"All right you bunch of hooligans, that's it!"

Mr. Williams held out his arm at shoulder level like a STOP barrier, pointing with a trembling finger. He blew his whistle so hard that Michael was momentarily deafened.

"Off! Go on, get off! I've warned you!"

Jake Thorogood, a famously dirty player, slumped off the pitch. A small group of supporters brought by St Marguerite's – also known as the Daisies – jeered. The Falcon's supporters jeered back. One of the Daisies had slammed into Jake without Mr. Williams seeing, and Jack had kicked the daisy hard enough to knock him down, which Mr. Williams had seen.

Michael wiped his face with his shirt. He could hear his friend Erick, the Falcons' captain, shouting encouragement from the other end of the pitch. Mr. Bristow the team coach, who was also Erick's step dad, was sitting on the bench in his tracksuit, controlling his expression. The ball came Michael's way and he assed it to Marshal, who struck it towards the goalmouth, which it missed by at least 5 meters. But the usual assembly of excited children, enthusiastic dads and bored girlfriends cheered anyway.

The Falcons were two – nil ahead, with 5 minuets to go. Michael could hear Jake Thorogood swearing from the touchline. Eddie was showing off his dribbling skills. Marshal, a stranger to the idea of time wasting, chugged up and down the pitch like a train.

Football was all right. In fact sometimes it was great, it had given Michael some of the most thrilling moments of his life. But since just before the end of last season, it had started to seem less important.

What do you mean, less important, Mr. Vaughn? Asked an invisible TV reporter, holding an invisible microphone under Michaels nose as he jogged up the field
I mean less than ballet.

Ballet, Mr. Vaughn? Are you serious?

Look, I've made a decision. With the Falcons, it's all or nothing. But it's all or nothing with ballet, too. If I'm going to audition for the ballet school in February, which will be my big chance to try for full time training, I've got to devote my time and energy to that, haven't I?

But wouldn't you miss football, Mr. Vaughn?

Miss it? Miss running round a muddy pitch with a crowd of madmen, having massive fun and getting massively exhausted? And dissecting the match afterwards, and turning up to Falcons training on Thursday evenings, and going to the Falcons discos at the clubhouse, and having a good mate like Erick? Miss it?

"Oi, Rudolph!"

Someone ran into him, grabbing his shirt, and before he knew it his ankles had been kicked out from under him, and his face hit the grass. Sprawling there, winded, with a pain starting up in his shoulder, Michael didn't kneed to ask why he had been targeted. There was always people – even so called friends like Marshal Flinkman – who couldn't resist an opportunity to knock him down and call him Rudolph.

Marshal stood back with his hands up. "Sorry mate, you're all right, aren't you mate?" Michael sat up wearily. His breath was coming back. Slowly he got up. Marshal was hovering, jumping lightly from foot to foot. "What's the matter Vaughn? Laddered your tights?"

"Why don't you grow up?"

Marshal's damp pink end of match face almost disappeared a triumphant grin. "Why don't you stop being such a poofter?"

It was no use. All male ballet dancers were gay. Not just gay but clamply, overtly, flamboyantly gay as every brainless caricature ever produced. All ballet dancers of ether sex were airheads, or mental, or saddos. Any dancer who dared to come into the vicinity of Marshal Flinkman had better watch out.

The final whistle blew. Erick ran toward Michael with his shirt off and his face blotchy with pride and exertion. They slapped hands and shouted a bit and behaved like very little children for a bit. Michael felt happy. He began to look forward to tonight's disco in the clubhouse. Girls, always in short supply amongst supporters and non-existent at his school, were more plentiful at Falcons discos.

Maybe tonight would be the night when one of them would actually talk to him without renewing her lipstick at the same time or looking at a more desirable boy.

In the shower, Michael lathered his hair then rinsed it, feeling the hot water pushed the suds down his back like lava. Though he hadn't done ballet class in over a week, he felt fit and clear-headed.

Erick's voice echoed in the tiled shower room. "Mike you in here?"

When Michael came out, toweling his hair, Erick was waited. "Everyone else finished bloody ages ago."

"Sorry." Michael put the towel round his shoulders.

"Jacks expecting us to help with clearing the hall for tonight. There's about a thousand chairs to move."

"You sound like my mum."

"And you look like a girlie girl."

"So I play football like a girlie girl to, do I?"

"Oh, very humorous."

Michael had setup both goals this afternoon for someone else to score. Everyone knew that he was the best player on the team at knowing where every player was and anticipating what they were doing next. He was also good at dummy shots, because he was very fast at turning unexpectedly without tripping over his feet. And he was capable of bursts of energy, even late in the game, which left his pursuers, standing. Ballet dancing, for all there mockery, had its useful side effects.

Erick followed him into the changing room, muttering. His child like joy of the Falcons victory had evaporated. His face looked full of some other concern.

"Eddie just said something," he said thoughtfully. He folded his arms and sat down on the bench, looking at Michael with uncertainty.

"Eddie?" Michael was surprised. What Eddie said was usually only a wormed over version of what his brother marshal said, and what marshal said was certainly never worth taking seriously. Michael took his t-shirt off the peg and pulled it over his head, and then started to pull on his jeans. He hadn't dried his legs very well and his jeans were sticking to his legs.

"He said that you're thinking of quitting the team." Announced Erick, his eyes on Michael's face.

Michael hauled his jeans up and zipped them. Ho hum. So it wasn't just between him and the invisible reporter, then. Somehow Eddie – or more likely Marshal – had muscled in on the story. "Eddie should go on the stage with this mind reading act of his."

Erick's uncertainty deepened. "I'm not joking, mate."

Michael went to the mirror, his hairbrush in hand, and looked solemnly at his reflection. Erick's declaration seemed to have emptied his head. Perhaps he spent too long looking at himself in mirrors. He should try and curve his habit.

"So is it true, or not?" asked Erick.

Michael brushed his hair flat against the nape of his neck. "No. Yes, maybe. Um... I don't know."

Erick stood up. The mirror reflected the uncomprehending dismay on his face.

"Jack's going to go ballistic! I mean totally. We're away to the Tigers on Saturday!"

"Tell me something I don't know."

The hostility in Erick's voice wavered. "You're not really going to quit, are you?"

"I told you, I don't know yet."

"You'd just better not, that's all."

Erick's gaze dropped. Catching sight of something brightly coloured lying on the floor, he stopped to pick it up. It was the red hair-tie, which tied Michael's hair back during the game. "This yours?"

Michael took it. It was mud soaked and unwieldy, but he managed to return it to its usual place around his wrist. "Thanks," he said.

Erick's dark, dripping eyes looked at him sharply. Michael looked back. Then, for good measure, he widened his own small green eyes and blinked. Pursing his lips, and stroked his wet hair like a camp comedian on TV.

"Don't do that," said Erick.

His tone was serious. Michael stopped. "What's up?"

"Nothing." Erick was frowning uneasily. "But just don't do that, will you?"