The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2652 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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So far the dream hadn’t come to pass and Danni was paid no more attention than any of the other England women. She was certainly the youngest and possibly the smallest player but she began to play that to her advantage, small people have great manoeuvrability and it wasn’t very long before she’d got past a couple of the blue shirted women and was haring down the touchline managing to cross the ball into the six yard area before being hacked down by the large Scottish fullback. Simon was on his feet and screaming at the referee and linesmen who didn’t flag a foul.

She got up and limped about for a few minutes before she was engaged in the thick of it again and once again she was chopped down by the fullback. Again no foul was given. Simon was muttering things about arranging an optician’s appointment for the ref.

The third time she got walloped, it happened in front of the referee and he was obliged to do something. He awarded a direct free kick. I knew what the outcome would be and relished some revenge except the captain came up to take it. Danni stood a couple of yards to her right and suddenly the captain changed her mind and told Danni to bend it. She didn’t need asking twice. Just as in my dream she curved it round the wall and into the top of the goal without the goalkeeper even seeing it.

I whispered to Trish, “Charge yourself up, I have a feeling Danni is going to get hurt at some point and we’re going to need to help her.”

“Okay,” she said and I recognised that she had begun to bring down the energy as I was doing.

Danielle continued to be thorn in the side of the Scots women, with her ball control skills and fast acceleration they seemed to have no way to deal with her except to take her down, usually by foul means. Several times she ended up limping, but her solitary goal kept England in the lead at half time.

Trish and I tried to send her the light to heal any knocks and protect her from the two fullbacks who were like giants compared to our darling daughter. England started the second half and once again, Danni was in the midst of the action, her passing dominating the midfield. Once it was realised she had the ability to see and set up moves, her team mates began to let her call the shots. They kept the Scots pinned down in their own half by swift attacks but mainly by holding onto possession. It’s a well known fact, that it’s very difficult to score if you don’t have the ball.

Danni moved the ball around and suddenly after it came back to her she took it herself and ran at her opponents, past one, then another before that bloody giant of a woman flattened her again, with very little attempt to play the ball. Danni stayed down holding her leg, the referee gave the woman a yellow card—it should have been red—and awarded a free kick again. I hurled blue at her, drawing in Trish’s energy as well. After several minutes Danni managed to stand then hobbled about finally speaking to her captain. She took the free kick again.

I have never seen a kick like it. It curved off to the right, around the wall, then curved left towards the goal before curving again behind the goal keeper and into the net. The crowd was silent for a moment as was the referee, as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes, but he blew his whistle and pointed to the centre spot. England were two up.

“Did you see that kick?” asked Simon as the Scots kicked off again, “Even Beckham couldn’t bend it like that.” I did wonder if the blue energy helped, but it was after foul play, so it seemed fair enough to me.

Scotland were mainly confined to their own half but on one rare attack they caught the England girls on the back foot and suddenly it was two one. The game then seesawed back and fore as each side strove to add to their score. Danielle seemed to stay calm, marshalling her troops she sent them off again, acting as a fulcrum in the moves they tried.

Seeing a gap down the left wing she fired a long pass out to her winger who got past the fullback and crossed it into the penalty box. Danni took it on the volley smashing it at the goal only for it to be stopped by the face of the woman who’d been knocking her down. She dropped like a sack of coal and ball rebounded to the feet of the England captain who slammed it low into the net. England three Scotland one—game over.

And so it proved to be, our little girl had proven to be a play maker and game changer and not an overhead scissors or bicycle kick in sight. She was also awarded ‘man of the match’, which I doubt anyone would dispute. We waited while she went and showered, she emerged an hour later—they’d had a quick debrief and she was full of herself as she said the coach had confided in her, ‘Play like that, girl, and your name will be the first on the team sheet every time.’

“That was brilliant, kiddo,” said Simon engulfing her in a monster hug.

“I’d have thought you wanted Scotland to win?” she teased him back.

“It was a difficult call but I decided I’d support the better side, which you just happened to be playing for.”

“I taught her all she knows,” joked Trish.

“You made my leg better, didn’t you?” she almost accused me.

“I wanted you to get one back on that wretched woman who kept knocking you down.”

“How did you do that kick?” asked her father.

She shrugged, “As soon as I hit it I just knew it was going into the net. I think it might have had some help—eh, Mummy?”

“I didn’t touch it,” I protested.

“It seemed to have a blue tail to me, like a comet.”

“Optical illusion,” I pronounced and they all laughed.

“Home?” said Simon.

“Can I get something to eat, I’m starvin’?” replied Danni.

“Could do, look you come in my car with me and we’ll stop on the way back and get you a burger or something and your mum can take Trish and get back home so the others can eat.”

Which was what we did. Si and Danni went off in his F type and Trish and I went home in mine. Trish said she was philosophical about riding with me, when I knew she’d have preferred the sports car, but today she seemed to have grown up a little.

“Did you help her score that goal?” she asked me after contemplating it for some time.

“I don’t know the first thing about soccer, do I?”

“It was like something out of Harry Potter, sphericus in goalus,” she said waving her hand about like a deranged Hermione before falling back in her seat giggling.