by Dan Freedman
“Get lost, I said,” she roared, hitting him hard in the chest, trying desperately to quell her tears. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” said Jamie. “Please don’t cry.”
“I hate you, Jamie Johnson.”
“I know . . . and I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m an idiot. But you can’t stay mad at me for ever.”
“Yes, I can!” said Jack, hitting him hard in the chest again. For a second Jamie thought he saw the beginnings of a smile start to replace the frown on her face.
“That’s it,” he said. “Hit me. I deserve it. Not too hard, though!”
Now Jack was laughing as well as crying. He’d missed her laugh.
“I’ll hit you as hard as I want, GINGE!” she shouted, snivelling back her tears, while her burst of punches came to an end.
As she lifted her head up from his chest and started to mess up his hair, their noses brushed together for a second.
“Never let me down again,” Jack said.
“I won’t,” he whispered and they gave each other a big bear hug.
“Jamie, get up! It’s gone 8.15. We’re late!”
“What?” said Jamie vacantly. For a second he wasn’t sure where he was. He’d been in a really deep sleep.
“I overslept,” shouted Jamie’s mum, scampering around in the hallway. “We’re really late.”
Jamie could hear his mum giggling. She hadn’t giggled in years. But what was she doing giggling when he was late for school on the day he was going to play the biggest match of his life?
“MUM!! I can’t be late today!” he bellowed as he scrambled out of bed and started to get dressed. His fingers were shaking as he tried to do up the buttons on his shirt. He’d only just got up and he was already nervous.
“I haven’t even got time for breakfast now!” he shouted. “I need energy today. I was going to have eggs on toast!”
Jamie’s mum didn’t reply. He was sure he could hear her talking to someone. He charged down the stairs to see what was going on.
His mum was in the hall getting ready for work. There was a man there with her, helping her keep her balance as she put on her shoes.
She looked up and saw Jamie, who’d stopped halfway down the stairs.
“Morning, love,” she said with an unusually broad smile. “Oh, this is Jeremy, by the way.”
“Hello, Jamie,” said the man. He sounded very polite. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your mum. I hear there’s a big soccer game on this afternoon.”
“All right,” said Jamie. He knew that this must be the guy who picked his mum up for work everyday. He didn’t normally come in the house, though.
Still, Jamie had more important things on his mind than small-talk with strangers. “Mum, where’s my kit?” he asked.
“It’s by the door, Jamie. I ironed it for you last night. Now good luck!” she said, squashing his cheeks together and kissing him on the forehead.
“Goodbye, Jamie. Very nice to meet you,” said Jeremy as they left for work.
“Whatever,” Jamie mumbled under his breath as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. He had to get it down his throat quickly. It wasn’t good for his digestion but he needed to start loading his body with carbs.
At the end of assembly, Mr Patten, Kingfield’s head teacher, turned his attention to the fixtures with The Grove.
“And finally,” he said, glancing down at a piece of paper in front of him, “our Under Twelves, Thirteens, Fourteens and the First Eleven have games against The Grove School this afternoon. Traditionally, our matches against The Grove are amongst the most . . . closely contested of the football calendar.”
A murmur went around the assembly hall. Everyone knew what Mr Patten was talking about. The two schools were big rivals. They pretty much hated each other. After their game last year, Jamie had had a bruise on his shin for about two weeks where Dillon had kicked him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about playing on the same side as Dillon today. Still, Ollie was in the team too, and he was a brilliant midfielder to play with.
“Remember our school motto,” continued Mr Patten, a steeliness in his voice now. “‘Rise to the Challenge’.
“To everyone representing Kingfield today, I say this.” He lowered his glasses to make direct eye contact with his students. “Rise to this challenge. Good luck to you all.”
Jack jabbed her elbow into Jamie’s ribs and smiled. Jamie grinned. He glanced across to look at Nicki who was sitting where she used sit in the next row. Jamie was so happy to have his best mate back.
Pride, nerves and excitement were all washing over him at the same time. He felt as though Mr Patten had been talking just to him. He couldn’t believe that his first game for the A’s was going to be against his old team!
During history, Jamie found it really difficult to focus on the lesson. Just keeping still was taking up most of his concentration. His legs seemed to have a mind of their own and his feet were bouncing up and down under the desk as if they were connected to an electric current. He had to try and keep some of this energy for the match!
Just before the end of the lesson, Mr Marsden popped his head around the door. After asking permission from Miss Claunt, he made a quick announcement to the class.
“Could my A team boys – that’s Ollie, Jamie and Ashish – meet me in my office at break, please,” he said. “Thanks and sorry to interrupt, Miss Claunt.”
Ollie and Jamie exchanged smiles. They were classmates now but in a couple of hours they would be teammates.
Mr Marsden greeted each of his players with a nod as they filed in and leaned against the walls of his small, rectangular office.
He’d already set up the whiteboard to show the boys the formation he wanted to use that afternoon. He had eleven magnetic counters to represent each one of his players.
Jamie looked around the room and studied all the posters of different sports on the walls. He was taking everything in. His eyes were wide and his ears were sharp.
“Morning, lads, hope everyone’s feeling good,” Marsden said. “There’s a lot of ability in this room and I’m very confident that we’ll demonstrate that later on today.
“I’ve laid out the formation on the whiteboard. You’ll see it’s a 4 – 4 – 2 but I want it to be a 4 – 4 – 2 that plays to our strengths.”
Marsden went through his plans for the defence and the midfield, giving each player their own set of individual instructions. Then he placed his finger on the fourth midfield counter, the one on the left-hand side.
“As you all know, I’ve called up Jamie Johnson,” he said. “Jamie’s going to play on the left wing for us.”
Jamie could feel his cheeks burning as Mr Marsden mentioned his name. He really liked the way that Mr Marsden was talking about him as if he were a new signing.
“Jamie should give us a bit more pace and invention going forward,” he continued. “His job is to provide the ammunition for Ashish and Jason up front.
“Ashish and Jason, make sure you stay close, play as a partnership and don’t be afraid to shoot. That goes for everybody. If we don’t shoot, we can’t score.
“Everyone happy with that?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boys collectively.
“Right – any questions?”
“Sir – what are we going to do about Shaun McGiven?” asked Steve Robinson, the left full-back.
Jamie had wondered how long it would be before McGiven’s name was mentioned.
Everyone in the area knew about McGiven – but no one better than Jamie. He’d played alongside him for The Grove for the last five years. He was easily the best striker Jamie had ever played with. He was a natural predator, born to score goals. He seemed to have a map of the pitch programmed into his head. He always knew where the goal was, without having to look.
He wa
s, without doubt, The Grove’s most powerful weapon. Most teams generally felt they had done a good job on him if he only scored two goals in a match. That’s how good he was.
“Good question, Steve – I’m glad you asked that,” said Marsden, before taking a gulp of coffee from his mug.
“Let me turn the question around though: how are they going to deal with us?”
Mr Marsden’s fist was clenched and his knuckles had gone white.
“McGiven’s a good player. We need to deal with him, of course we do. So talk to each other and make sure he’s always picked up.
“But we are not going to play this game trying to stop The Grove. They are going to have to stop us. Agreed?”
“Agreed!”
For once, the dinner ladies had got it right. Pasta was a good pre-match meal.
The only problem was that Jamie wasn’t hungry. And Jack wasn’t helping much either.
“You’ll have to score today,” she said, giving Jamie a shoulder-barge to make the spaghetti slip off his fork again. “You know all the best players score on their debuts! And they always score against their old teams. So actually you’ve got to score two! And I’ll be there to see it.”
Jamie put down his fork. He appreciated the fact that people were expecting him to make a big impression but, at the same time, it piled on the pressure. He just hoped he could deliver.
Jamie grabbed a banana and made his way down to the changing rooms, picking up his sports bag along the way. “Come on!” he ordered himself through clenched teeth.
He did some bicep crunches with his sports bag as he walked. He could feel the blood surging through his veins. The bag was light as he lifted it to his chest. He felt stronger than he ever had before.
The changing room was buzzing with excitement. Most of the boys had already started to get changed.
It was strange, because although Jamie knew everyone in the team, he really felt like a new boy again.
“All right, Jamie,” said Jason Inglethorpe, shaking his hand. “You whip in the crosses to me and Ash; we’ll do the rest.”
“Cool. That’s what I’m here for,” replied Jamie, shaking his hand firmly. “If you get some space, I’ll find you.”
Jamie went and sat down next to Ollie. He opened his bag and pulled out his kit. Blue shirt, white shorts and blue socks. He’d waited long enough to get his hands on this kit. He brought the shirt close to his nose. It smelled fresh and clean. He turned it around and traced his fingers over the number eleven on the back. Eleven. Jamie Johnson’s number.
He got changed and did some quick hamstring stretches before going to put his boots on. He couldn’t see them in his bag but he knew they would be in there somewhere.
He did the same thing with his keys the whole time. They were always at the bottom.
Jamie told himself to stay calm but he could feel his forehead starting to burn. The more he searched for his boots, the less sure he was that they were actually there. But they had to be. Where else could they be?
Now his hands were scraping around the corner of the bag, right to the plastic lining. Still they found nothing.
“Where the hell are they?” Jamie shouted to himself above the rest of the noise in the dressing room. He tipped the whole bag upside down. His hands were trembling.
Some old socks and a T-shirt fell out. But no boots.
Jamie could feel freezing little pockets of sweat start to form down his spine.
He kicked his bag as hard as he could across the room.
“Why?” he shouted.
The rest of the boys stopped talking. They looked at Jamie. He was completely red in the face.
“You all right, mate?” asked Ollie.
Jamie didn’t answer. He could feel his anger starting to burn up inside him.
“Whassup, Ginge?” said Dillon, kicking the bag back at Jamie. “Don’t be a cry baby. You’re with the big boys now.”
Seeing the evil in Dillon’s eyes told Jamie everything he needed to know. Suddenly it all made sense.
Jamie had left his sports bag in the assembly hall while he was having lunch. Dillon must have nicked his boots then. He would do anything just to stop Jamie playing in the A’s.
“Give me my boots!” demanded Jamie, squaring up to Dillon. “I want them now.”
His voice was starting to sound wild. He had too much anger and worry to hold it all in.
“Oh, it’s my fault, now?” Dillon laughed. “Grow up, Cry-Baby. Don’t blame me for everything that goes wrong in your whole life – like the fact that you haven’t got a dad.”
That was it. Jamie had had enough. He didn’t care how big a game it was or how much work he’d put into getting here. He didn’t have to take this from anyone. Least of all from that idiot.
If Dillon hated him so much that he would steal boots from his own teammate, then he could have his stupid way.
Jamie was off.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Jamie? We’re kicking off in fifteen minutes,” said Marsden, blocking Jamie’s path in the corridor.
“I’m not playing, sir,” said Jamie stubbornly.
“What are you talking about? Of course you’re playing, Jamie!”
“Simmonds has stolen my boots. I’m not playing in any team he’s in.”
“I see,” said Mr Marsden, tilting his head slightly. “I take it you’re quite sure about that?”
Jamie nodded.
Mr Marsden went quiet for a second. Then he said: “OK, well, clearly we’ll have to sort this out later; it’s too close to kick-off now. What we’ve got to do now is find you a new pair of boots – quickly.”
He pointed to his office.
“No, sir. I’m not. . .”
“Jamie, we haven’t got time for this. Get in here now.”
By the time Jamie got back to the changing room, the noisy anticipation that had filled it earlier had gone. Everyone was already outside warming up.
Jamie bent down to put on the boots that Marsden had found in the lost property bin. They were way too big, and they looked about fifty years old.
There was no way he’d be able to play well in them. He wouldn’t even be able to feel the ball.
Jamie hated Dillon more than anyone in the world. Some of the teachers went easy on him because he had issues at home. But that didn’t give him the right to go around stealing other people’s things.
Jamie would never forgive him for this. Ever.
By the time Jamie hesitantly walked out on to the pitch, there were only a couple of minutes left before kick-off.
Dillon was giving his own brand of pre-match team-talk.
“This is it, lads,” he said aggressively. “We can’t let this bunch of muppets come here and beat us on our own turf. Let’s go in hard and show ’em what we’re made of.”
Jamie wasn’t listening. He couldn’t care less what that thick bully had to say. Instead, he let his eyes wander towards the Grove team, who were all in a huddle on the centre circle. He recognized all the faces and noticed how much they had all grown since last year. He would’ve shaken hands with a few of them but none of them acknowledged him.
Beyond them and along the line of people that had gathered to watch the game, Jamie saw Mike at the far end of the pitch.
Mike gave him the thumbs up and Jamie raised a wave and a faint smile but, inside, his heart was sinking.
He couldn’t believe that his own captain would steal his boots on the day of the biggest game of his life.
For the first time he could ever remember, Jamie felt he didn’t belong on a football pitch. He felt like a dolphin in the desert.
Just before the kick-off, Bryn Staunton, the Grove captain and their hardest player, came up to Jamie. When they had been on the same side, Bryn used to protect Jamie if he was coming in for any rou
gh treatment.
“All right, mate,” said Jamie, offering his hand.
“You know we’re not mates today, don’t you, Jamie?” said Bryn, squeezing Jamie’s hand really hard. “And I wouldn’t bother trying any of your skills on me either. I know them all, remember?”
Then the match kicked off.
For the first few minutes, there was hardly any passing at all. It was all tackles and fouls, throw-ins and free-kicks.
The two teams were battling each other, not playing football.
Out on the wing, Jamie hardly got a touch of the ball. He felt so uncomfortable in these rubbish old boots. It was like he was back in the trials. He could feel that everyone was against him, willing him to fail.
The opposition hated him because he used to play for them and even his own teammates were stealing his boots. Jamie just couldn’t get into the game.
The one bright spot for Kingfield was Ashish Khan. He was looking sharp, lively and quick. Whenever they got the ball to Ash’s feet, he always threatened to make something happen.
Unfortunately, The Grove had noticed this too. And after ten minutes, with Ashish running full pelt at their defence, Bryn Staunton thundered into him with a horrendous challenge.
Jamie knew that in every game Bryn’s plan was to clatter into the opposition’s best player in the first quarter of an hour. To let him know “he was around”. Bryn had obviously decided that today Ashish was his target. Not only had he charged into him, he’d then fallen with all his weight on Ash’s ankle.
Even the people watching the game on the sideline cringed when it happened. It was ugly, dangerous and clearly intentional.
As Mr Marsden dashed on to the pitch to help Ashish hobble off, Bryn held his hands up in the air to acknowledge his foul. He could hardly have denied it.
The referee pulled him to one side and showed him a yellow card immediately.
But Bryn wasn’t bothered. In fact, he was smiling. He’d got rid of Kingfield’s most dangerous player at the cost of a booking. From his point of view, it was a good deal.
