The Kick Off

by Dan Freedman

  The man sitting in the hut looked weird. His skin was brown, but not brown like he’d just come back from holiday. It was a deeper kind of colour, dirtier. His hair was a mixture of black and grey. It was long and greasy.

  He had a beard, too, which was growing at different lengths and glistened in places as if a snail had crawled across it.

  Lying on the floor next to the man was a panting dog. Its grey and black coat was the same colour as the man’s beard. It seemed more like a wolf than a dog. There was something really strange about its eyes too. One of them was brown but the other was a bright shade of blue. It looked as if it had a glass eye.

  The man had his legs up on the bench and a bottle sticking out from his worn jacket. His hands were covered in mud and grime.

  Both he and the dog were glaring at Jamie. Were they angry that Jamie had been using the hut to practise with? If so, why hadn’t the man said something?

  The ball had come to rest by the side of the hut but Jamie didn’t want to get it. He stood there motionless, feeling the man’s stare fixed on him. Jamie was scared.

  Then the man made a loud snorting noise like a pig and suddenly produced a big load of phlegm that he spat out of his mouth.

  Its gloopy green mass landed on the ground right next to Jamie.

  He didn’t know whether or not the man had meant it; he only knew it was one of the roughest things he’d ever seen.

  Like the man’s spitting was a starter’s gun, the dog immediately got up and ran over to Jamie’s ball. It sniffed the ball a few times and bit it. Then it rolled the ball back towards Jamie with its nose.

  The ball was covered with the dog’s spit but Jamie picked it up anyway. He just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He didn’t want to run away because that would show he was scared, but he walked as quickly as he could until he was out of the park and into the street. Only then did he turn to look behind him.

  But by that time, both the man and the dog had gone.

  After that day, Jamie never saw them in the park again. For some reason though, he couldn’t shake the image of the man from his mind.

  And the strangest thing of all was that even though he couldn’t explain it, Jamie had this feeling that, someday, they would meet again.

  Looking at the clock above the whiteboard, Jamie couldn’t believe that it was only 10.20 a.m.

  He already felt like he’d been at school for ages, and there were still three hours to go until kick-off. He didn’t care any more that he was playing for the B’s. He could have been playing for the F’s. He just wanted to get out there.

  For long periods of this double maths lesson, Jamie had found himself staring out of the window towards the football pitches.

  He tried to concentrate on the equations but the only thing in the classroom that was really capturing Jamie’s attention was Ollie.

  Ollie always went for Mr Barnwell and today he was really going for it – making up for all the lost time over the holidays.

  “Right, carry on with your exercises,” said Barnwell, sitting at his desk. “Raise your hand if you have a question.”

  After a couple of minutes of quiet, Ollie looked at Jamie and Tesh. He winked and nodded his head. He clearly had something up his sleeve. Then they realized what it was. He’d just done the most disgusting fart. It was seriously potent.

  Then Ollie raised his hand.

  “Yes, what is it, Walsh?”

  “Sir, could you please come over here for a second? I’m not sure I understand,” he said, keeping a completely straight face.

  “Very well,” said Barnwell, pleasantly surprised at Ollie showing such interest. He got up and practically skipped over to Ollie’s desk.

  As he stood next to Ollie, his big nose started to twitch as it picked up the scent. Then his eyebrows curled, questioningly.

  He’d picked up the smell, all right.

  Ollie let him stand there smelling it for a good few seconds before he said: “Um . . . it’s OK, sir. I think I’ve got it now. Thanks anyway, sir.”

  Barnwell’s face went bright red but he didn’t do anything. What could he do? He couldn’t exactly send Ollie out for that. And anyway, Ollie could just deny it. Where was the proof?

  Jamie smiled and let his eyes wander over to the football pitches outside.

  In a couple of hours he would be out there playing on them. He imagined himself beating a defender and bending one right into the top corner.

  He’d been waiting a long time for this day.

  Jamie took a deep breath. He tapped his chest firmly with the palm of his hand and entered the B team changing room.

  A beam of light penetrated the dusky atmosphere, illuminating the tiny particles of dust that were in the air.

  Jamie scanned the room for a spare peg and sat down.

  Having got changed into his kit, he put on his boots with the utmost care. He’d learned his lesson from the trials; this time, they had to be perfect.

  His feet had to be snug at the toe end of the boot to allow him to feel the ball as much as possible, while at the top end, around the tongue, he left it a little looser so he had enough flexibility to curl and dip his shots.

  The clacking of the studs said that the team was ready. It was show-time. “C’mon!” Jamie found himself shouting. He wouldn’t normally have acted like this – like a captain – before a game but he knew he was one of the best players in the team today so it was up to him to take some responsibility.

  “We know we can do this,” he told his teammates. “So let’s go do it!”

  “Come on!” the Kingfield boys roared as they exited the changing room. Tesh and Jamie pushed each other out towards the pitches. They had so much energy.

  The adrenalin was pumping through Jamie’s veins. And confidence, too. If he could mix it with Danny Miller and that lot, there was no way he should fear the St Antony’s B’s.

  Jamie took a couple of warm-up shots to get his eye in. They flew into the net. Then he did one of the sprint warm-up routines from Kenny Wilcox’s book.

  He felt powerful. He felt light. He felt dangerous.

  Mr Marsden was watching the A’s game, so the B’s had Mr Hitchcock, who was also going to referee. Jamie didn’t know him that well – he taught geography to the other set – but he’d heard that he was quite strict. He’d used to be a policeman before he became a teacher.

  Mr Hitchcock pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and blew his whistle. They were off.

  Right from the start, Kingfield immediately got on top. And soon Jamie got his first chance to have a run at the St Antony’s right-back.

  Jamie controlled the ball and stopped it dead. He stood upright for a second and looked at his opponent, who had come to close him down.

  Then Jamie did the cheekiest thing. He knocked the ball straight through the right-back’s legs and ran past him.

  Now it was just a test of pace over the first five yards.

  No one was going to catch Jamie over five yards. He scorched down the wing. He could hear the defender grunting like an animal in pain as he tried to keep up.

  Jamie didn’t need to look up. In Alex Marcusfield, the B’s had the biggest goal-hanger in the whole of Kingfield. Jamie knew he’d be in the box.

  He curled in a cross and watched as his ball bent perfectly towards Alex, who was standing practically on the goal-line. He couldn’t miss.

  A small but purposeful jerk of Alex Marcusfield’s head and the ball was in the net.

  Alex ran straight over to Jamie. He was ecstatic at having scored so early.

  Jamie had his left fist clenched. What a start! He’d already done more in the first ten minutes of this game than he’d done in the whole of the last term’s trial.

  “What a goal!” shouted Marcusfield.

  Jamie gave him a high-five
. “Just get in the positions, Alex,” he said. “I’ll find you every time.”

  Jamie was sure that if he got the ball, that second goal wouldn’t be far away. He already knew he could skin this Number Two.

  But not everyone was as focused as Jamie. As the game went on, Kingfield’s confidence started to turn into complacency.

  Up front, Alex Marcusfield was being his usual greedy self, constantly ignoring Jamie – who was in loads of space – to take on impossible shots from impossible positions. Meanwhile, at the back, the defenders were trying flamboyant flicks when they should have been keeping things nice and simple.

  Kingfield paid the inevitable price when their goalkeeper and centre-half both went for the same ball and ended up bumping into each other.

  The St Antony’s forward couldn’t believe his luck and just slotted the ball into the empty net.

  It was an embarrassing goal to concede. All Kingfield’s – and Jamie’s – good work had been undone by one stupid mistake.

  Jamie could feel his cheeks burning with frustration. His teeth were beginning to grind together.

  He strode over to take the centre with Alex Marcusfield. Marcusfield called Jamie closer.

  “Tap it to me quickly and I’ll have a shot from here,” he whispered.

  “No – you’ve had enough shots, Alex,” Jamie replied. He was ten times the player that Alex Marcusfield could ever be. “You pass it to me.”

  Like a dog that had been told off, Marcusfield bowed his head and obeyed his orders, touching the centre towards Jamie.

  Then something very special happened.

  If anyone had been watching the game at this point, they would have seen a small, pale, thin Number Eleven – with strawberry blond hair – burn a hole right through the heart of the St Antony’s team. And this was straight from the kick-off!

  Slaloming in and out of desperate tackles, Jamie’s feet wove a spell as they sped forward.

  Soon, he’d single-handedly beaten practically all the defenders St Antony’s had on the pitch. Now he was through, one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

  Marcusfield was desperately calling for the ball but Jamie couldn’t hear him. Or at least he wasn’t listening.

  Jamie looked at the keeper and drew his foot back for a venomous strike. Then, at the very last minute, just as his boot was about to swipe through the ball, he checked and stopped dead.

  The goalkeeper had gone for it though. He’d bought the dummy and dived.

  For a second Jamie felt like the only player on the pitch. There he was, all alone, in front of an empty goal with the ball at his feet and the goalkeeper left sprawled on the ground. There was nothing left to do but pass it into the net.

  It was 2 – 1 to Kingfield, thanks to the best goal Jamie had ever scored.

  His teammates ran over to congratulate him, slapping his back, shaking his hand and, in Tesh’s case, kissing him on the forehead! But apart from a proud smile, Jamie kept his own celebrations to a minimum. He knew it looked more classy that way.

  As he jogged back to the halfway line for the restart Jamie couldn’t help thinking to himself: I hope Hitchcock tells Marsden about that one!

  But this game wasn’t over yet.

  As soon as they went back in front, Kingfield sat back trying to protect their lead. They were inviting pressure on to themselves.

  It was driving Jamie mad. He hadn’t scored the goal of his life to see the rest of his team throw it away.

  “Oi! Come on!” he shouted to his teammates. “We want this game! Let’s keep the ball, yeah?”

  Jamie could see what they were doing wrong. They were dropping too deep. Jamie knew that sometimes attack was the best form of defence. The problem was that he was the only one that knew it.

  Jamie remembered what Kenny’s book had said about a winger’s role when his team didn’t have possession. He kept working hard and tracking his man and, with twenty minutes left on the clock, he managed to tackle one of the St Antony’s centre-halves deep inside their territory.

  It was an opportunity for a quick break and a chance to score the decisive third goal to seal the game. Jamie passed to Alex Marcusfield and tore into the box for the return.

  “YES!” he shouted as he ran.

  All Marcusfield had to do was pass the ball back to him and Jamie could finish it there and then.

  But the pass didn’t come. Marcusfield was trying to take on the last defender. But why?

  “Pass it! I’m in!” ordered Jamie but, head down, Marcusfield just kept dribbling, one way then the other, but never making any progress. In the end, the defender worked out what he was doing and got his foot in to take the ball away. To make it even worse, Marcusfield then gave away a foul by tugging the defender back.

  Because of hogging the ball in front of goal, Marcusfield had managed to turn a match-winning opening into a free-kick for the opposition.

  Jamie charged up to Marcusfield.

  “Why can’t you just pass the ball?” he roared in Marcusfield’s face.

  He was so angry. He kicked the ball away in disgust.

  Unfortunately for Jamie, though, he belted the ball right in the direction from which Mr Hitchcock was running.

  The ball flew smack bang into Mr Hitchcock’s face, sending his glasses flying.

  Jamie almost swallowed his tongue. He couldn’t believe it!

  As Mr Hitchcock scrabbled around on the ground to find his lenses and put them back in his glasses, players from both sides started to laugh. Jamie thought he’d better go and apologize.

  Hitchcock was kneeling down, trying to bend his glasses back into shape. Jamie put his palm on Hitchcock’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, sir. That was a complete mistake.”

  “You’re right,” said Hitchcock, swatting Jamie’s hand away as he stood up. “It was a very big mistake.”

  And with that, Hitchcock brought a red card out of his pocket and pointed very dramatically to the changing rooms.

  “Ref!” appealed Jamie. “Ref, what are you doing? I didn’t mean to kick it at you! I just had an argument with my teammate. You can’t send me off for that.”

  “I just have.”

  Jamie sat in the changing room by himself, trying to work out what had just happened. He could hear the shouts from the games still going on outside but he was helpless to do anything.

  He knew he was the best player on that pitch by an absolute mile but he’d managed to go from hero to zero in the space of one stupid kick.

  Hitchcock wouldn’t tell Marsden about Jamie’s brilliant goal or the fact that he’d set up the first. All he would say was that Jamie Johnson had gone psycho again and got himself sent off.

  Jamie punched his fist into the wall so hard his knuckles started to bleed.

  Why did he always ruin things for himself?

  Jamie grabbed his bag and headed out for the weekend. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  The first week back at school after the holidays always seemed like it had dragged on for a year. He’d had one bit of good news when Garrick had given him a B+ for his story about Mike’s injury – Nice shades of light and dark, he’d written at the bottom. That would keep his mum happy. But for Jamie, the week had been pretty depressing.

  The fact that the B’s had held on to win 2 – 1 hadn’t given him much joy. He couldn’t get his sending-off out of his mind. And every time he saw Alex Marcusfield, he immediately felt angry again.

  If the selfish idiot had just passed the ball, Jamie would have scored his second goal and the whole year would have been talking about how good he was instead of asking why he kept going mental when he played football. He couldn’t even talk to Jack about it. She was still ignoring him and spending all her time with Nicki. They’d never had a row last as long as this before.

  “Hey, Jamie!” Ollie shouted to him
by the lockers. “Come over here.”

  Ollie was standing with Jess Conners, one of fittest girls in the year. How did he always get in with the fit ones?

  “Jamie, mate, I’m having a boys’ night at mine tomorrow and then we’re going to meet up with Jess and her lot later. You in?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I should be up for that,” said Jamie.

  If he needed something to distract him from the sending-off, Jess Conners would do just the trick!

  On Saturday afternoon Jamie texted Jack. It was time to sort this – whatever this was – out. He wanted to get the words right and ended up changing the message about eight times before he sent it.

  He eventually settled on: Hey Jack! Remember me?! Really sorry 4 whatever I’ve done! U wanna hang out 2day?

  Jamie had decided that even though he might get to see Jess Conners if he went to the party, what he really wanted to do was just chill with Jack – like any normal Saturday.

  But Jack never responded to the text.

  “All right, Jamie – come in!” said Ollie, slapping his arm around Jamie’s back. He seemed even louder and happier than normal.

  “We’re all in the attic,” he said over his shoulder as he bounded up the stairs. “It’s going to be a big night.”

  Jamie followed. As he walked through the door into the attic, his eyes lit up. There, right before his eyes, were some of the fittest girls on TV.

  OK, so they were in glossy magazines rather than there in the flesh . . . but it was a good start.

  The room was pumping with hip-hop. A couple of Ollie’s mates who Jamie didn’t know were playing a football game against each other on the computer but most of the others were fully concentrated on the magazines on the floor.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you, boys!” said Jamie, kneeling to take his place in the row of admirers. They were looking at pictures of all the soap and pop stars at the latest glitzy parties.