by Dan Freedman
In England, Jamie’s pace alone would have meant that he could have got hold of the ball within one or two passes. Like a leopard in full flight, Jamie was almost always able to capture his prey.
However, now as he stood, gulping for air in the boiling midday sun, Jamie realized that he had already been the piggy in the middle for around ten minutes and, with each passing second, the howls of enjoyment from his new teammates seemed to get louder. They would wait until Jamie was right upon them, just about to seize control of the ball, before finding some wizard-like feint of the body or intricate piece of close control to move the ball on at the very last second.
Like a dog unable to stop chasing a ball, Jamie refused to give up, but he knew his strength was disappearing. He hoped his teammates might give him a break. But they would not – they simply carried on. Were they teaching him some kind of lesson? Were they trying to make him look stupid?
Jamie could feel his temples begin to pump with anger. Why had they all been so nice to him in the changing room only to mock him now on the pitch?
His fury began to inject extra pace and power into his running. No one could make him look foolish on a football pitch. This was his domain…
Hammering the ground, Jamie kept low and agile as he stalked the ball and then, when there was one momentary second of indecision, he pounced, sliding ferociously along the grass at top speed to push the ball out of the circle and slam into Steffen Effenhegel at the same time.
Effenhegel, having been knocked over, immediately jumped to his feet, staring over Jamie, who could sense a firm German punch about to come his way.
And then Effenhegel laughed and offered his hand to Jamie to lift him off the ground.
“Well done,” said another voice from behind Jamie. It was Godal. He was dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck. “You lasted twelve minutes and forty-eight seconds. And you got the ball! That is a new record for a fresh signing. We do this with every player that comes to the club. It is a way of explaining our philosophy without words. We believe that, no matter how fast any player can run, the ball can always move faster. This is the way we play at Barça. This is why we love to pass the ball.”
Jamie was not in the team. He was a sub. Godal had told him the night before the game – just after Jamie had been made to stand on a table and sing a song in front of his new teammates.
It was one of many “initiation” routines that they had insisted on to mark his arrival at Barça. Strangest of all were the constant requests for Jamie to tell the other players the rudest word he knew in English. For millionaire footballers, Jamie thought they seemed a little overexcited about learning a new, rude word in a foreign language. And he wasn’t quite sure whether they were just trying to get him in trouble so, in the end, he had a brainwave and told them that nincompoop was far and away the most disgusting piece of vocabulary to exist in the English language and made all his new teammates promise sincerely never to reveal to anyone that it was he who had taught them this horrendous word.
Although he was devastated not to be in the starting line-up for the game against Bilbao, Jamie had not really been able to argue. Barcelona had been superb against Valencia, so he could hardly demand the manager change a winning team.
As he went out on to the pitch to warm up with the rest of the players, Jamie immediately felt a rotten orange smash into the side of his face. At first he thought it was another prank by a teammate but then he looked around and saw that every one of the Barça players was being pelted with stinking fruit and vegetables. The food was mouldy and oozing a putrid, foul-smelling juice.
Not one of the players reacted, though. This must have been just the normal run of things. It was so different to England. There, the fans hurled abuse from the stands. Here, it was food. From all sides, the fruits were raining down, smashing into players’ heads and faces, squishing the sickly-sweet juice on to their skin.
Jamie ran his sticky fingers through his hair. He could see the determination beginning to rise within his teammates. They were not smiling now. They were here to do the business.
Jamie watched from the bench as his new team continued their perfect start to the season, recording a comfortable 2-1 victory. Rodinaldo opened the scoring with a delicious drive before Major completed the job with an impish little chip.
However, while the celebrations flowed after the game, Jamie could not help but feel on the fringes of everything that was happening.
He clapped along with everyone else and tried to mouth the Spanish words that they were singing, but he could feel the distance between himself and the other players growing.
A dark flower of loneliness was beginning to open within him.
He was nothing more than an onlooker. He had to become part of this party.
SPANISH LEAGUE
Jamie Johnson unused substitute
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Jamie stood up and volleyed a tennis ball at the wall. He felt sick. What was all this business about Dillon Simmonds? At school, Dillon had been a bully of the worst kind. It seemed to have been his personal mission to make Jamie’s life as miserable as possible. And now, not only was he helping decorate the new house, but he was spending time with Jack too! Where had all this come from? And, as for that stupid comment she’d made about Dillon being “handsome” now, well that was just too ugly for words.
It had made Jamie so angry that he almost didn’t read the last couple of lines of the email but, when he sat back down at the computer and caught sight of those final words – “Coming back home for a game” – he almost leapt straight back out of his seat.
Going back to Hawkstone? That could only mean one thing! But it couldn’t be true … could it?
Instantly, Jamie opened up a new browser window on his computer. His home page opened: the official website of Hawkstone United FC. And there it was. In huge letters.
The most perfect football match that Jamie Johnson could ever hope to play in.
HAWKSTONE GET BARÇA
Hawkstone United have been drawn in the same group as Barcelona as we prepare for our first-ever taste of the Champions League.
Also in Group D are Galatasaray and Rosenborg (Champions of Turkey and Norway, respectively). However, it is the presence of Barcelona which has already captured the imagination of the fans, management and players alike.
“It’s a tough group but we have to believe that we can progress,” commented Hawks manager Harry Armstrong directly after the draw, which took place in Switzerland. “It’s no secret that, as a club, we need to make some money this season, so progressing past the group stage becomes an even greater goal.”
The two clubs have already been in close contact this summer, agreeing the largest transfer of the window to see Jamie Johnson trade the white and black of his hometown team for the blue and burgundy of the Catalan giants.
This was a fact not lost on skipper Glenn Richardson, who is looking forward to locking horns with Jamie when Barça come to town.
“The Champions League is the tournament every football player wants to be a part of,” he admitted. “And I know Jamie is no different. When the games were on last season he used to come around to mine to watch it on my big screen. We always used to talk about what it would be like to play in it.
“I know our fans were disappointed to see him go but I’m sure, after everything he’s done for this club, they’ll give him a great reception when he comes back.
“But that’s when the niceties will end. It’ll be our job to stop him on the night – though we know better than anyone else how difficult that is going to be.”
CHAMPIONS LEAGUE GROUP D
BARCELONA
GALATASARAY
HAWKSTONE UNITED
ROSENBORG
Hawkstone United v Barcelona on September 26 is SOLD OUT. Tickets for all other home matches still available. Please contact the ticket o
ffice for details.
Jamie had scored two stunning goals in two games.
For Scotland.
After ten days away, he had walked back into the Barcelona training complex feeling his whole body bulge with energy. Playing those two European Championship qualifiers against Serbia and Begium had got some running back into his legs and reminded him what it felt like to play again.
He was back on form and, what was more, in the next two weeks Barcelona were due to play against BOTH Real Madrid and Hawkstone United.
Time had run out.
Jamie had to get into the team now.
The problem was, Juan Godal obviously didn’t agree.
Even tonight, even when Barça had gone 3-0 up with twenty-six minutes still left to play, Godal had left him on the bench without so much as looking at him.
Barça had won their third successive match – this time starting their Champions League campaign in regal fashion – but Jamie’s mood was blackening. If Godal always talked about the team being like a family, then why did Jamie feel like the illegitimate son that nobody wanted to acknowledge?
CHAMPIONS LEAGUE
Jamie Johnson unused substitute
As he got dressed after the game, Jamie could feel the clock ticking in his mind. El Clásico was looming larger and larger on the horizon, and three days after that was an even bigger game for Jamie (if that was possible), the next Champions League group game against Hawkstone. These were two matches he simply had to play in. If he stayed as sub, he might actually burst with frustration.
It was time to take action. Time for some straight talking.
“What do I need to do, Señor Godal?” Jamie asked, taking the seat next to Godal as the team went out for a late dinner together, as they tended to do after home games. “Please just tell me what I need to do to play and I’ll do it. Whatever it is, you just have to say. Please.”
Jamie stared at Godal. Sometimes his desire was so strong it produced a physical sensation – something like pain but closer to an ache – in his core.
His manager nodded. It was almost as though he had been waiting for Jamie to ask him this question.
“The first night we met. In London. Do you remember what I said about a player who comes to Barça, Jamie? What he must understand above everything else?”
“Yes,” said Jamie instantly. He had replayed that meeting a million times in his head. “You said that Barça is more than a club. It is a spirit. And each new player must share that spirit.”
“Good,” said Godal. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a deep breath as he considered Jamie. Then he gave an order that would completely transform Jamie’s career at Barcelona.
“I want to see you smile.”
As with most of the best ideas in Jamie’s life, it had actually been Jack’s suggestion.
Naturally, Jamie had told her everything that Godal had said. Secretly, deep down, he had been hoping that she might say she would drop everything and come out to Spain to be with him. He really missed her in every way.
Although she had immediately promised to come out and see him in ten days’ time, under the guise of writing a preview of the Barça–Hawkstone clash, they both knew she wouldn’t be able to stay for longer than a day or so.
“But it does sound to me like Godal could be on to something,” she had said. “If you’re happy off the pitch, no one can stop you on it…”
Jack’s voice dropped off. Jamie imagined her pacing up and down in her room, trying to unlock the code to this conundrum. And that was when she said it:
“When was the last time you spoke to Allie Stone?”
“Stonefish? Not for a few weeks,” replied Jamie, kicking a tennis ball against the wall of his apartment. “I asked the Scotland boys what he was up to but none of them have heard from him since he retired.”
“So hit him up. Give him a call,” suggested Jack. “Could be just what you need. In fact, it could be exactly what you both need.”
All of which was the reason that Jamie was now at his computer, composing an email. Even the subject line had started to make him laugh.
Jamie smiled as he sent the email. He’d met Allie Stone during the World Cup and they had immediately struck up a bond. Not only had he been a great keeper but “Stonefish” was also one of the best friends Jamie had ever made through football. He had the warmest heart and the loudest fart that Jamie had ever witnessed.
So it was barely a surprise when only fifteen minutes later, Allie’s name flashed up on Jamie’s phone.
There was a text from the big man. And it was legendary.
Jamie could feel Godal’s eyes boring into him at training the next morning. They were searching through Jamie, looking for the spirit that would tell his manager he was truly ready to play.
Jamie had never experienced this kind of test before. Normally, his football was judged by goals and assists. Spirit was something much more difficult to measure.
Jamie was trying to work out what the actual definition of the word “spirit” meant as he left the training ground, which was why it took his brain a few seconds to actually recognize the huge friendly figure waiting for him astride a tiny moped.
Jamie had sent the email less than twenty-four hours ago and yet here, already, was big Allie Stone.
Not that Stonefish was alone – he was with none other than Rodinaldo and, amazingly, the two of them seemed to be sharing some hilarious joke, despite the fact that Rodinaldo could barely speak a word of English and Stonefish was hardly fluent in Portuguese.
As Jamie approached, the two new best friends exchanged a final belly laugh, a special handshake and what could only be interpreted as an agreement to meet up later.
“You took your time,” said Stonefish, immediately turning the tables on Jamie – it was as though Jamie was the one coming to visit him.
“I had to get some physio,” replied Jamie. “How did you get here so quick? And where’s your luggage? And how do you know Rodinaldo?”
“Eh, what’s with all the questions? You’re not my mum!” laughed Allie, elbowing Rodinaldo in the ribs to get him to start laughing too. “I got on the first flight. Got in at eleven last night and met Roddy at the nightclub at two o’clock this morning. We had a blast. You should have come! Hop on – we need to head back to yours and get ready – Roddy’s party starts in an hour!”
It was fair to say that Rodinaldo’s parties were legendary. Not only did Godal know that they went on, he actively encouraged them. Apparently he had even turned up to a couple last season.
So, within two hours of Stonefish’s arrival, he and Jamie, wearing their sunglasses, Hawaiian shirts and tropical shorts, entered the world of a Rodinaldo Fiesta.
The music was blaring. People were playing volleyball in the pool. Waiters carrying huge watermelons and drinks were mingling among the partying guests, who were all dancing as if their lives depended on it.
“Here,” said Stonefish. “Hold this.”
He handed Jamie his motorcycle helmet, which Jamie, like an idiot, accepted, and with that, Stonefish was off. First he tried his hand at the Macarena with about twenty girls by the massive, vibrating speakers, before swiftly and effortlessly becoming part of the human conga that was snaking its way around the pool.
Jamie collected an orange-looking drink from one of the waiters and took a moment to appreciate the surroundings.
Big palm trees with drooping, friendly leaves offered shade from the warm sun. A picture-perfect swimming pool shimmered as the waves from the volleyball game caused the water to slap against the marble tiles.
Jamie thought back to the days – the beautiful British summer days – when everyone was happy, when everyone had a smile on their face and the world seemed a quite wondrous place. Five or maybe six times a year, you might get a day like that in England. It seemed to Jamie that every day
in Barcelona was like that. Or at least could be.
It was at that moment that Rodinaldo decided to join his own party. Dressed impeccably in a stunning cream suit, he appeared on the terrace above the revellers and raised his hands before getting behind the decks to start DJing.
Then, as he spun the tracks, he gave a demonstration of the full array of his football talents.
Rodinaldo had perfected the ability to disco dance while keeping a ball aloft in the air. It was a truly bewitching sight, worthy of a TV show all of its own.
With the music blasting, the Brazilian’s feet moved in flashes, keeping the ball up in time to the rhythm. And that was when it clicked for Jamie. He’d been trying to work it out ever since he’d seen Rodinaldo play. What was different about him? Where did he get that extra-special movement from? How did he manage to play the game on a different canvas to everyone else?
Now Jamie could see it. Rodinaldo played football in the same way that he danced: to the beat.
“Oi!” said Stonefish, grabbing Jamie by the collar and hauling him into the centre of the conga as they went past. “Come join the party!”
Jamie needed his hands free to grab the person in front of him, so there was only one thing for it: he put the helmet on his head, pulled the visor down and joined in.
The rhythm was still pumping through Jamie in training the next day. And it felt good.
One touch – one small, spinning nick off the outside of Jamie’s boot to set up Major for a sweet strike even drew applause from Godal. That almost never happened. At most, Jamie had heard Godal emit a kind of birdlike whistle when he admired a move or a passing sequence but, following this flick, Godal had actually briefly stopped the game to explain to the other players why Jamie’s touch had been so effective.
