My Secret Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

want to talk to me afterwards. I think they’ve forgiven me now but I don’t want to make such a mistake again.
    But this match is important. We’ve travelled all the way to the countryside by bus. Everyone has been singing and chanting all day. Some of the players’ mothers have come along to support us. They’ve made sandwiches for half-time and painted posters to cheer us on with. I feel like I don’t belong here. Everyone really wants to win and I just know I’m going to ruin everything. For the entire journey, I thought I was going to jump out of one of the windows. I also get travel sickness and now that we’re finally in the changing rooms, I don’t feel well. As everyone straps up boots and puts on freshly-washed jerseys, I cower under the pressure of what’s to come. This is always the worst part. The room is buzzing with chatter and the hype of the atmosphere around me seeps inward, manifesting itself into panic. Every vessel and artery is pumping. I can smell the grass outside and the detergent used to wash all the uniforms. I hate these smells purely because they remind me of moments such as this.
    ‘Are we ready lads?’ shouts Mr O’Brien. There’s a resounding cheer and a clacking stampede, as the studs scrape across the changing room floor. I try to essentially throw myself into the flurry of people in the hope of being swept along and forgetting my worries. I can’t quite get in though and as usual, I slowly lag behind the bustle of players. I take one last look at the changing room and pray that I get a nose bleed to delay my appearance on the pitch. It doesn’t happen and I trot quickly to catch up with the others. I wonder would they notice if I just didn’t go out onto the pitch? Too late. We’re given a quick pep talk before being marched out to our playing positions. I assume my usual spot near the goalpost and hover uncertainly near a member of the other team that I’m supposed to be marking. They have their back turned to me with their eyes no doubt fixed on the ball, waiting for everyone to get going. I awkwardly shuffle a little closer to make my presence known. The player, No. 11, briefly glances at me as if I’m a random spectator who has wandered onto the playing field. It clearly registers with him that I am actually his opposition and he moves a foot or two away. I’m not bothered staying too close to him because I don’t care about this silly game anyway.
    At long last, my agonising wait is over and I hear that dreaded whistle blow. The ball is thrown into the air and the roaring and screaming commences. I have never been comfortable with crowds. It’s very overwhelming to hear that many voices joined in unison or, in this case, individually shouting things I can’t comprehend and joining together to form one echoing noise of absolute chaos. No wonder people think the Irish are mad , I think to myself. We sound like escaped mental patients . I’m suddenly very angry with the mothers screaming their heads off and with Mr O’Brien spitting orders from the sidelines. If they care so much, why don’t they just get on the field themselves and play?
    ‘Leanne! What are you doing?’ comes Mr O’Brien’s voice. The ball has come to my end of the field and No. 11 is darting after it. ‘Look lively!’ he shouts again. I tremor and run as fast as my sausage legs can carry me. I have my eyes on the back of No. 11 but can’t keep up. He’s about to score and I slow down in pace because I just know I won’t make it in time. I hear my teammates screaming at the top of their lungs because I’m giving up. Then I hear a reverberating ‘YES!’ flush all over the field. Kevin has snatched the ball from No. 11 and is now tearing up the field with it. Our team is saved for the moment.
    After what feels like hours, it’s finally half-time. There were a number of occasions when I was required to do something. Each time, however, Kevin or Richie or some other able teammate would