Level Up

2009 — Age 8 Ben knew the pass was meant for Callum before Mr Reeves shouted his name. There were three boys between them, the pitch was turning soft around the centre circle, and Callum had drifted towards the right touchline with the irritating confidence of somebody who assumed the ball would find him. It usually did. Lewis Harper hit it harder than he needed to, waist-high and slightly behind him. Callum twisted, lifted one foot and took the pace out of it. The ball dropped beside him as neatly as if somebody had put it there by hand. “Go on, Cal!” Graham shouted from behind the rope. Ben was already running. Callum knocked the ball inside, Ben returned it, and for ten seconds everything worked. Their team pushed up together. Callum beat one player, passed to Ben again and this time the ball came at a much friendlier height, rolling fast across the wet grass. Ben knew what he wanted to do: open his body, cushion the ball, take it across himself and already be moving before the defender arrived. Instead it struck the inside of his right foot and bounced a yard and a half away. The defender took it. Ben stopped, furious. “Again!” Callum yelled as he chased back. It was not an accusation; Callum had already forgotten it. Ben had not. He spent the rest of the match trying to correct something that had happened in the twelfth minute. That was how Graham described it afterwards, while Ben sat on the low brick wall beside the changing rooms and worked mud from one stud with the end of a twig. “You played well,” Graham said. Ben kept working mud from the stud. “I didn’t.” Graham leaned one shoulder against the wall. “You did.” “My touch was rubbish.” “One touch was rubbish.” “Three,” Ben said. He had counted. Graham zipped Ben’s jacket up because Ben had forgotten to do it himself. “You’re counting?” “Obviously.” “That explains the face.” Ben looked across the car park. Callum was trying to volley a plastic bottle into a bin while his dad unlocked their car. He missed, collected it without apparent shame and tried again. “That one he did near the start,” Ben said. “When Lewis passed it to him.” “What about it?” “How does he do that?” Graham gave the answer as if it settled the matter. “Practice.” “He doesn’t practise more than me.” Graham glanced towards Callum. “Some people are better at some things.” Ben did not like answers that closed doors. Ben looked back towards Callum. “So I can’t get as good?” Graham shook his head. “I didn’t say that.” “You said he’s better.” “At the moment.” Graham took the twig from him before he could snap it between his fingers. “Come on. Your mum said bread, milk and no wandering round Tesco for forty minutes pretending you can’t choose a cereal.” “I can choose a cereal.” “You say that every week.” “It depends what they’ve got.” “It’s a supermarket, Ben. They’ll have cereal.” Graham walked towards the car. Ben followed, then looked back once more at Callum. He had managed to get the bottle in the bin and was celebrating as if he had scored from the halfway line. Ben could not remember ever seeing him practise that either. At home, Louise had newspapers spread across the dining table under a half-painted cardboard castle. Ben’s birthday invitations had been dealt with weeks ago, the cake had been ordered, and his present had apparently been hidden somewhere he had not yet found. The castle belonged to something else entirely: a school display she had agreed to help with after somebody used the phrase just needs a bit of paint. “It needs windows,” Ben said, dropping his football bag by the back door. Louise glanced at the painted front. “It has windows.” “They’re not straight.” “They’re medieval.” Ben bent to inspect them. “Were medieval windows wonky?” “These were.” Louise dipped her brush into grey paint. “How did you get on?” “We won three-one,” Graham said. Ben opened the fridge. Louise looked over at him. “And?” “And what?” “Did you play?” “Yes.” “Did you enjoy it?” Ben considered this while moving a carton of orange juice to see what was behind it. There was nothing behind it that had not been there that morning. “Mostly.” Graham put the milk on the counter. “He had three bad touches.” “Dad.” “Sorry. Tragic day for the Hargreaves family.” Louise smiled without looking up from the castle. “Should I ring people?” Ben found a yoghurt, checked the date and sat at the table opposite her. “Callum’s better at controlling it.” “Callum’s better at controlling what?” “The ball.” “Oh. I thought we were still talking about your dad.” Graham made an offended noise from the kitchen. Ben peeled back the yoghurt lid. “I know what to do. That’s the annoying bit.” Louise stopped painting. “What do you mean?” “I can see it. I know where my foot should go. It just doesn’t always do it.” Louise resumed painting. “Because you’re eight.” “I’m nine on Tuesday.” “Sorry. Because you’re practically ancient.” “That’s not what I mean.” “I know.” She wiped a streak of paint from her thumb onto the newspaper. “You get better by doing it.” Ben rested both forearms on the table. “How many times?” “At controlling a football?” “Yes.” “I’ve no idea.” “Roughly.” Louise gave him a look that said she knew he was serious and wished he were not. “Hundreds? Thousands? Ask your dad.” “I already did. He said practice.” “Sounds sensible.” “It isn’t very specific.” Graham appeared with two mugs of tea. “I heard that.” Ben scraped the last yoghurt from the pot. “If you knew it took exactly five hundred touches, you could do five hundred.” “And then what?” Graham asked. Ben did not see the complication. “You’d be good.” “You’d have touched a football five hundred times.” Ben frowned. “That would make you better.” “Probably.” “How much better?” Graham slid one mug towards Louise. “I have absolutely no idea.” This was, to Ben, the obvious flaw in almost everything adults told children to practise. People were forever recommending repetition without being able to provide even basic information about the return on investment. He spent twenty minutes after lunch in the garden kicking a ball against the side wall of the garage. The ground was too narrow to do much else. Cushion with the inside of the foot. Pass. Receive. Pass. Receive. The wall gave him exactly the same quality of return every time, which was useful. On the forty-third attempt the ball died almost perfectly under his foot. On the forty-fourth it bounced off his ankle and struck a blue recycling box. Ben stared at the ball, irritated by how one bad touch could make the previous good one feel suspicious. He went inside before the rain started. Sunday was Grandad day, although nobody called it that except Ben when he was younger. Arthur Fletcher lived fifteen minutes away in a semi-detached house with a narrow back garden and a garage that contained everything the Hargreaves household did not own and occasionally needed. There were tools on the wall in outlines Arthur had drawn around them years ago. There were screws in jars, washers in tins, bits of timber too small for any obvious purpose and two electrical plugs Ben had been warned not to touch because Grandad had not decided whether they were useful or dangerous. Arthur was under the sink when they arrived, with only his legs visible beyond the cupboard doors. “Is he dead?” Ben asked. “No,” Louise said. “Your grandad swears more when he’s dead.” From inside the cupboard came, “I heard that.” Louise put a carrier bag of shopping on the counter. “Good.” Arthur emerged backwards with a spanner in one hand and his reading glasses halfway down his nose. He was sixty-four, which Ben considered properly old, although Grandad objected whenever this was mentioned. Arthur tapped the spanner lightly against the cupboard frame. “Leak.” “Where?” Ben asked. “Under the sink.” “I know. Where under the sink?” Arthur pointed with the spanner. “Compression joint. Come and have a look.” Louise started unpacking shopping. Graham disappeared to make tea. Ben crouched beside Arthur and looked into a dark cupboard full of pipes. Ben leaned farther into the cupboard. “I can’t see a leak.” “That’s because I fixed it.” He looked back at Arthur. “How did you know where it was?” “Water.” “There’s water everywhere under sinks.” “There shouldn’t be.” Arthur handed him the spanner. “Put that back for me.” Ben took it into the garage and placed it beneath the black marker outline that matched its shape exactly. When he came back, Arthur had removed a short length of pipe and was showing Graham a rubber ring no bigger than a two-pence piece. “That’s what was wrong?” Ben asked. “That was most of it.” “How did you know?” Arthur shrugged. “Seen it before.” “How many times?” Arthur looked at Graham. Graham immediately became interested in his tea. Arthur caught the look. “What?” Ben pointed at the rubber ring. “How many times have you seen that happen?” “I don’t know. Loads.” “Fifty?” Arthur considered it. “Maybe.” “A hundred?” “Ben,” Louise said from the table. “What? I’m asking.” Arthur took off his glasses. “Why?” Ben explained about Callum’s first touch, the wall, the forty-third and forty-fourth attempts, and the problem with practice as a measurement. Arthur listened without smiling. That was one of the good things about Grandad: he did not automatically treat a question as funny because a child had asked it. “So you want to know how many times you have to do something before you’re good at it.” “Yes.” “No idea.” Ben’s shoulders dropped. Arthur went on. “Depends what it is. Depends how bad you are at the start. Depends if you’re paying attention. Depends how often you do it. I’ve been messing with plumbing since before your mum was born.” “Exactly.” “What?” “That’s ages.” Louise laughed from the table. “Thank you.” Arthur ignored her. “Yes.” “There should be a quicker way.” “There usually is.” Ben brightened. “What?” “Pay someone who knows how to do it.” “That doesn’t make you better.” “No. But the sink stops leaking.” Ben frowned. Arthur reached over and tapped the side of his head lightly with one finger. “You’re asking the wrong question.” “What’s the right one?” “I don’t know. You’re the one asking questions.” This was less useful than Grandad seemed to think it was. Later Arthur showed him how to change the inner tube on the back wheel of an old bike he kept in the garage. Ben pinched the tube twice putting it back in and had to start again. Arthur did not take over. He only said, “No, look,” and made Ben find the place where the rubber had caught under the tyre. On the third attempt, Ben finally got it seated properly. “How long would that take you?” Ben asked. “Five minutes.” “It took me twenty-eight.” “You were talking for twelve of them.” “That’s still more.” Arthur pumped air into the tyre and spun the wheel. “Do another fifty and you’ll be quicker.” Ben thought he was joking. Arthur was not. On Monday morning, Ben found a birthday card on the doormat from Auntie Claire even though his birthday was not until the next day. He carried it into the kitchen and put it unopened beside his cereal bowl. “You’re not opening it?” Louise asked. Ben left the envelope where it was. “It says Tuesday.” “It says happy birthday. The postman doesn’t schedule deliveries around you.” “I’ll open it tomorrow.” Louise went back to what she was doing. “You used to rip things open the second they arrived.” Ben gave her a look. “That was when I was little.” “You’re still eight.” “For one day.” Graham was standing at the counter spreading marmalade on toast. “Enjoy it. Best year of your life.” “Eight?” “No responsibilities. People buy you things. You can go to bed at half eight and nobody calls it a problem.” “I don’t go to bed at half eight.” “Nine, then. Luxury.” Ben ate his cereal and tried to decide whether nine felt different from eight before it happened. It probably would not. Nothing changed just because a number did. At school, Callum asked what he was getting for his birthday. Ben shrugged. “I don’t know.” “Yes you do.” “I don’t.” “You always know.” “I think it might be the new FIFA.” Callum nodded as if this were already confirmed. “Bring it round Wednesday.” Ben frowned. “It’s my present.” “So?” “So I might want to play it.” “I’ll play against you.” “That’s not the same as you coming round to play my present.” Callum grinned. “You can be first player.” Ben shoved him gently with one shoulder as they went into class. That evening Graham took him into the garden after dinner. The light lasted longer now, though the paving slabs were still damp and cold showed in their breath when they stopped moving. “Ten each foot,” Graham said. Ben passed against the wall and controlled the return, using the inside of his right foot, then his left, then alternating as Graham fed the rhythm of the drill. “Don’t stab at it.” “I’m not.” “You are when it comes quickly.” Ben tried again. The ball struck his foot and ran away. “See?” Graham said. “Yes.” “Relax your ankle a bit.” “How much?” Graham stared at him for a moment. “Some.” “That’s not—” “I know. Not specific.” Ben smiled despite himself. They stayed outside until Louise opened the kitchen door and told them both they were bringing mud in whether they realised it or not. In bed, Ben could still feel the shape of the good touches. That was the frustrating thing. He knew, physically, that there was a version of the movement his body could already produce. It simply refused to produce it every time he asked. Tomorrow he would be nine. He had no reason to think that would help.