Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

Football Tryouts

Simon

Baz was right, the Mage is taking away mobile phones. I didn't hear it from him though. He still hasn't spoken to me since I got back. One of the Mage's men came in during Political Science and pried them from our pockets. I'd only made it halfway through Eclipse.

If I could just talk to the Mage maybe I could convince him to give my phone back to me. But last week when I called out to him in the courtyard he had just said "not now Simon, I'm busy," and downright ignored my existence.

School is back in full swing now and I'm struggling. All I can think about in Greek is yiros, which is entirely different to the magical importance of Aristotle. Typically, Baz's Greek is flawless. He called me a "malakas" yesterday which I would otherwise Google but without my phone I'm left completely clueless to Baz's bilingual bullying.

Penny takes Greek too and just like Baz she's amazing at it. She might deserve even more credit because Baz has been spoon-fed French, Greek and Latin lessons by a governess since age three. Don't get me started on Latin. The language is as mind bogglingly boring as it is dead.

The only light at the end of the tunnel is that football tryouts are tonight after school. With all my walking during the summer I'm fitter than usual. I've been practising too. Me and this kid called Gavin from the home had a few one-to-one games down at the local park.

Baz will get in no problem. He's both graceful and ruthless on the field.

My leg bounces in an anticipation as I watch the clock on the wall. After aeons, the grandfather clock strikes half-past three. Our Greek teacher, the Minotaur as we call him, yells a fleeting "τα λέμε" or "see you" and I pile my books up in my arm and bolt out the door.

I race to Mummer's house, change into my football uniform, and pack a change of clothes and a bar of soap. As I bullet down the stairs there's Baz walking up them, cool and long-legged on the way to get his uniform.

"Don't waste your energy, Snow," he says menacingly, "you'll have even less chance."

I growl at him and keep running until I see him slip into our room, then decide maybe I should walk instead.

***

I dump my bag in the change room and join the rest of the boys on the pitch. We jog two laps then gather in the centre to do some stretches. There's something in those sour cherry scones that gives me the energy I need, apparently even Watford's morning tea snacks are more nutritious than the congealed green gunge they serve at the home.

Coach Mac gets us first to dribble through the cones the are laid out in a straight line across the lush green grass. Ross McMahon, a tall dark and handsome seventh year, manoeuvres around the cones effortlessly. He's followed by Baz who does it just as effortlessly, if not more so. Dev and Niall follow easily and all of a sudden it's my turn. Gavin and I never practiced any of the technical stuff, mainly we just did shoot outs. I shuffle and stumble over the cones and when I make it to the end Baz and his minions are sneering.

Coach Mac's face falls. "Out of practice are you Mr. Snow?"

Coach Mac is in his early 40s. He's never outright rude to any of us, just remarks the obvious, mostly because he doesn't really care. Coaching cocky teenage boys for two decades is certain to dull a person's spirit.

Next, Coach Mac splits us into shirts and skins and gets us to play a half field game. I'm put on the skins team as the goalie. The no shirt thing is a major relief in the heat but the goalie gig sucks. Gavin was a lousy shooter anyway so it was easy to defend, I barely even had to dive because he aimed right at my feet. So I guess I really am out of practice.