A Shot In The Past - Children's story

One week later The ball sat up invitingly on the edge of the area. Bouncing just a yard or so off the grass. Leo steadied himself, then swung his right boot at it. A week ago, he would never have attempted such an audacious shot. He would have tried to control the ball and then pass it to a teammate. Whether they were better-placed or not. Today, though, was different. Today he was full of confidence. He already had two goals to his name. He desperately wanted a third. A hat-trick. And with time fast running out, this was probably his last opportunity to get it. Unfortunately, his foot did not connect with the ball in the way he had wanted. He had mistimed it. Badly.  So badly, in fact, that the ball ballooned harmlessly up into the air. It appeared to be more of a threat to the circling seagulls than it was to the Lakeland Spurs goalkeeper. Then, as if by magic, the ball started to loop down. Straight towards the Lakeland goal. The ‘keeper jumped to reach it. Threw bot...

Rivulets of freezing cold water dripped down Leo’s face, causing his eyes to open with a start. At first, everything was out of focus. A strangely familiar haze seemed to have engulfed him. After blinking a few times, the blurriness began to fade and slowly his vision adjusted to the surroundings. A concerned looking Pete McCarthy was leaning over him. Tenderly cradling the back of Leo’s neck with one hand, whilst waving a water bottle above his face with the other. But it wasn’t the 11-year-old Pete McCarthy who Leo found himself staring up at. It was the 40-year-old version. Initially, Leo couldn’t make sense of what was happening. He tried to speak. Needed to ask questions. Where was he? What had happened? What year was this?  But he couldn’t get his thoughts in order. His words just came out as garbled gibberish. “You alright, son?” Pete asked, sounding concerned. He carefully dropped the water bottle to one side of the prone boy. “How many fingers am I holding up?” h...

The Portland City under 11s had never seen anything like it. Nor had the Deanview Juniors under 11s. Or the watching parents for that matter. For the third time in just under 10 minutes, the Portland right back skipped speedily up the wing. Once again, he used a combination of skill and speed to get past an opponent. Then, having left the Deansview left-back for dead, the boy lifted his head and spotted Matt darting towards the back post. Without breaking stride, Leo used his right foot to whip over an accurate low cross which arrived at the unmarked Matt’s feet just a few yards from the goal. The outcome was inevitable. Goal for Portland City. In the blink of an eye, the game had been completely turned on its head. Suddenly it was 3-1 to Portland. And right-back Leo had set up all three goals. The first time Leo had set off on a saunter up the wing a few minutes earlier, Bernie had yelled at him to get back in defence. To boot the ball forward and return to the halfway line wh...

 Bernie was not happy. Actually, scratch that. Too much of an understatement. Bernie was asbsolutely furious. Seething. Incensed. Irate. Leo could not remember having ever seen anyone so angry. Yet his Grandad’s rage was not aimed at him. It was directed purely at Pete. “I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve told you to not bottle tackles,” Bernie snarled at his shamefaced son. “Your cowardice has just cost us a goal! You need to toughen up, my boy. You think that was a bad tackle, then you should see what I used to have to put up with back when I was your age!   You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.” Instinctively, Leo shuddered. Those words sounded hauntingly familiar. As Bernie continued to berate his son, most of the other boys did their best to avoid the steely glare of their fuming coach. Some looked at the grass. Some at the sky. Some at each other. Anywhere was good enough, as long as it didn’t attract their coach’s eye.  They clearly sympathised ...

Less than 15 seconds of the game had been played. Leo already wanted the ground to swallow him up. He’d never felt so embarrassed.  Not that he was entirely sure what he was embarrassed about, mind you. From kick-off, Deansview Juniors passed the ball all the way back to their goalkeeper. To Leo’s surprise the goalkeeper had picked it up. “Backpass, ref,” he had yelled excitedly, realising his team were about to be awarded an in-direct free-kick just yards from the goal. Except they weren’t. Unbeknown to Leo, the back-pass law didn’t exist yet. Rather than blowing his whistle to give a free-kick, the ref simply stared at Leo. Utterly baffled. As did all the Deansview players. And the Portland City ones. Along with all the people watching the game. A bemused Bernie scratched idly at his beard. Not for the first time that morning, Leo felt like he was in a dream. A nightmare this time. One of those when you’re standing in front of a big crowd completely naked.  He co...

  Leo was uncomfortable. The coarse material of his football shirt was irritating his skin. He didn’t know what these older kits were made out of, but it certainly wasn’t the same stuff that modern kits were. The rough shirt was causing his skin to itch. The constant craving to scratch was driving him mad. His nipples were particularly sore. He could feel them chafing as they rubbed against the inside of his shirt whenever he moved.        Even though it wasn’t an especially cold morning, Leo wished he had a vest with him.  All the other boys were wearing them. Well, nearly all of them. Pete wasn’t allowed one. His Dad wouldn’t let him. It was obviously a source of huge frustration for Pete, and something that the others found hilarious. They had teased him mercilessly about the situation whilst getting changed. Once Bernie had left the room, of course. The shirt wasn’t the only piece of kit that Leo was finding uncomfortable. If anything, the s...

  Bernie McCarthy was a big, powerfully-built man. He was so tall that he constantly had to stoop as he prowled around a small, square room, located inside the portable building. Even then, the flat cap that he wore pulled tightly on top of his head, occasionally brushed the low ceiling. At a push, you might reasonably have expected to squeeze six, possibly seven, standard-sized 11-year-old boys inside this room. Fitting 11, plus a frankly gigantic man, was a quite remarkable achievement. Leo was thankful that the newer portable building that must have replaced this one at some point in the intervening years, was far larger. And a good deal cleaner. There was complete silence inside the makeshift changing room. All 11 boys watched Bernie as he circled the centre of the floor, carefully stepping around a black kit bag. His log-sized arms folded against his barrelled chest.  The coach hadn’t asked the boys to be silent. He hadn’t needed to. He was such an instantly imposin...

  It took Leo a few seconds to fully comprehend what Matt had just said. “You… you want me to play?” Leo asked, dubiously. “For your actual team?” “Yeah. Why Not?” Jamie responded, shrugging his slender shoulders. “It doesn’t matter that you’re a bit younger than the rest of us. You’re not that much smaller than Matt or Pete. And, anyway, I suppose it’ll be more use having you playing than no one at all.” “Plus…” added Matt, smirking, “having you on our team might confuse the opposition. When they see you and Pete together, they might think they’re seeing double.” It was a quip that caused all the boys to chuckle. All except for Pete. And Leo. “He don’t look like me,” moaned Pete, a little too loudly. It was a reaction which only provoked more good-natured ribbing from his friends. Leo’s mind was whirring. He suddenly felt dizzier than he had done when he’d stood up mere moments earlier. It was impossible to think straight. To take in everything that was happening....

  No matter how hard he tried, Leo could not stop himself from staring fixedly at the boy called Pete. The boy who Leo was convinced was an 11-year-old version of his Dad. He didn’t know how. He knew it didn’t make any sense. But, somehow, he also knew it was true. His first thought had been that he was still asleep. Still dreaming. He had subtly pinched himself a few times in different places in a bid to wake himself up.  Yet nothing changed.  He remained sitting in the middle of a muddy football pitch. Surrounded by a gang of oddly-dressed boys. Gazing upon the near-identical face of his father. His 11-year-old father. Leo’s unwavering gaze was clearly making Pete feel more than a little uncomfortable. “Why’s the new boy looking at me like that?” he asked his friends quietly, using a hand to cover his mouth. “Probably because you look absolutely identical,” replied the curly-haired boy, in a way that implied the answer to this particular question was entirely ...