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who whacks it between the posts. There is no net so the ball sails all the way to the brambles by the disused railway line. Both teams and parents spend ages scrabbling around. When we finally find it, it’s punctured and useless.
    The other team starts yelling for us to abandon the match and half our team agree. But the referee marches off into the swirling rain and comes back with another ball.
    I notice Dad has found a different, smaller umbrella now, one without his bank’s logo, and Mikaela’s mum is huddled under it with him, even though the rain has stopped. It looks like they’ve linked arms.
    Various parents are shouting encouragement from the touchline, making comments that only stupid parents with no idea how the game is played make:
    Awesome boot, Jemima!’
    ‘Aim for the sticks, Helen!’
    Only my dad shouts out anything that makes sense, mainly at me and Mikaela. My dad’s got coaching badges in football.
    Mikaela’s on form. She’s swinging herself into every tackle fearlessly.
    Dad’s abandoned his umbrella to Mikaela’s mum and is running up and down the touchline, shouting at me. I love it. He usually saves all his hopping about on touchlines for MTB’s games.
    I score a beauty. With my back to the goal, I shoot it over my head. It flies into the bottom corner of the net. I do a gorilla chest-thumping slide into the mud that ends right at Dad’s feet. Dad loves it, everyone loves it. The killjoy referee gives me a yellow card for time-wasting.
    By the final whistle, all the players look like they’ve spent all week in a mud spa, but we’ve won 4-1 and I’ve scored twice. Mikaela gets Most Valuable Player Award from the referee and a warning that if she mouths off in a changing room at a referee again she will be banned for three matches.
    Mikaela may have won Most Valuable Player, but yet again it’s my name everyone’s singing in the showers. I bow as the chants get going:
    ‘Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Adele!’
    ‘One, two, three, four who do you think we’re shouting for? Adele!’
    ‘We are blue, we are white, we are fucking dynamite!’
    That one gets out before Miss Fridge can stop it. She laughs and lets it go.
    ‘Three, five, seven, nine. Who do we think is really fine? Adele!’
    ‘One, two, three, four. It’s your mum cos she’s a whore!’
    ‘That’s enough!’ Miss Fridge says over all the laughter. She’s happy though. Mikaela runs around for a bit showing off her Player of The Match medal. Then she comes up to me. ‘You can have it if you want. After all, you got the goals.’
    ‘I don’t need it,’ I say, ‘I’ve got loads already.’
    ‘Nah, take it.’ Mikaela shoves it into my hand. Then she yells, ‘Power To The People!’
    Everyone joins in, yelling, ‘Power to the People! Power to the People! Power to the People!’ We’re all so fired up we’ll yell anything at all.
    Mikaela’s mum comes in and pinches her cheeks.
    The showers have stopped working so everyone who didn’t get in early has to go home in their kit, unwashed. I don’t mind. When you’ve won, going home caked in mud is the best feeling ever. Mikaela is by my side as I finish packing.
    ‘You want to hang out with me tomorrow?’
    ‘What will we do?’ Mikaela asks.
    Her mum calls her over before I can answer.
    Outside, my dad pats my back. ‘You’re incredible! Brilliant! England Team’s written on your forehead!’ He plants a kiss on my forehead to emphasise this.
    Sometimes I love my dad. After a couple more pats and a bit of a shoulder rub he says he has to head off to a meeting. Mikaela waves to me from her car as her mum drives her off. I catch the bus home. The drying mud feels good on my skin.
    I get home, drop my boots in their bucket then check on Mum. She’s awake, sitting in a chair in her room, with a giant, homemade cigarette in her hand. Curls of smoke drift round the room. She’s gazing at the bedroom floor, which has leaves scattered on