Robbie himself seemed oblivious, a small blond boy squeezed between his bigger, dark-haired team-mates on a bench, absent-mindedly sucking his rind. A wave of protective tenderness swelled in Paul as he gazed at his son: the crop of snow framing the red face, the mud-spattered knees and elbows. The boy had been unlucky in front of goal so far, but no one could accuse him of not being in the game. He was always in the game, utterly immersed, shutting all else out, as if there, on the field, his dreaminess found its proper focus.

‘Maybe you should take notes,’ Dom was saying. ‘Study their tactics.’

‘What tactics?’ Paul joked, and this time a few of the nearest boys joined in the laughter.

The voice next door wouldn’t let up. ‘He’s weak as piss! It’s a man’s game, for Christ’s sake, not the fucken Royal Ballet! One half-decent tackle and he’ll spit the dummy.’

Enough was enough; Paul turned and shouted at the wall, the words bursting out of him. ‘You’ll have to catch him first, dickhead!’

The boys stared at him, open-mouthed, but none was more surprised by his anger than Paul himself. For the first time there was silence in the other room. Then the slamming of a far door, the approach of heavy footsteps, and the near door flung open.

‘Who’s the big mouth?’

He was the small, pugnacious type; a belligerent, ginger-haired terrier in a blue tracksuit, wearing shin-pads and studded Pumas as if he were playing himself, not coaching. On a misty Saturday morning he might even have got away with it; he wasn’t much taller than his Under 13 charges.

Dom, pugnacious enough himself, put down his bowl of orange quarters and rose from the bench. ‘Only one big mouth round these parts, sport.’

The terrier took a short step towards him. ‘You been sitting here listening in on my team talk, mate?’

‘The whole world can hear your talk,’ Paul intervened, ‘And I’m the big mouth. Mate.’

Robbie stared at his bespectacled, mild-mannered father, astonished; a few of the other boys giggled uneasily.

The angry face turned his way. ‘If you gave your own peptalk instead of spying on others, maybe your pissant team’d be further up the fucken ladder.’

‘Watch your language,’ Dom growled. ‘What kind of example are you setting the boys?’

‘The kind your bunch of spoilt brats need,’ the smaller man spat back.

Dom planted his considerable girth between the man in the door and the roomful of boys. ‘I said that’s enough of the language, mate. Back off.’

‘Or what, fatty?’

‘Or I’ll call the ref,’ Paul snapped. ‘And you get banned for the rest of the season.’

The little man stood there, legs apart, furious but silenced. ‘Fucken Italians,’ he finally muttered. ‘Rock up in your fucken four-wheel drives like you own the world. Worse than the fucken Greeks. Worse than …’ His words faded as he disappeared down the corridor.

‘And lay off your son!’ Paul couldn’t help calling after him. ‘He’s doing his best.’

Almost instantly, the small man reappeared in the doorway, fists clenched. ‘One more word, you fucken wog! One word! It’d be worth a season to deck you.’

‘Referee!’ Paul shouted. After a fierce internal struggle played out across his face, the terrier turned on his sprigged heels and vanished again.

Silence in the change-room; all eyes on Paul, as if waiting less for a peptalk than for some kind of cue. Dom came to his rescue. ‘Anger management issues,’ he said. They both laughed, and the boys joined in, more relieved than amused.

‘I’ve been called a lot of things,’ Paul said to Dom, ‘but never that.’

‘You’re an honorary wog.’

‘Is that like getting a knighthood?’

‘Certamente,’ Dom said, and added with a mock flourish. ‘Il Cavaliere Paolo.’

A stick of chalk had been clutched in Paul’s hand all along; he stepped to the blackboard, and began to sketch out his second-half strategies. Not much time left, but a few stock phrases from his usual litany might help settle things down – chiefly his own state of mind. ‘Let’s keep the game wide, boys. Robbie and Fabio – stretch them on the wings. Open it up – here. And here. Use your pace. Their fullbacks turn like oil-tankers. I want big corridors for the midfielders to come through – here … ’

Never one for stridency, today he kept his voice to a whisper, but paradoxically, the more softly he spoke, the more attentive the boys were, straining forward to hear every word, study every chalked arrow. Not until he finished was he aware of the silence in the next room.

‘You get that in there?’ he said, breaking the spell. His charges chuckled and nudged each other as they rose from the benches and clomped about on their studded boots.

‘Go get ’em, Zebras!’ Dom was shouting, slap-ping backs and urging the boys towards the door. ‘Forza, Juve! We do our talking on the scoreboard!’

Paul signalled to his son. ‘Forget what that idiot said. Just means he’s scared of you. Of what you can do.’

Robbie’s eyes were on his team-mates, his body language restless, distracted. ‘What?’

‘He knows you can win the game for us. Everyone knows it. So – how about it? What do you say?’

‘Sure, Dad. What?’

Outside, Heather was nursing a cup of coffee with the other parents; urging the boys on as they ran down the race. Robbie jogged straight past her, oblivious. Heather followed Paul onto the field as he headed towards the dugouts on the far side. ‘What was going on in there? We heard a lot of shouting.’

‘What?’ he said, mimicking their dreamy son, and she laughed and turned back to the small grandstand.

But Robbie may have been listening for once. In the first minutes of the second half he was everywhere: firing a left-foot drive that bounced off the fat-boy goalie and over the bar, then a sweet volley from the ensuing corner that thumped off the left upright. Which only made the goal when it came – against the run of play, at the other end of the ground – all the more galling.

The other coach was on his feet, arms raised. ‘Jase, you little beauty! Too easy, boys! Too good!’

Paul also found himself on his feet. ‘Heads up, Zebras! Lucky goal! Against the run of play!’

‘Let’s have another, lads!’ his midget enemy shouted, facing the field but moving a step in his direction, crab-wise. ‘Easy-peasy, nice and easy!’

‘It’ll come!’ Paul shouted back, infuriated, but also aiming his words out onto the field. ‘We’ve got complete control. It’ll come!’

The two dugouts were some distance apart, but with each comment both coaches sidestepped a little closer to each other.

‘Another goal and it’s game over, boys!’

‘Only need two to win it, Zebras. The goals will come!’

‘One more for insurance, Blues. Kill the game off.’

‘They won’t score again, Zebras! They haven’t got the ability.’

Behind him Dom rumbled, ‘Steady on, Paul.’ For the first time, Paul felt irritated by his manager. He was the coach; he would say what he wanted. ‘It’s not hard, boys. We all know which is the better team out there.’

‘Take a look at the scoreboard, dickhead!’ the terrier said, at last turning to face him.

Still Paul pretended to ignore him. ‘Lucky goal!’ he shouted. ‘Pure arse!’

On the field the referee blew his whistle and halted the game. ‘You two, over here. Now!’ he shouted. As they approached, both affecting looks of mock surprise, he lowered his voice. ‘I won’t have that kind of language, gentlemen. I won’t have it at any game – let alone a junior game.’ And he raised his yellow card, first facing the terrier, then raising it at Paul.

‘Me?’ he said. ‘Me? He started it!’

‘And I’m finishing it. One more outburst and you’ll be out of the ground.’

Paul opened his mouth again, but the ref cut him short.

‘No – you’ve said enough! We’re here to enjoy ourselves. The boys are here to enjoy themselves. Now shake hands and we’ll get on with the game.’

Their limp right hands brushed each other – a masculine version of women’s air-kissing –  but Paul caught the terrier’s smirk before he turned his back.

‘He sucked you in good,’ Dom told him as he sat down in the dugout, seething.

Paul was back on his feet when Robbie was scythed down a few minutes later.

‘Penalty!’ he yelled, but the referee was unmoved. Dom grabbed the first aid box and sprinted onto the ground. After a burst of his magic spray, a tearful Robbie struggled to his feet. In the small grandstand on the far side of the ground Paul could see the blonde hair and worried face of Heather among the dark Italian heads of the other parents. Was it his imagination or was she studying him rather than their injured son?

‘Nothing in it, ref!’ his enemy was shouting. ‘What’s he made of, china?’

‘Watch your mouth, sport!’ Dom growled as he walked off the ground.

‘Maybe you should put him in the girl’s team, fatty.’

Again he caught Paul’s eye, smirking. Paul glared back, but refused to be drawn in. The game would be won with deeds, not words.

‘Run at the right back, Robbie!’ he called. ‘Take him on the outside. You’re faster than him. Faster than any of them!’

Was Robbie listening, or just doing what he always did anyway, swerving effortlessly past opponents whenever he had the ball at his feet?

‘Get the ball to Robbie!’ Paul shouted whenever his son didn’t have the ball. ‘Get it wide to Robbie. No one in that team can stop him!’

He was standing on the sideline again without having noticed how he got there. The referee shot him a look, but he was careful not to swear. Besides, the ref had something else to worry about: an opposition player lying on the ground, clutching his knee.

‘Time wasting, ref!’ Paul yelled.

Dom sprinted out to help the other team’s trainer, perhaps to hurry things up. Paul glanced towards the stand, but Heather was no longer there; a quick look around found her striding past the northern goal, circling the field, heading his way. He could tell she wasn’t happy.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed when she reached his side. ‘What kind of example are you setting?’

‘Me?’ he said, ‘Listen to him!’

‘He’s not my husband! I don’t have to explain his behaviour to the other parents! We can hear every word you say over there, Paul! For God’s sake, sit down and shut up!’

But he wouldn’t sit. He couldn’t. Behind Heather’s back the terrier had called his son over for advice and a drink – he heard the word ‘crybaby’. He strained to hear more. ‘Drop to right back, Jase. Keep close to the crybaby. Only five minutes to go. Wear him like a shadow.’

The kid was reluctant, his tone whining. ‘I can get another goal, Dad.’

‘Time to use your head, Jase. Play defensive. Hold onto the lead.’

‘You listening to that?’ Paul said, turning to Heather. ‘You hear what he called Robbie?’

‘I don’t care what he’s saying!’ She turned to Dom. ‘Can’t you do something? We can hear everything.’

Dom shrugged. ‘Sit down, coach. Game’s almost over. It’s up to the boys now.’

A whistle restarted the game; soon enough Robbie had the ball at his feet and was zigzagging up the left wing, shadowed by the enemy’s son.

Paul was on his feet. ‘Run at him, Robbie! You’re faster than he is. Take him on!’

‘Stick with him, Jase!’ the other barked, ‘Only a couple of minutes left.’

Again they moved crab-wise towards each other; again furious words were shouted at the field, their meaning aimed out of the corners of their mouths. Paul hadn’t spoken, let alone thought, like this since he was a child. ‘He runs like a girl, Robbie!’

The terrier was at him again, face to angry face. ‘What did you say, fuckwit?’

‘So you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?’ Paul shouted back, and it felt so good, like heaving something out of himself, spit or vomit, that he shouted some more. ‘Take him on the outside, Robbie! Run straight past him!’

The other’s words were also spittle-flecked. ‘You think he’s faster, big mouth?’

‘He’s in the state sprint team!’

‘They must be scraping the fucken barrel!’

The final whistle blew. For a moment both coaches looked away, the weird enchantment of their anger broken. The boys in blue danced about, high-fiving; the muddied, exhausted Zebras flopped onto the ground or stood stooped, hands on knees, as Dom moved among the boys, consoling them.

‘One-nil,’ the terrier said, chanting the words in a refrain. ‘One-nil, one-nil, one-nil.’

‘Fourteen point three for the hundred,’ Paul told him. The score might be correct, but the game was over now, and there were other statistics.

‘Must have been quite a tail wind, big mouth.’

‘Second fastest in the state last year!’

‘What, for the fucken Under-5s?’

Paul’s fury boiled over. ‘You don’t believe me? You calling me a liar?’

‘I’m not calling you nothing I’m just looking at the scoreboard.’ The short man walked into the field, waving at his son. ‘Jase, you little beauty! Tell the rest of the boys. Pizza Hut in fifteen. On me!’

Paul followed, reaching out a hand, restraining him. ‘You think your boy is faster?’

A look down at the hand, a snarl. ‘What I think is, you’d better take your fucken paws off me real quick.’

‘You want to race them?’ Paul said, surprising himself. Once uttered, the words had to be backed up. ‘Put your money where your big mouth is.’

‘Now?’ the other man said, also momentarily surprised. ‘How much?’

Paul plucked a figure from somewhere, any figure, from anywhere. ‘Twenty.’

The hand on the arm was forgotten as the terrier’s gaze sought Robbie, hunched in the dugout, looking utterly spent. He turned back to Paul with that same smug smile. ‘A hundred.’

‘Done,’ Paul said without a moment’s hesitation. Both boys would be equally tired, surely.

The terrier finally shrugged off Paul’s hand and thrust out his own. ‘Goal-line to goal-line. Shake on it.’

No air-kiss this time; the grip between the two men was painfully intense, and broken only with the arrival of the goal scorer – a smaller, freckled clone of his father.

‘You want to make a quick ten bucks, Jase?’

The boy looked uncertainly at Paul.

‘Easy-peasey,’ his father urged him.

Paul turned to his own son, fossicking in his sports bag in the dugout, presumably near enough to have heard everything. ‘Robbie? You in?’

‘What? Pizzas?’

‘If you win.’

‘Win what?’

He was glancing distractedly past his father. Paul followed his gaze to where the rest of the team were waiting outside the change-rooms, waiting for him and his words of encouragement – his usual dignified post-mortem. Even from this distance, Paul could read the impatience on Heather’s face. She held her left arm above her head and tapped her watch.

‘He’s gonna chicken out,’ the terrier muttered. ‘Like father, like son.’

‘Course he’s not. Are you, Robbie?’

‘No, Dad. What?’

‘A race. The two of you. Length of the field.’

His son’s face lit up; both boys were suddenly restless with anticipation, grinning at each other as Paul pointed to the northern goal-line. ‘Jason’s father will start you – I’ll be waiting at the finish.’

A snort from the terrier. ‘You think I’ll take your word for it?’

‘You think I’ll take yours?’

A stand-off. At length Paul turned back to the boys. ‘We’ll both be waiting at the finish. When I drop my hand, go. Any breaking and we’ll start again.’ The boys walked back onto the field and set off towards the northern goal-line, chatting happily. They might have been best friends, wandering off for showers and pizza. It must have appeared innocent to Heather: the boys enjoying each other’s company, the coaches shaking hands after the game. She seemed calmer as she headed across their way.

‘Might be a late scratching,’ the enemy said. ‘Here comes the chief steward.’

‘Better get moving,’ Paul said, and they walked briskly towards the opposite goal-line.

Halfway across the field, Heather halted, unsure which way to turn, towards the boys or towards the men. She chose the boys’ end, possibly thinking they were taking down the net, but as the boys crouched in a sprint position she turned abruptly and hurried towards Paul, anger vivid on her face.

‘What’s going on?’ she shouted.

‘The boys wanted to race.’

‘You can’t do this,’ she said.

‘I have to,’ he answered lamely.

‘Why?’

He looked at the two small crouching boys a hundred metres away.

‘You didn’t?’ she said. He couldn’t face her again, or wouldn’t. ‘The handshake! It was a bet? You bet on our son?’

Behind her the terrier had his arm in the air. ‘We gonna do this?’

Heather wheeled on him, furious. ‘Of course you’re not going to do it, you pathetic ferret! I don’t know which of you is worse.’ Then she aimed her fury at Paul. ‘What are they? Horses? Dogs? If you want to race, race yourselves! You’re like a pair of five year olds!’

Paul’s unlikely ally waited, arm still raised. Paul was about to nod when the hand fell without warning, like a guillotine blade in a movie.

‘Why don’t you just compare the sizes of your cocks, you stupid … stupid … ’ Heather said, struggling for the right insult, eventually finding it: ‘ … men!’

But the boys were off and sprinting. ‘Come on, Robbie!’ Paul shouted, pushing past her. ‘Come on, son!’

Robbie’s blond head was clearly in front at the halfway mark. Paul felt the pride rising in him like a gorge, a swelling organ-emotion that drowned all others: anger at the terrier, shame before his wife – even doubt, until the last few metres. But Robbie was tired and fading fast. His freckly rival closed on him and raced past him.

‘Jase, you bloody beauty,’ the idiot crowed. Then he began chanting his stupid song again as he ran to hug the victor. ‘Two-nil, two-nil, two-nil, two-nil!’

Paul stared at his own son blankly. The terrier stood in front of him, offering his hand. ‘No hard feelings, mate. Your boy put up a good fight. Got the readies?’

Paul fumbled in his pockets for his wallet, ignoring the hand. Only two twenties. He looked towards Heather, ashamed for the first time, but for different reasons.

‘If you think!’ she said, clutching her shoulder bag, ‘if you think for one moment!’

‘I have to pay him, Heather.’

‘Pay him in blood,’ she spat. But then she relented, allowing Paul to reach inside the bag for her purse.

‘We’re going,’ she said, turning away. ‘In the car, Robbie!’ The boy hesitated, but Paul barely noticed as he counted out the money. Luckily there was just enough, topped up with small change.

The terrier was still grinning. ‘Think you could put in a word for my lad, mate? With the state athletics team.’

The sheer nerve of this, however conciliatory the tone, enraged Paul as much as the earlier taunts. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ he exploded. ‘It wasn’t even a fair race. Your boy did nothing during the game. Nothing! Robbie ran himself ragged!’

The other man was incredulous. ‘Christ, pal, do you ever give up?’ He peeled off a tenner for his son, pocketed the rest and turned away.

Beyond him, Heather was shepherding Robbie towards the car park, but Paul stood frozen in his tracks, the gorge rising in him again, a great vomit of anger.

‘He broke! Your boy broke the fucking start!’

The terrier kept walking. Holding his son’s hand in one hand, he lifted the other and gave Paul the finger over his shoulder.

‘Robbie would have beaten him easily!’ Paul screamed.

No one was taking any notice except the caretaker who was locking up the canteen. His eyes met Paul’s briefly, then looked away. The field and stand were empty, the other parents having taken their kids and left. Paul turned and sank back onto the hard bench in the dugout. The last two cars in the car park – the terrier’s red Falcon and a white Land-cruiser – his Landcruiser – were both pulling out and driving away in opposite directions, to opposite halves of the city, and as he sat watching them a further problem began dawning on him. How was he going to find his way home? How was he ever going to find his way home again?