Final Whistle

by Dan Freedman

  He was just fixing himself a mug of typical builder’s tea when he heard his mum’s car pull up outside. He knew Wednesday was her shopping day and she’d have loads of bags to carry so he thought he’d surprise her and help her haul everything in.

  Jamie opened the front door. It had been a long, bitingly cold winter, but in the clear bright afternoon light, there was just a hint of spring getting ready to rouse itself.

  Jamie took the bags from his mum’s hands as they started to make their way back to the house. On the other side of the street, Jack Marshall rode past them on her way to do her coaching.

  She waved and Jamie waved back with his free hand. But she didn’t stop.

  Jamie was just pulling the local newspaper out of the letter box when he heard the screams.

  A lightning bolt of fear seized him. He knew exactly whose scream it was.

  He let the shopping drop to the ground and sprinted up the street and around the corner.

  Jack was on the ground, the wheel of her collapsed bike was still spinning and she had a cut on her head that was pouring blood.

  “You OK?” asked Jamie. “What happened?”

  Jack pointed up the street, where the thief was running away, carrying Jack’s laptop bag around his shoulder.

  A sensation of pure anger coursed through Jamie. It was a primeval, caveman sense of fury and it told Jamie that no one could lay a finger on Jack and get away with it.

  But the mugger was getting away.

  Instantly Jamie’s mind understood what was happening and what he had to do.

  He reached for the nearest object to him – an old, hard football, which was lying in the front garden of a nearby house. Taking a millisecond to assess the speed and angle that the mugger was running at, Jamie tossed the ball into the air. Then, with all his rage focused into this one moment, he unleashed a volley of seismically powerful proportions.

  The ball shot into the air with speed and unerring accuracy, whistling its way towards its target, connecting directly with the mugger’s head, just as he was about to turn the corner of the street and get away for good.

  The impact of the strike knocked the robber completely off his feet, sending him scrambling to the ground. And by the time he looked up, Jamie was running straight towards him, closing the distance with each surging stride.

  Seeing the frenzied fury in Jamie’s face and the builder’s biceps which he now possessed, the mugger left the laptop bag in the road and scampered away, leaping over one of the nearest fences to complete his getaway.

  “Yeah! You better run, you piece of dirt!” Jamie shouted after him, picking up the laptop bag and dusting it down to make sure the computer was not broken.

  Then he went back to check if Jack was OK.

  Thankfully she was being comforted and helped to her feet by Jamie’s mum.

  “I guess you’ll be wanting this for work tonight,” said Jamie, handing Jack back her laptop bag.

  “True,” said Jack, looking at Jamie in a way she had not done for quite some time. “And I think you’ve just written my story for me.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Jack, her eyes sparkling with life.

  It was 11.47 p.m. and they were sitting in Jamie’s bedroom. Jack had come straight back to Jamie’s house after her night shift at the paper. She was now lying on Jamie’s bed, with her hands cradling the back of her head.

  Jamie was sitting next to his desk, thinking. In fact, he hadn’t stopped thinking since that afternoon. Since that moment.

  “Er, what exactly happened outside today?” asked Jack, putting into words the question that Jamie had silently considered ever since he had struck that football.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Could have just been a fluke.”

  “Yeah, right,” laughed Jack. “You’re about the only person in the world who could have done what you did this afternoon. That wasn’t a fluke. That was Jamie Johnson.”

  He nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. The way in which his brain had analysed the mugger’s speed and distance. The instant it had taken his body to adopt the perfect position to execute the volley. And the sweet, colossal power that he had managed to generate into the strike. None of these were matters of chance.

  “But what if it just happened because you were … in trouble?” said Jamie. “What if it was just a one-off?”

  “Well, that’s what we need to find out,” smiled Jack, rousing herself from his bed and slipping on her rucksack.

  “Where are you going?” asked Jamie.

  “I’m going to get things ready for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?”

  Jack looked at Jamie and gave him her huge, big, cheeky grin.

  “We’re going to do exactly what you just said: find out if it really was a one-off.”

  Jack hadn’t told Jamie what they were doing. She hadn’t even told him where they were going.

  All she’d said was to meet her at her house and for him to bring his trainers.

  It wasn’t until they had almost reached the gates that Jamie twigged.

  “Kingfield?!” he said. “What are we doing back at school?”

  “Same as we did when we were here – playing football!” said a voice from behind them.

  Jamie turned to see Dillon Simmonds grinning at him and Jack.

  He was dangling a twinkling set of keys.

  “How did you get the keys, Dillon?” asked Jack as she unlocked the doors to the Kingfield School Sports Hall. “In fact, better still, don’t tell me!”

  It turned out Jack had put her plan into action late last night. And Dillon was in on it too.

  “Is someone going to tell me what’s actually going on?” asked Jamie as they entered the cavernous, dark chamber.

  The air was cool and the sound echoed around the hall as Jack switched on the massive lights in the ceiling to illuminate the giant pitch.

  “Right!” said Jack, clapping her hands together and entirely ignoring Jamie’s question. “Dillon, you get the balls out of the cupboard, and Jamie, you go for a jog around the pitch; I’m not having you pull any muscles.”

  “Good,” said Jack as Jamie finished his circuit. He was still fit. The building work with Dillon had seen to that. “Now get into the box. Me and Dillon are going to whip over some crosses. All you have to do is volley them into the net.”

  Although Jack was trying to act casual – as though this wasn’t a big deal – she couldn’t hide the truth from Jamie. This was another trial. Just like when he’d gone back out to Barcelona. Except at least the cameras weren’t present this time.

  Without giving Jamie any time to prepare himself, Jack curled in a cross from Jamie’s right. It was a quick, powerful centre and the ball raced towards Jamie.

  Jamie adjusted his body as quickly as he could and snaked out his foot to fire in a volley.

  But he missed the ball completely, kicking only thin air.

  It was an awful, ugly effort.

  Instinctively, Dillon let out a mocking laugh.

  “Dillon, you stupid oaf!” admonished Jack. “If you’re not going to be supportive, we don’t need you.”

  “Nah, sorry,” said Dillon meekly. “It wasn’t Jamie I was laughing at; I was thinking about a joke I heard yesterday.”

  “Good,” smiled Jack. “Because you won’t be laughing when you see what he does with this one.”

  And with that, Jack tossed another ball into the air and pelted it straight at Jamie.

  As the ball sped towards him, Jamie’s eyes zeroed in on it. And then, just as it had done yesterday, his football brain kicked in.

  Readjusting his feet, he twisted his body and readied himself for the moment of impact. He calculated the speed and angles perfectly. He was in position for the ball to arrive … and then when it
did, he fairly hammered it into the back of the net. The frame of the goal shuddered with the impact of Jamie’s strike.

  “Whoa!” shouted Dillon, stunned by the venom of the shot.

  “Not bad,” was all that Jack said in response.

  Jamie nodded back to her. Something very special was happening.

  Cross after cross Jamie converted. Some he belted home, some he simply deftly diverted in, but all of them found their way into the back of the net.

  After they had sent in about a hundred crosses, Dillon was starting to pant.

  “All right,” he said, hunching over to catch his breath. “I think we’ve proved the point. Shall we wrap it up?”

  Jack just laughed and shook her head.

  “Babe,” she said. “We ain’t even got started yet.”

  It was about an hour later that Jack revealed she was ready to try the “final” exercise.

  “OK,” she said. “This is the one I’ve been waiting for. We’re going to do exactly what we’ve just been doing but, Dillon, this time I want you to turn the lights off just after I cross the ball; let him see me cross it, but then turn the lights off before the ball gets to him.”

  “What?” said Jamie. “How am I supposed to kick the ball if I can’t see it? That’s impossible!”

  “Yeah,” Jack nodded. “For most people.”

  There was an air of expectation in the hall as Jack lined up to deliver the final cross of the evening in to Jamie. She stepped forward, curved her foot around the ball and chipped it into the air.

  As soon as the ball left her foot, Dillon switched off the lights. Darkness.

  Except in Jamie’s head. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the ball coming towards him. He could see its flight and its speed. He could sense exactly the right time for him to strike and … whoosh; his left foot powered out into the darkness to meet the ball.

  At the moment of connection there was barely a sound.

  And then the lights were back on. To reveal the ball in the back of the net.

  “What the!!!” shouted Jack. “I didn’t actually believe you could do it, Jamie. It was just an experiment! Do you reckon you could do it again?”

  Jamie just smiled.

  On a football pitch there wasn’t much he couldn’t do.

  As they locked the school gates behind them, a strange feeling washed over Jamie.

  “Guys,” he said, turning to face both Jack and Dillon. “I … just want to say thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with you, you softie?” rounded Dillon.

  “I’m serious,” said Jamie. “My granddad used to say that real friends are the ones who walk in the room when other people walk out. And what you two have—”

  “Oh just shake my hand if it’ll stop you babbling on,” laughed Dillon, stretching out his big bucket of a hand.

  Meanwhile, Jack, for once, did not say anything. She simply leaned forward and gave Jamie a hug.

  Jamie wrapped his arms around her and breathed in deeply. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils and, as it did so, bright flashes of memories suddenly began to spark in his mind: taking the plane to Spain … being introduced to the Barcelona fans … walking out on the balcony to tell Jack how he felt … working his way into the Barcelona team … scoring a goal … becoming a hero….

  Suddenly, as all the memories began to collide inside Jamie’s head, his legs started to feel weak. He pulled Jack tighter to him. He felt unsteady and needed her support now more than ever. He didn’t want to let her go. Ever again.

  “Oi, you two,” shouted Dillon. “Just ‘cos it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t give you an excuse!”

  Jamie and Jack laughed. They were both blushing.

  It was amazing. After everything that had happened in their lives, here were Jamie Johnson and Jack Marshall, back at Kingfield School, with Dillon Simmonds standing there teasing them.

  Nothing whatsoever had changed.

  And yet, at the same time, everything was completely different.

  Archie Fairclough had almost cried when Jamie told him.

  It was a clear March night. A Sunday. Everyone else was at home, watching TV and relaxing, but Jamie knew where he’d find Archie. The Hawkstone United training ground, preparing for the club’s crucial next game.

  Jamie had knocked on the door and gone in. Then he’d told Archie everything. The whole story. Every detail of what had happened in the two and a half weeks since, in that moment of alarm, he had picked up that football and ordered his brain to strike it as hard and accurately as possible at the man who had mugged Jack.

  He’d also told Archie about all the memories that had been coming back to him, like flashing lights in his head: the day he suggested the pay-as-you-play deal to Godal, the hat-trick he’d scored against Mallorca, and the back-heel goal he’d struck against Madrid. Jamie could remember almost everything now. Everything except for the actual moment he’d suffered the injury.

  Finally, Jamie described the secret, night-time sessions that he, Jack and Dillon had been conducting in the Kingfield School Sports Hall. The sessions that had told him he was ready to play football again. Truly ready this time.

  Archie had simply sat back in his chair and listened. As Jamie told his mentor the story, Archie’s cheeks had filled with colour and his eyes had glistened with emotion.

  “I … I am so happy,” he had finally said when Jamie finished the story.

  “Me too,” smiled Jamie.

  “But I don’t understand,” said Archie, rubbing his thick white beard and shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have used our facilities here at Hawkstone. You didn’t have to break into the school every night!”

  “I wanted to keep it a secret,” Jamie replied. “Until I was really sure. I didn’t want anyone to know. To get their hopes up. Including me. But now I am sure, Archie. That’s why I’m here.”

  At that moment, Archie had very nearly started crying again. Jamie could see how much Archie cared for him. It was a beautiful feeling to know that someone existed who just wanted to the best for him and it reminded Jamie of his granddad Mike in so many ways.

  Finally, Archie composed himself and stood up.

  He took out a tissue and gave his reddening nose a massive blow.

  “Well,” he smiled, picking up the phone. “I guess we’d better arrange a football match for you to play in, hadn’t we?”

  It was truly disgusting.

  The strangest, most bizarre dinner Jamie had ever had in his life.

  But no one was saying anything. They were all pretending it was nice.

  It would have broken Jeremy’s heart to have done anything else.

  “There you go, Jacqueline,” said Jamie’s mum, smiling at their visitor as she filled her glass up to the brim. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  It was just the four of them and it was a perfect way for Jamie to prepare for his match the next day. Jamie was going to be playing for the Hawkstone reserves against the Academy players, in a special match arranged by Archie Fairclough.

  It was just a small game and the Hawkstone manager, Harry Armstrong, would not even be there to watch, as he had taken his team away for a two-day bonding session to prepare for their almighty Champions League tie to be played next week.

  But that didn’t matter to Jamie. It wasn’t about who would be watching. It was simply about playing again. It was an unbelievable prospect. In fact, Jamie was slightly concerned that if he thought about it too much – truly contemplated the fact that he was about to get back out there and play football again – he might physically burst with the excitement.

  Which was why a quiet dinner at home with those closest to him was the ideal way for him to relax. Perfect, of course, apart from the food.

  “Well?” asked Jeremy expectantly, looking at each of his fellow dine
rs. He was still wearing his favourite lime green apron, which had the words written on the front. “What do you think? I’ve used a special type of olives, my own recipe orange sauce and the fish – I went to the market before work this morning to pick that up… What do you think? I didn’t go too far with the beetroot and sultanas, did I?”

  Both Jack and Jamie used their old-school trick of hiding the fish in the middle of the mashed potato, leaving it to Jamie’s mum to politely say: “Yes, darling, it really is very … unusual!”

  A slightly uncomfortable silence followed, with Jamie kicking Jack under the table to try to make her laugh.

  “Good,” said Jeremy, suddenly standing up and speaking in a very posh voice. “I should like to propose a toast.”

  And then he raised his glass and straightened his back.

  “To Jamie,” he said, smiling at his stepson. “Good luck for tomorrow. Go for your goals.”

  Almost without thinking, Jack, Karen and Jamie all nodded their heads and repeated the words back to Jeremy.

  “Go for your goals.”

  There was a distinct feeling of magic in the air as Jamie received possession for the first time. He rolled the ball cheekily under his foot, forward and back. Then he stopped it dead and allowed it to remain there as he leaned his body first to the left and then to the right.

  Finally, Jamie put a stop to the tricks and did what he was born to do.

  Run with a football.

  He touched the ball forward and exploded like a rocket after it. One defender came to close him down; Jamie skipped past him. Another slid across; Jamie hurdled him like an Olympic athlete. Then the final defender charged at him, but Jamie simply knocked the ball between his legs and raced away.

  He was in on goal. He had no need to think. His body knew what to do.

  Jamie’s left foot flew into the ball. As it made contact, it emitted only the softest sound. And yet the power was truly immense.

  The football fairly thundered into the back of the net, rocking the frame of the goal to its foundations.