by Dan Freedman
“You see,” he’d stated, wrapping his arm around Jamie as he spoke. “With one stroke of the ball, he has killed three defenders. Bravo!”
That was the moment that Jamie sensed it.
He was going to be in the team on Sunday. And what was more, he had a feeling in his boots that he was going to do something special.
Spanish League
Jamie collected the ball and turned in the same movement. This was his first real chance to run with the ball and he wasn’t going to waste it.
He sprang forward as if it were the start of a hundred-metre sprint, keeping the ball nice and close as he surged across the turf. As the defender came to confront him, in the corner of his eye he spotted Major free slipping him the ball and racing to the other side of the defender.
Accelerating back on to Major’s return pass, Jamie unleashed an instant strike, which roared in from the millisecond it left Jamie’s boot. The ball exploded into the roof of the net with such ferocious venom that the goalkeeper made only the pretence of attempting to save it about a second after it had flashed past him.
Jamie wheeled away in delight. He knew what he’d done. He knew that this strike would be played on TVs in countries all over the world. Now people would know that he had truly arrived at Barcelona.
And at the same time, this was not Jamie’s goal alone. Immediately, he went to hug Major and Rodinaldo, and the three of them – arm in arm – then jogged joyously over to share the celebrations with Godal.
Jamie looked up at the travelling Barcelona fans – the new members of his family – and felt his heart heave with pride.
This truly was a beautiful game and it was exactly, unmistakably what he had been put on this earth to do.
And nothing could ever change that.
Or at least that was what he thought.
Final Score Spanish League
Jamie Johnson scores a hat-trick on his debut for Barcelona
Top of the Spanish League Table:
Jamie felt as happy as he had ever been.
He was smiling inside as he fired up his computer and typed the words “Jack Marshall”, “interview”, and “Jamie Johnson” into the search engine.
It was two-thirty a.m. He knew that was the time that the articles for the next day’s newspapers appeared on the websites.
He couldn’t wait to see what Jack had written.
Jack was a brilliant writer. It was a seriously good piece.
But that was not why Jamie was smiling. His spirit was glowing because of something completely different. Something that had happened after the interview.
The interview had taken place yesterday in one of the cafes on the beach, and when Jack had put her notepad away, they’d gone for a walk by the sea. It was then that, without any warning at all, Jack had turned to Jamie and said: “Sorry for being such an idiot last time I was here. It doesn’t matter how far away we are. Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”
And then she had kissed him.
Properly.
Dear Jamie Johnson,
You will probably never read this because you are one of the best players in the world.
My friend Dexter said that first goal you scored against Mallorca was one was so powerful it would have broken two sets of goal nets! And the overhead kick — that was insane!
Anyway, I don’t care whether you read this or never reply to me because I just wanted to write down how amazing you are at football. When I watch you play, it makes me so happy. Your skills are so wicked. You are my football hero. So, I wanted to know, who is your football hero?
Please write back even if it’s only in ten years’ time (after you have read all the other thousands of letters that you must get every day).
From your number one fan (I know everyone says that but I really mean it. I am your biggest fan).
Alex Riley (aged 13)
P.S. Do you think that they will ever make a film of your life? And if they do, who would you like to play you?
Jamie smiled. If he ever got down or depressed, reading a letter like this was all he needed to get him back on top form. And with Stonefish now able to help weed out the weird letters (one woman in Norwich had started sending him pictures of her cat) Jamie only got to see the nice ones. Like the letter from Alex.
Immediately, Jamie picked up a pen. It was his special yellow FIFA pen that they had sent to him all the way from Switzerland after he had played at the World Cup.
He made sure that he wrote in his neatest handwriting, as he had a feeling Alex would be showing this letter to all his mates, especially Dexter!
Dear Alex,
Thank you so much for your letter, which made me very happy.
It actually reminded me a bit of myself. I used to write letters all the time to the Hawkstone players and when I got a letter back from them it was a brilliant feeling, so I hope you like this letter from me…
To answer your question, my football hero is someone who you won’t have heard of, but that doesn’t stop him being a hero. It’s a man called Mike Johnson, who was my granddad. He was a brilliant footballer and would have been a top professional if he hadn’t got a really bad knee injury. He’s the one who introduced me to football and got me to love it. I often think about him when I play.
As for who would play me in a film of my life, that’s a great question! I think that
But before Jamie could write down his answer, he suddenly became aware that Stonefish was standing over him holding another letter in his hand.
“I think you need to look at this one, mate,” he said solemnly. It was the most serious Stonefish had ever looked in his life. “It came a few days ago.”
He slowly placed the letter down on the table in front of Jamie.
Jamie,
I don't know any other way to say this. I need your help.
I've got myself into some problems here in England. And it's not looking good. I owe some money to the wrong kind of people, and if I don't pay them back soon … well, it ain't gonna end pretty. Can you send me some money? Just a couple of thousand. I'll pay you back, I promise. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't desperate.
I know there's no reason for you to help me. I guess I'm just hoping that you might want to help out your old man.
Please, Jamie?
Your,
Dad
P.S. Here's my new number: 07212 456 982
“He’s lying,” said Jamie, angrily crunching up the letter and chucking it in the bin. “He’s not in trouble, he just can’t be bothered to work. Seen it a thousand times before.”
“How do you know that, bud?” asked Allie, attempting to rescue the letter from the bin. “Maybe he’s telling the truth. He sent this letter ten days ago, you know? Sometimes it’s good to sort this stuff out before it’s … too late.”
“He’s the one who’s too late,” stormed Jamie. “He left me and my mum with nothing but a load of debt that he ran up on credit cards. Trust me, Stonefish. The only time he’s ever been interested in me was when he wanted something. Leopards don’t change their spots.”
Jamie gave his mum a massive hug. He didn’t do it enough, he knew.
He was around the age of twelve when his mum had asked one day why he’d stopped hugging her as much he used to. He’d shrugged his shoulders and felt bad – he knew how much she liked to get a hug from him.
It was great to see her and Jeremy. They brought that feeling of home with them and they made Jamie laugh too. Even though he had offered for them to stay with him and Stonefish or to put them up in one of the nicest hotels in the city, they had insisted on renting a cheap little apartment by the railway station. They’d also already planned out their whole itinerary for the four days that they were in Barcelona. As far as Jamie could tell, it looked like they were going for the world record for the number of museums
visited in one holiday.
“Jack says hi, by the way.” His mum smiled. Jamie wondered whether she knew that he and Jack were together properly now. But he didn’t ask. He just handed over the match tickets to Jeremy.
“This is a big old soccer game, isn’t it?” said Jamie’s stepfather as he opened the envelope to look at the tickets.
“What? Barcelona v Madrid?” said Jamie ironically. “Only about the biggest match in the world!”
With the match now only twenty-four hours away, the build-up was beginning to reach astronomic levels. Only today, the two coaches had held a joint press conference in which the sparks had begun to fly.
“The Barcelona team are used to having everything their own way. But tomorrow night, they will not have it easy,” Fernando Nemisar, the Madrid coach, had warned, indulging in his usual pre-match psychological warfare. He had even turned to look Godal directly in the face, saying: “We are not scared of your ability to pass, because we can pass better … and not only that. We are stronger, faster and hungrier than your players.”
The press, lapping up every word of this drama, had quickly asked Godal for a response. They wanted the two men to confront each other but the Barça manager refused to play ball.
“For him, attention is his oxygen,” explained Godal, staring straight ahead, purposely ignoring Nemisar’s presence. “For us – for my players – we live by another means. We live from keeping the football.”
“So, just remind me,” said Jamie’s mum. “Because I keep on getting it mixed up. Which colour is Barcelona and which is Real Madrid?”
Jamie laughed and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He was about to play in a football match that would be watched in every continent around the globe. But he would never get too big for his boots while his mum was around.
Jose Luis Armando Godal put the printed copy of the English newspaper story down in front of Jamie.
It was twelve-thirty p.m. Exactly eight and a half hours before El Clasico was due to kick off.
“I am so sorry, Jamie,” he said, resting his hand lightly on Jamie’s shoulder. “This is not a true father.”
Jamie nodded in agreement. He was still furious at that person – he could no longer call him his “dad” – for putting him in this position. And why did he still feel embarrassed when he had nothing to do with this man?
“I can see how deeply this is affecting you,” continued Godal. “So I am going to give you two weeks off to recover your calmness.”
Jamie leapt up from his seat, his head banging with anger.
“No!” he yelled, looking for a door to punch, anything to let out the anger. “No,” he repeated. “Señor Godal! You can’t do this to me. You can’t punish me – I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I am not punishing you, Jamie. I am protecting you.”
The more worked up Jamie became, the calmer Godal seemed to act.
“You must trust me, Jamie,” he continued in soft, measured terms. “I know football and, if you allow me to say it, I think I know you too. I know that for you, football and life are the same thing, so we cannot pretend that this has not happened. I look at you now and see you have a cauldron inside you. This is the time – when your head is not clear – that problems can happen on the pitch… And we must remember the deal that we made too, Jamie. You are not in the same position as the other players.”
Godal stood up. For him the meeting was finished.
But for Jamie it was not.
“Señor Godal,” he countered – immediately understanding that what he said at this very moment, the words he used right now, could have the most profound effect on his career. “I understand what you are saying, but I have only just got into this team. And now we have El Clasico and the match against Hawkstone. These aren’t just two games. They are the biggest games of my life. I refuse to let you take me out of the team.”
Godal shook his head.
“You are perhaps the most ambitious, passionate player that I have met,” he said. It didn’t sound quite like the compliment that it could have been. “I will play you, but I must tell you that ambition can be a curse as much as a blessing.”
JACK MOB
Good luck for Clasico! I’m watching the game on the TV and doing live text commentary for the newspaper website! Give it everything you’ve got (that way you won’t have enough energy to give Hawks too much of a thrashing on Weds). It’ll be soooo weird seeing you play at Hawkstone – for the opposition.
Jx
P.S. I’m REALLY looking forward to seeing you after the game on Wednesday night.P.P.S. No need to be nervous for Clasico… It’s just a game. J :)
Jack always repeated that phrase – “It’s just a game” – when she could tell Jamie was nervous about a match. Of course they both knew it wasn’t true, but somehow when Jack said it, it soothed Jamie’s concerns.
Jamie could feel the smile taking over his face but he tried not to show it, as the other players would immediately latch on to it and start mocking him. The Barça players all said they could tell whenever Jamie was texting Jack because the same stupid grin appeared on his face every time! On a couple of occasions he’d even been forced to call them all a bunch of nincompoops because they had teased him so much.
Jamie touched his lips. Sure enough, they were curving upwards, lifted by Jack’s words, and the fact that he only had three more sleeps before he would get to see her.
He allowed himself one final look at the text before he turned off his phone and put it into his locker.
It was time get changed.
It was time to get serious.
It was time to play Real Madrid.
Live text commentary of the game
by Jack Marshall…
Barcelona v Real Madrid
Kick-Off 21:00
20.45
The Madrid and Barcelona players exit from their changing rooms and walk along the small, almost claustrophobic passageway, which is lined with paintings of former players.
A few teammates from the Spanish national team stretch their hands across the divide and produce small smiles to hide their glaring, grinding aggression.
Now the twenty-two players, separated by the iron grid, walk down the tunnel.
Thirty-four steps down, into the very depths of the foundations, and then eight steps up. Eight steps up towards the light. Towards the noise. Towards the pitch. Towards El Clasico.
20.59
The old stadium shudders as the referee prepares to start the game. Everyone is in the ground: celebrities, sports stars, the king of Spain … and five hundred million people all watching around the world … all waiting for the start.
21.00
The referee blows his whistle. El Clasico is under way! The noise sounds like thunder reverberating from the depths of the earth, and then … football.
KICK-OFF
Almost immediately the pattern for the game is set: Barcelona’s quick, staccato passing pitched against Madrid’s aggressive pressing.
Barça look the more comfortable side until, in only the third minute, disaster strikes…
Effenhegel passes the ball back to Dominguez, the Barcelona keeper… Adhering to Godal’s principles of passing to retain possession, Dominguez attempts to chip the ball back to Effenhegel, but the Madrid forward line sense his plans and swarm around Effenhegel like hungry hyenas scenting a kill.
Quickly they dispossess the defender and bear down on the helpless keeper. One more predatory touch from Rosseri and the ball is in the net. First blood to Madrid.
The Nou Camp is silent.
Only on the touchline, where Nemisar runs the entire length of the pitch in a series of ostentatious fist-pumping celebrations, is the Madrid joy fully fledged.
Godal, sensing his players’ need for direction, steps out of his technical a
rea to let his team see their leader. He looks unruffled. Unfazed. Unmoved.
“Pass!” he shouts, moving his hands in different directions across his body to indicate the speed and tempo at which he wants the ball to be manoeuvred.
For a second Godal and Nemisar face each other. They look like two brothers. The same but different.
And then, immediately, battle recommences.
6 minutes played…
Once again the ball is passed back to Dominguez. The stadium takes a collective breath. He takes a touch of the ball and this time half-volleys it diagonally out to the right to Major. It’s a stunning pass. A technique of which any outfield player in the world would have been proud.
Godal, in full view of Nemisar, claps his keeper’s bravery in taking on the pass.
12 minutes…
And now here is Jamie Johnson. It’s the first time he has got on the ball. He finds a yard of space and darts forward, keeping his body close to the ground and the ball magnetized to his boot. He is on the touchline, tight to the edge of the pitch. A defender comes to close him down. Johnson moves as if to lay the ball back to the full-back and then, right at the last minute, produces a turn to bewitch and mesmerize his opponent. The Barça fans roar their approval.
19 minutes…
The first bookings of the game come when Rodinaldo is callously hauled down on the edge of the penalty area. He stands up, puffs out his chest and pushes the Madrid man backwards. The Madrid defender exaggerates the extent of the contact and is told to stand up by the referee. Both players are given yellow cards. Rodinaldo’s face is taut with anger and tension. There are no carefree smiles from the Brazilian today. He is focused on the prize.
