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Authors: Andy Mulligan
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‘I’m not sure about this—’
‘All ready to go,’ said Captain Routon, taking the parcel gently from her.
‘Let’s not waste time!’ cried the headmaster. ‘Sanchez cannot be with us for a little while yet. He is visiting his mother, who died recently, due to . . . circumstances
beyond her control. However, I think you will agree when you see his message, that we have a very special term ahead of us. Thank you, Captain!’
Captain Routon pressed the switches and the lights dimmed.
The children huddled forward as a great white beam flashed upon the wall. A complicated set of lenses and bulbs meant that the image was projected huge, and the children were bolt upright,
peering hopefully as white dissolved into a million specks of black and grey. Suddenly, it was blue. And then, as if he was there in the room by magic, a face three metres high flickered into life.
Andreas Emilio Sanchez was smiling at his friends, and the children burst as one into yet another volley of unstoppable cheering. The camera was close up and their friend looked radiant and
healthy. Clear skin, shining eyes, oiled hair.
He started to speak, but of course the words were lost amongst the howling of the waving children. Routon had to pause the movie and shout for quiet.
‘Hi,’ said Sanchez, at last. He was a softly-spoken boy and there was now a hush as the congregation listened. ‘I’m really sorry I’m late back, guys. I’m
looking forward to seeing you again, obviously. Hi, Millie! Hi, Sam, Ruskin – hope your brother’s with you – and hi, Tomaz, and hi, Asilah, Israel, Sanjay, Anjoli, Henry, Podma,
Eric . . .’
He went through all the names.
Captain Routon stopped the projector again, because some of the younger orphans were up against the screen, running their hands over Sanchez’s chin.
Millie’s eyes were moist and she looked from her friend to the little badge in her hand and back again, deeply confused. When the film started again, the camera pulled back – and
again, a hush fell. Sanchez was normally seen in his school clothes, like everyone else. It was a shock to see that he was wearing something very different, and as the children took in what his
costume was, several mouths fell open.
The room was silent.
Sanchez was wearing football kit. He wore a striped football shirt and the stripes were black and gold. The shorts were black with a golden bar down each thigh. The socks were black with three
golden bands. He even had black-and-gold wristbands. He shone like a young golden god.
‘Millie and I designed this kit,’ said Sanchez. ‘She promised she wouldn’t tell, so I hope she didn’t – well, I know she wouldn’t, because one thing I
know is Millie doesn’t break a promise. So . . . I hope you like it. My father made a load of them, so . . .’ Sanchez looked off-camera and laughed at something. ‘We’re
going to have a proper strip now, all of us. All different sizes, no problem, and the boots and the footballs . . . everything we need. It’s all in a box and I’m bringing it with me. In
time for our first game!’
The audience was in pain. To keep silent after announcements like these was physical torture, and there was groaning. Sam was on his feet.
‘More important than that . . . I need to introduce you to a friend of mine.’
The shot changed to a panorama of a warm, sandy beach. The camera wobbled and then it zoomed in on Sanchez again. He was still in his football kit, limping towards the camera with a football
under his arm.
‘There’re a lot of kids in Colombia who don’t have much,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean – don’t have anything , is what I mean. Street kids and
that – so if you’re a girl or a boy, all you dream about is making it big. Football is a big business out here. Everyone knows the story: if you get seen – if you get selected
– you can be the richest boy in Colombia.’ The camera was closing in on Sanchez’s face.
‘All ready to go,’ said Captain Routon, taking the parcel gently from her.
‘Let’s not waste time!’ cried the headmaster. ‘Sanchez cannot be with us for a little while yet. He is visiting his mother, who died recently, due to . . . circumstances
beyond her control. However, I think you will agree when you see his message, that we have a very special term ahead of us. Thank you, Captain!’
Captain Routon pressed the switches and the lights dimmed.
The children huddled forward as a great white beam flashed upon the wall. A complicated set of lenses and bulbs meant that the image was projected huge, and the children were bolt upright,
peering hopefully as white dissolved into a million specks of black and grey. Suddenly, it was blue. And then, as if he was there in the room by magic, a face three metres high flickered into life.
Andreas Emilio Sanchez was smiling at his friends, and the children burst as one into yet another volley of unstoppable cheering. The camera was close up and their friend looked radiant and
healthy. Clear skin, shining eyes, oiled hair.
He started to speak, but of course the words were lost amongst the howling of the waving children. Routon had to pause the movie and shout for quiet.
‘Hi,’ said Sanchez, at last. He was a softly-spoken boy and there was now a hush as the congregation listened. ‘I’m really sorry I’m late back, guys. I’m
looking forward to seeing you again, obviously. Hi, Millie! Hi, Sam, Ruskin – hope your brother’s with you – and hi, Tomaz, and hi, Asilah, Israel, Sanjay, Anjoli, Henry, Podma,
Eric . . .’
He went through all the names.
Captain Routon stopped the projector again, because some of the younger orphans were up against the screen, running their hands over Sanchez’s chin.
Millie’s eyes were moist and she looked from her friend to the little badge in her hand and back again, deeply confused. When the film started again, the camera pulled back – and
again, a hush fell. Sanchez was normally seen in his school clothes, like everyone else. It was a shock to see that he was wearing something very different, and as the children took in what his
costume was, several mouths fell open.
The room was silent.
Sanchez was wearing football kit. He wore a striped football shirt and the stripes were black and gold. The shorts were black with a golden bar down each thigh. The socks were black with three
golden bands. He even had black-and-gold wristbands. He shone like a young golden god.
‘Millie and I designed this kit,’ said Sanchez. ‘She promised she wouldn’t tell, so I hope she didn’t – well, I know she wouldn’t, because one thing I
know is Millie doesn’t break a promise. So . . . I hope you like it. My father made a load of them, so . . .’ Sanchez looked off-camera and laughed at something. ‘We’re
going to have a proper strip now, all of us. All different sizes, no problem, and the boots and the footballs . . . everything we need. It’s all in a box and I’m bringing it with me. In
time for our first game!’
The audience was in pain. To keep silent after announcements like these was physical torture, and there was groaning. Sam was on his feet.
‘More important than that . . . I need to introduce you to a friend of mine.’
The shot changed to a panorama of a warm, sandy beach. The camera wobbled and then it zoomed in on Sanchez again. He was still in his football kit, limping towards the camera with a football
under his arm.
‘There’re a lot of kids in Colombia who don’t have much,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean – don’t have anything , is what I mean. Street kids and
that – so if you’re a girl or a boy, all you dream about is making it big. Football is a big business out here. Everyone knows the story: if you get seen – if you get selected
– you can be the richest boy in Colombia.’ The camera was closing in on Sanchez’s face.
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