For the rest of the week, Joe practiced kicking football hard, concentrating on his each kicking. Sometimes Joe hit the ball straight. Sometimes it went wide again. But it seemed that the more he believed he could do it, the easier it was. "I'm not a joke now," thought Joe. "Not a joke at all!" But a practice wasn't like a real match and his boots were still not giving him enough power. He should have told his mum and dad about it straight away but, of course, he didn't. He was always shy to ask for things. Finally, late on the night before the match, he could hold himself back no longer. "Dad, I haven't got any proper football boots ..." he said. "Ah," said Dad, "I might be able to help you there." At the words, Joe was excited. New boots! He thought. "He's got me some new boots! He must have got me them for Christmas," thought Joe, "But now that I'm in an important match, he's giving them to me early. Wonderful!" Dad went upstairs. Joe excitedly tried to watch the football preview on TV. He wasn't playing for Manchester United or Liverpool, of course, but he was part of it all now; part of the thrill. His legs twitched with every kick on the screen. His head shook with every centre. And all the time, his mind was racing ahead to his own great game the next morning, in his super new boots. It was ages before his dad came downstairs again. He put a large pair of shiny black boots in front of Joe. As he stared at them, the boy felt as if someone had poured ice into his brain. The boots were awful! "Good, eh?" said his dad. Joe found it hard to speak. He had never seen anything like them before. They weren't low-cut, soft or.... They had big, hard square toes, great big long studs and they were high at the ankle. They were his dad's old rugby boots, polished up. Joe was filled with disappointment. They had been good boots, quality boots. And they were his size. Joe's feet were enormous for his age. But he could imagine what everyone at school would say. " ...," he finally gasped, " should be exactly my size." "At least I won't slip," he thought, "the studs are like sharks' teeth!" Then he couldn't help thinking about those in Ashton's windows, which he had been longing to get. That night, he went to bed early but he didn't sleep much because he was so terrified of being late. He woke at 1.17, 2.49, 3.37, 3.43, 4.55. The numbers jumped off the big face of his digital clock. Then 10.40! Ahhh!!! He jumped out of bed. He seized the clock. 6.03! 10.40 had been only a dream. At eight, breakfast time, it was raining like mad. "Might get called off, Joe," suggested his mum. "Never, Mother. ...will not be like cricket," said his dad. "Will take a lot to stop football." Joe checked everything for the tenth time. He put his boots at the very bottom of his large bag, well out of sight. He had decided to put them on when nearly everyone had left the changing room. Then his classmates wouldn't make fun of him. Soon, it was time to set out. "Good luck!" said his mum, giving him a kiss. His dad had his coat on, ready for his morning deliveries. "Want a lift to school?" he said. "I hope to get down to watch you when I've done the trip to Eccles." "Okay," said Joe. As Dad's van carried him down the hill to school, Joe was thinking about the boots. If only ... but no, he had to stop that kind of thinking. It doesn't matter about the boots, he told himself. The night before the football match, how many times did Joe wake up before he jumped out of bed finally?
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