Mitch Johnson - Kick

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Budis plan is simple.

Hes going to be a star, instead of sweating over each football boot he makes, each stitch he sews, each box he packages. Hes going to play for the greatest team on earth, rather than in the square behind the factory where he works.

But one unlucky kick brings Budis world crashing down, because now he owes the Dragon, the most dangerous man in all Jakarta. Soon it isnt only Budis dreams at stake, but his life.

A story about dreaming big, about hope and heroes, and never letting anything stand in your way

For those who sweat

ITS NOW OR NEVER

Two minutes left on the clock.

The crowd watch with their hands clasped on top of their heads. Scarves hang loosely around their necks. Some of them puff their cheeks out.

Its now or never.

The ball is chipped in from midfield and finds him on the edge of the box. He takes it down on his chest and sidesteps the incoming defender. He pulls his foot back to take a shot but dummies instead, cutting inside the next tackle.

The crowd rise to their feet as he surges into the box.

The defenders slide to try and stop his shot, but his touch has taken the ball beyond their reach. The goalkeeper steps forward, arms stretched wide, eyes fixed on the ball. The crowd watch through their fingers.

Then he shoots.

The ball fires past the goalkeepers fingertips. But for a split second a heartbeat it looks as though it might go over the crossbar. The crowd gasp. And then, as the ball hits the back of the net, they erupt.

Real Madrid are the new champions!

I run off to celebrate and slide on my knees. The little stones on the ground scrape against my skin, and as I get up I feel blood trickling down my leg. I rattle the rusty corrugated fence so it sounds like thousands of fans jumping and cheering in the stands. The crumbling apartment blocks rise up like a stadium on every side, and I roar loud enough for even the deaf old men on the fifth floor to hear. I put my fingers and thumbs together to make the shape of a heart, and pound my chest where the Real Madrid badge should be. The Indonesian wonder kid strikes again!

The heart shape is my trademark celebration. Whenever Uston scores he crosses his chest and points to the sky, even though hes supposed to be Muslim. We keep telling him that Allah will be angry if he makes the sign of the cross, but Uston says it doesnt matter because hes only pretending. I still dont think its worth the risk.

Rochy comes over and puts his arm around my shoulders.

What a goal, Budi! You left them for dead!

I look across the square at Uston and Widodo lying on the ground. The warm evening air is thick with dust from their sliding tackles, and it smells like money.

The square isnt technically a square, its a quadrilateral quadrangle. I know this because Rochy told me. And Rochy is a genius. He went to school until he was thirteen so he knows pretty much everything, although a lot of it is useless stuff like quadrilateral quadrangles, ancient history and something he calls physics. He told me recently that the universe is expanding, but I dont really understand what that means. Hes tried to explain it, but Im not a scientific genius like him, Im a footballing genius like Kieran Wakefield. And one day Im going to be a world-famous footballer like him, too. So normally I just nod and say cool and ask Rochy to tell me something interesting about football instead.

Fachry, the goalkeeper, leans against the corrugated fence we use as a goal, pulling a piece of plastic coating from the football. Fachry has to go in goal because hes Catholic. Catholic is just a type of Christian theres more than one type. They all support the same god (who isnt Allah) but still dont agree. Its like Manchester United and Manchester City. They dont agree on anything other than being from Manchester. Fachry doesnt like going in goal but its four Muslims against one Catholic. Rochy says thats democracy, and you cant argue with democracy.

Behind the fence is where the bins are kept. On one of the balconies above the bins, a scrawny man watches us with his feet resting in a groove where the wall has crumbled away. The soles of his feet are black. He chews his nails and spits them over the wall. The smell of fried vegetables and spices wafts across the pitch. The clank of pots and pans reaches us from three sides of the square, but the far end is eerily quiet.

This is where the Dragon lives.

Some people think the Dragon is called the Dragon because he comes from Komodo, which is true but its not the reason. Komodo is where they used to send all the criminals, so everyone who comes from there is descended from a convict. This explains a lot, but it isnt the reason why the Dragon is called the Dragon.

Other people think the Dragon is called the Dragon because he looks like one. They say he got the nickname because of his big stomach and the jewelled rings he wears on every finger and the thick gold chains around his neck. In fact, he was called the Dragon before those things. His big belly and rings and chains are because hes rich. Mega-rich. Like a footballer. Hes the main landlord and moneylender for the area, so everyone owes the Dragon something. And if you dont, its probably because you just paid him.

The real reason why the Dragon got his nickname has got nothing to do with where hes from or how he looks. The Dragon is called the Dragon because if you cross him or betray him or bad-mouth him, hell chew you up and spit out your bones. And he wont bother burying whats left of you, either.

As the dust settles it sticks to the sweat on my skin. Widodo is up on his feet, brushing the dirt from his shorts. When he offers to help his brother up, Uston slaps his hand away.

Come on, Uston, Rochy says. Dont be a sore loser.

I want a rematch, Uston says, sitting up and hanging his head between his knees.

Its too late now, Rochy says. I have to get home.

What about golden goal?

Forget it, Uston, I say. You only have golden goal if the teams draw, and we beat you.

Shut up, Budi, that goal was a fluke.

No, it wasnt.

Yes, it was! I bet if we play another match you wont score any. How about we play one-on-one: Barcelona versus Real Madrid? Fachry can stay in goal, and Rochy can run home to his mummy.

What about me? Widodo asks.

You can referee, Uston says.

Widodo frowns and starts dusting his shorts again. Youd expect Uston to be a better loser by now me and Rochy have given him plenty of practice but I suppose anyone who thinks that Barcelona are better than Real Madrid must have a lot of problems. I really want to stay and beat him, but I know I shouldnt be late home for dinner.

Budi! Rochy shouts suddenly. Your leg!

I look down just as the trail of blood reaches my ankle. The drop spills over the plastic tongue of my boot and seeps into the laces. Its the most impressive injury Ive ever had.

Whoa! Thats a nasty one, Rochy says. You should go home and get that cleaned up.

The others gather round and admire the cut in my knee. When I bend my leg it feels sore, and a fresh dribble of blood seeps out.

Yeah, you should go home, Fachry says.

I pick up my football and start hobbling home. It doesnt really hurt that much, but youve got to make the most of it. Thats what footballers do. Above my head, washing lines droop between the buildings, and the clothes, bleached by the summer sun, are like Madrid flags. Like weve won La Liga. Like this is the homecoming.