notebook in hand, his gaze shifting from one face to the next. On the floor beside him was the box with the blue and white shirts. Silence. It was so quiet we could hear the birds singing outside. At last Åge began to speak. He picked up the goalie’s shirt and threw it to Aksel. No one had expected anything else. To everyone’s surprise, though, the left back position went to a lad from Nordberg whom many considered a spy and an agent for Lyn. I was right back, I pulled the stiff, freshly washed shirt with number 2 on the back over my head. George was left wing and John centre forward. Ringo, along with seven others, was left on the bench, but looked almost relieved. He patted us on the back and said everything would be great, all the Slemmestad players were losers and we would win 25–0, at least. Then we ran out one after the other. The Slemmestad dipsticks were already warming up and along the touchline there were eleven fathers yelling and waving.
The grass had not really grown yet, for the most part the pitch was loose earth. We had a bit of a kick-around and took a few shots at goal to get used to the ball. Then a fat farmer blew the whistle and Kjetil and the Slemmestad captain met in the middle, tossed a coin and we had to change ends. It took me a couple of hours to explain to the Nordberg genius that he was standing in the wrong position, in my position. At last we worked out our formation, stood waiting like statues, with the ball in the middle of the pitch, the referee blew the whistle and John kicked off. Everyone slowly lurched into motion. The ball came into our half, the centre half, a beanpole from Ruseløkka, swung his leg and hoofed it up towards the opponents’ goal. Everyone stormed up the pitch, but the goalie threw himself into the melee and, with his body at full stretch, pounced on the ball. Clapping of hands and stamping of feet from the home crowd. The goalkeeper would have to be outfoxed, no point kicking up-and-unders. Then the ball came our way again and ricocheted to and fro for a bit. The fat referee was always on the wrong side of the field and every time he caught up, panting, the ball was played back again. John won the ball, accelerated towards the goal, but a Slemmestad lout came in with a late tackle and John went down face first into the wispy grass. Of course, the referee was facing the wrong direction and didn’t have a clue what was going on. Slemmestad had possession and launched an attack. The lout sprinted up my side of the field, received a beautiful pass, took it on the run and steamed towards me. Beside the goal, crowds of people were shouting and screaming and nodding their heads. The lout came closer, wild-eyed, and I wondered whether to pull his shirt or elbow him in the nose, but I didn’t have time to think the matter through. I met him with my shoulder, pressed my heel down on his boot, rolled the ball backwards with my other foot, turned quickly, rounded the fallen foe, spotted John sprinting down the pitch and sent him a high pass which followed him through the air, landed on his instep and stuck like chewing gum. Though I say it myself, I was pretty impressed. John had an open path on goal. The Slemmestad retards went puffing after him. There was just the keeper left now, but the idiot threw himself at John’s feet, both rolled over and the Slemmestad desperado staggered to his feet with the ball in his hands and a very bloody nose. He was treated with cotton wool and a fizzy drink. He would have to be outfoxed, no doubt about it.
The match sank into a slough now. Balls down the middle ended up in free for alls and in-fighting. But then a Slemmestad turkey wriggled his way down the left hand side, leaving everyone in his wake, and made straight for the goal. I ran across to cover the left back. I should never have done that. Realising that I was in his territory, the left back screamed at me to sod off, this was his position and what the hell was I doing there! He completely forgot the Slemmestad turkey, who raced past him. Aksel yelled at us and so I had to come to the rescue after all. I met the turkey in full flight, twisted my body to the right as I dug in my left elbow at kidney height. The bird took wing, the ball landed at my feet and I was about to roll it back to Aksel when our left back hit me from behind. White-faced, he kicked my leg and shoved me aside. And then of course another Slemmestad dipstick moved in, took the ball and ran on goal. Aksel didn’t dive at his feet, nothing so silly, he waited for the shot and leapt into the air, parallel to the ground. The ball stuck like glue between his hands. Then he pulled his parachute ripcord and fluttered gently to earth. The Nordberg spy looked perplexed, but kept insisting this was his territory. Annoyed, I suggested he should put up a sign saying private property, and trudged back into position.
There were just a few minutes left of the first half. Aksel rolled the ball out to me. I walked it as far as I could, up to the halfway line, as far as a back could go. I passed the ball to Kjetil. He dribbled past three players. Willy was at his side and they swept through the rest of the defence playing one-twos. One-touch football hadn’t come to Slemmestad yet. The goalie did the only thing he could do, dive at their feet, but neither the ball nor the feet were where he threw himself, and Willy was able to nudge the ball over the line with his nose. He had all the time in the world. Totally outplayed. 1–0, a war dance and somersaults. Birdsong drowned the referee’s whistle. They were supporting us. Must have been migratory birds from Tørtberg. Obvious, really.
During the half-time interval we gathered around Åge. He wasn’t too happy, even if we were leading. The defence was weak, dithery, he said. He took off the sloppy centre half, pulled John back to the midfield and brought in a centre forward from Majorstuen, a sprinter with a PB of 7.6 over sixty metres. George was allowe
d to continue on the left wing. He hadn’t done a great deal, but he hadn’t committed any howlers, either. And of course the spy from Lyn was given the heave-ho. Åge scanned the reserves, stopped at Ringo and beckoned to him. Ringo took a step forward, his thighs already on red alert. He was given the Nordberg idiot’s shirt and his hands were shaking so much he almost tied it into a knot.
When the interval was over and we were about to run out onto the field, Åge held me back and said in a low voice:
‘Not all referees have poor eyesight. Play with your legs and head, not your elbows!’
I trotted after the others and took up my position on the right hand side. I tried to catch Ringo’s eye, but he was incommunicado, staring hard at the turf and gripping his thighs. John waved and made the V for victory sign and the second half started. From the kick-off there was an immediate melee. No one saw the ball, but everyone was kicking wildly. Then it flew into the air towards us. John went up for a header, and even though he is not particularly tall he managed to push aside the Slemmestad leeches and nod the ball to Ringo who had moved upfield. Ringo set off, hit the ball as hard as he could, but slightly mishit it and it looped off towards the dressing rooms. Perfect time-wasting. The fathers whistled, but the birds were on our side and out-whistled them. We went back into defence mode, the throw-in led to another mass scramble for the ball and out of nowhere George sped off with the ball at his feet, running along the touchline, sent a cement post the wrong way and curved in a centre. Kjetil met the ball with his head and smacked it against the crossbar. The keeper stood looking at the sky, the ball rebounded in front of him and he dived into a flurry of scything legs. And in some mysterious way he emerged from the mayhem with the ball in his grasp this time, too. He was worse than a kamikaze pilot.
Now most of the game was in the Slemmestad half. John pushed forward, but Åge shouted to Ringo and me to stay in position in case they launched a counter-attack. And that was exactly what happened. I was sniffing around the midway mark when a long ball was kicked into our half. Ringo swung round like a compass needle. Two Slemmestad louts had started on a run, I sprinted for the ball too, it arced goalwards through the air, there were seconds separating us. It happened on the edge of the penalty box. Ringo, with the ball under control, played for time. John and I had cut off the two Slemmestad forwards and the whole thing should have been child’s play. We just waited for Ringo to lay off the ball to Aksel. However, instead, he got his whole body behind the ball and powered a perfect banana shot into the top left hand corner – unstoppable. We froze to a man, just stood and stared. Aksel, gaping at the ball careering around the net, was dumbstruck. The Slemmestad poltroons were shouting and embracing each other, and Ringo stood with bowed head banging the tip of his boot into the ground. I couldn’t quite see what was going on in his face, but a few weird sounds were coming from it and his back was trembling. The referee blew his rotten whistle and the birds huddled together on the branches and buried their beaks in their plumage.
Then Ringo walked off. He just left the field, walked past Åge, to the dressing rooms. A new man was sent on, a guy from Frøn who was so bow-legged that half the Slemmestad team could have walked between his thighs. We looked for Ringo, but he was gone. There were ten minutes left to play.
The home side had the bit between their teeth now as wave after wave rolled in. John fought like a lion and I didn’t keep a low profile, either, because there was only one thing to do now, make up for Ringo’s blunder. We had to win. In the distance, George was waving for the ball, but long passes were simply not possible. The game had become stagnant, like curdled milk. It was man to man marking now wherever the ball was. And the clock was ticking. Åge yelled from the sidelines, but no one could hear what he was saying. There were not much more than a couple of minutes left. All the players were in our half. Aksel was like a kangaroo between the posts gesticulating wildly. I managed to win the ball, backed my way out of the ruck and saw that John had set off on a terrific spurt up into Slemmestad’s empty half. I put all my power into the kick, leant back and delivered a ball that went through the air like a remote-controlled seagull. John caught it on the run, on his bootlaces, ten men thundered after him, the goalie was ready to throw himself at his feet, but John lobbed him, ten men skidded after the ball, but it was too late, it slipped into the net like a hand in a glove. And there was a rain dance and high jumps and the home supporters were tearing out their hair. The cement-men just managed to take the kick before the referee blew his whistle and the birds alighted from the branches, twittering that victory was ours.
We charged into the dressing rooms to look for Ringo. But no one was there. And the number 14 shirt lay neatly folded on the bench. His clothes had gone. We raced out again.
‘P’raps he’s sittin’ in the coach,’ George said.
We sprinted around the building to the car park. The coach was empty. We went back to Åge and asked him if he had seen Ringo.
‘Ringo?’
‘Ola,’ John said.
‘Beautiful lob,’ Åge said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Worth its weight in gold. I’ll put you back into the attack.’
‘Have you seen Ola?’ George asked impatiently.
‘Isn’t he in the dressing room?’
‘Nope.’
Ringo had vanished into thin air. We searched high and low, but there was no sign of him. In the end we had to take the coach home without Ringo. The mood was not how it should have been. Åge looked nervous. Everyone had some injury they needed to tend. There was a stench of sweat and cement on our shirts, which we had to take home and wash ourselves.
‘There’s such a thing as a premonition,’ Seb said under his breath.
‘Premonition?’ Gunnar turned to face him.
‘Yes. Kind of omen. He said he felt somethin’ in his legs on the way, didn’t he.’
We thought about this and looked at each other, unconvinced.
‘P’raps it was predetermined that he was goin’ to score an own goal,’ Seb continued.
‘Predetermined?’ I said. ‘By whom?’
‘By… by… I haven’t a clue, God, maybe,’ Seb answered with a blush.
We went quiet again. The idea that God had interceded in the match between the boys’ teams of Slemmestad and Frigg was not an easy one to assimilate.
‘I s’pose God scored my goal, too, did he!’ Gunnar snapped.
‘Not at all,’ Seb said meekly. ‘I was just thinkin’ that it was… pretty weird.’
‘He was just unlucky,’ Gunnar reasoned. ‘It could’ve happened to anyone.’
‘Unlucky! With that shot!’
‘He’s not used to playin’ in defence,’ I said. ‘He may’ve forgotten and thought he was a striker.’
We contented ourselves with that. The coach drove past Sjølyst, our stop was Frogner church. We sat locked in our own thoughts about what might have happened to Ola. Either he had started walking or he had taken the train, if he had any money. Or he was still there. Christ.
Åge came to the back of the coach and crouched down.
‘I’ll ring his parents to find out if he’s got home okay.’
We nodded in unison.
‘And you make sure he comes to training. Everyone can have a bad day. We’ll find him a place.’
‘He’s good in goal,’ Seb said.
‘Right.’ Åge looked at us. ‘It would be difficult for him to oust Aksel.’
‘He could be the reserve goalie,’ Gunnar suggested.
Åge stood up.
‘That’s an idea. I’ll keep that in mind.’
The coach stopped outside the church and we scrambled out.
There was only one thing to do. We walked en masse down to Observatoriegata. But Ola had not come home. His father opened the door.
‘Didn’t Ola come back with you?’ he asked.
Gunnar and Seb looked at each other, lost for words. I cleared my throat and said:
‘We had a training session in T?
?rtberg after the match. Ola went with some others from the class we met in Majorstuen.’
‘No, he’s not home yet.’
Jensen, the hairdresser, pulled up his shirt sleeve, checked his watch, raised his combed eyebrows and slowly shook his head. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s probably with Putte or Goose,’ I said with alacrity.
Then the mother appeared too, a small, thin lady with lots of curls in her hair and worried eyes.
‘Is anything the matter?’
And then the phone rang from deep inside the flat. That must have been Åge, so we backed down the stairs and charged out of the door.
We couldn’t walk to Slemmestad. There was nothing else for it but to go home. We hung on in the vague hope that Ola might turn up. He did not. It was strange to think that he might be walking along the road on his own at this moment. He might even have got lost. And soon it would be dark. We shivered, agreed to meet tomorrow at five in Mogens Thorsens Park, Mogga Park to us. Then we each went our own way. The sun was going down behind the red clouds above Holmenkollen Ridge, casting a dark, flat light over the town. Getting home was a priority now because Saturday warfare had started. The Frogner gang could strike at any time. I slunk along a house wall, peered around every corner, thinking about Ola, and about knuckledusters, headbutts, a nose bone which had been smashed into the brain, a boy in the street whose eye went into spasm a couple of years back, the centre of his eyeball quivered while he screamed and screamed.
I ran the last stretch.
I showered, washed the Slemmestad crap off myself and joined my mother and father in the sitting room. I had to tell them about the match and was given sausages, griddle cakes, Pommac and stuff. But I couldn’t sit still. Ola might have been kidnapped, put in a sack and dumped in the fjord. Or he might have been sold as a slave to Arabia. That had happened before. I had to ring. My fingers trembled over the telephone dial.
His mother answered.
‘Is Ola at home?’ I asked. ‘Kim here.’