The Kick Off

by Dan Freedman

  With Ash off, Kingfield lost their cutting edge and The Grove took a grip on the game. Strong and organized, they were grinding forward like an army on the attack.

  Jamie was on the outside of the game, looking in.

  He started to drift away from the wing, coming further infield in search of the ball.

  But with Jamie more central, The Grove’s right-back had a free reign down the right flank. And, in the twenty-fifth minute, he made that space count, with a strong run all the way down the line.

  Jamie tried to get back at him but the right-back had had too much of a headstart.

  In the end, Dillon came across from his centre-half position and slid in with a tackle. He was late though, and gave away a free-kick right on the edge of the area.

  “Johnson!” Dillon shouted angrily as he got up. “Wake up, you idiot. You’re playing for us, not them.”

  “Shut up, you thief,” Jamie shouted back.

  But while Dillon and Jamie were busy shouting at each other, The Grove had already taken a quick free-kick to find McGiven. With Dillon still out of position, McGiven was unmarked.

  Before any of the Kingfield players had a chance to react, he’d controlled the ball with a sweet first touch and driven it along the ground into the far corner of the net.

  It was in as soon as he’d struck it. They had left McGiven alone for one second and had paid the price.

  Jamie hung his head. He knew everyone would blame him for letting the full-back go in the first place.

  As they prepared to take the re-start, Jamie looked at the people watching the game. He wondered what they all thought of him. “Loser”, probably.

  Maybe he’d been fooling himself all these years. Maybe he was never as good as he thought he was. But if that was the case, had his whole life been one big lie?

  Then Jamie stopped dead. He thought he’d seen a ghost.

  At the end of the line of spectators, sitting patiently by itself, was the dog with the scary eyes that he’d seen in the park during the holidays. Was it on its own or was the tramp there too?

  Jamie scanned the crowd and then he saw him. And he couldn’t believe what he was doing.

  The tramp was talking to Jamie’s granddad. And Mike actually seemed relaxed about it. He didn’t look scared at all. In fact, he seemed to be making notes on a pad while the tramp was talking.

  But what was he writing? And why was he talking to the tramp in the first place?

  When the half-time whistle went, Marsden urgently called his team over to the touchline. He couldn’t get them there quick enough.

  Normally he was so calm and positive. But now he was angry and agitated.

  “Come in, lads, come in,” he shouted, gathering his players around him.

  “Well, I hope you’ve got that out of your system,” he said, looking each of his players directly in the eye as they sheepishly bit into their oranges. Jamie could see a vein throbbing in the side of Marsden’s forehead.

  “I’ll tell you something – we’re damn lucky,” he carried on.

  “We should be dead and buried the way we’re giving away possession. We are lucky it’s only 1 – 0 and we’re still in it.

  “If we’re going to shout at each other instead of marking up when we’re defending set-pieces, we’ve got no hope,” he said, eyeing Dillon and Jamie.

  “I’ll tell you what. A few of you are lucky I’ve only got one sub left to make. If we can’t turn things around, then I’ll be making a change,” he said, pointing to Alex Marcusfield, who was the other substitute.

  As he peeled away to retake his position, Jamie wondered whether him being substituted might be the best thing for everyone. Even if it meant Marcusfield taking his place.

  He just didn’t feel right today. It wasn’t just the boots. He was a stranger in his own body and he couldn’t see what was going to change it.

  As Jamie got back to his position on the wing, he saw his granddad standing on the touchline, gesturing him to come over.

  There was just enough time to grab a word before kick-off.

  “Mike! What are you talking to that man for?” said Jamie, staring at the tramp. “He could be dangerous.”

  Mike laughed. “He’s not dangerous, Jamie. Well, not since I’ve known him!”

  “You know him? Who is he?”

  “Like I told you, Jamie. He’s the best coach I ever met.”

  Jamie felt goose-pimples rise up all over his body. Suddenly he knew who the tramp was.

  “What? That’s Kenny Wilcox? But he’s. . .”

  “I know. He’s gone off the rails a bit,” said Mike shaking his head. “It’s a tragedy really – such a loss to the game. He always did have a bit of a drink problem . . . anyway we haven’t got time for this. Kenny told me to write this down and to give it to you. It’s about today’s game.”

  Mike handed Jamie a scrap of paper. It was in Mike’s handwriting but to Jamie it read just like all the drills in the book that he’d spent the whole summer practising. This is what it said:

  You are a winger, so stay on the wing. Coming inside only narrows the pitch and your options. There’s no need to make it complicated; stay out wide and attack your man.

  Use your change of pace to unsettle him. And when you attack, do it with conviction.

  “He’s right, Jamie.”

  It was a lot for Jamie to take in: he was getting advice from a tramp who also happened to be a legendary coach.

  But, in some strange way, it all seemed to make sense.

  Jamie did what Kenny had suggested and stayed out wide. But for the first ten minutes of the second half, the ball hardly got out of the centre circle. The midfield was so congested. Neither team were getting the ball out to the wings and without the ball, how could Jamie make a difference?

  Jamie looked across to the touchline. Alex Marcusfield was taking off his tracksuit top and Marsden was giving him instructions.

  Jamie knew that Marsden had to do something to get his team back in the game, and swapping a striker for a winger might help them to nick a goal. Although it hurt more than anything to admit it, deep down, Jamie knew he would be the one to make way.

  At that moment, a Kingfield attack broke down and The Grove’s keeper had the ball in his hands. He assessed his options quickly and instantly punted a firm, flat kick forward.

  McGiven was alert to the situation and immediately latched on to the long ball.

  He’d completely broken the offside trap and was now running free towards the Kingfield goal. He could make the game safe for The Grove.

  The Kingfield players gave up on chasing him; they’d never be able to stop McGiven. They all just stood and watched.

  All except one.

  Seeing McGiven break free had triggered Jamie to start running. It was as if a gun had gone off inside his head. He hurtled off in pursuit.

  Jamie was sprinting back towards his own goal at lightning pace. He knew exactly what McGiven was going to do. He’d seen it so many times when they had played together. He could see by the shape of McGiven’s body that he was going to open himself up and curl one into the far corner.

  But it was too late to try and tackle him. He was already preparing to strike the ball.

  McGiven hit his shot with effortless accuracy. It bent past the keeper and sailed towards the net . . . until, arriving from nowhere, Jamie flung himself at the ball, stretching his leg to its full limit, to somehow get a touch to it and flick it over the bar.

  He’d anticipated where the ball was going to go and got there just in time. He’d cleared it off the line and saved a definite goal.

  Jamie lay flat on the goal-line. His lungs were demanding his mouth pull in huge gulps of air. He’d sprinted nearly the entire length of the pitch to stop McGiven.

  Above the sound of his own panting, Jamie was
also aware of a pattering noise in the background. It was people clapping. People clapping Jamie. He felt a flutter of pride as his teammates helped him to his feet.

  And on the touchline, Marsden was telling Alex Marcusfield to put his tracksuit back on.

  Now the game started to change. Suddenly, it was Kingfield who were first to every loose ball.

  Soon they won a corner and, as he sprinted over to take it, their left-winger felt that old power in his legs again.

  Jamie Johnson was back. He just knew it.

  Jamie placed the ball on the corner spot and took two steps back. He looked up and saw the penalty area alive with a sea of jostling bodies.

  For a second Jamie imagined he was back in Sunningdale with Danny Miller and the other boys playing the Crossbar Challenge.

  Stepping towards the ball, he swept his foot delicately underneath it with a smooth rhythm to produce a beautiful floating cross into the centre. It seemed to just hang in the air.

  Dillon made a run from the penalty spot and leapt high to meet it. As he made contact with the ball in the air, he was about a foot above everyone else. His neck was straight and powerful and he directed a bullet of a header into the roof of the net.

  GOAL!!!

  Dillon, roaring in delight, was being mobbed in The Grove’s goalmouth.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” he was shouting.

  Meanwhile, Jamie enjoyed his own private celebration by the corner flag.

  “Nice one, mate!” said Ollie, hitting Jamie on the back. “Perfect corner.”

  “Cheers,” said Jamie as the pair jogged back to their positions for the restart. “Now let’s get another one.”

  “Come on, Kingfield!”

  “Come on, The Grove!”

  Both sets of supporters urged their teams on as Shaun McGiven took the centre for The Grove.

  It was now a match within a match. Ten minutes remaining. 1 – 1. The next goal would win it.

  Kingfield sensed the momentum was with them and pressed forward, searching for that glorious winner. But they were so keen to get the ball forward quickly, that instead of looking to pick the right passes at the right time, they started to just hump the ball upfield every time they got it.

  The high, aimless balls were meat and drink for the tall boys in the Grove’s back four.

  “Calm down! Keep the ball!” shouted Marsden as attack after attack came to nothing.

  The minutes trickled away.

  Soon there were only three minutes left and Kingfield’s keeper was preparing to launch one final big kick up the field.

  “Give it to Jamie!” Ollie suddenly ordered the keeper. He’d seen that Jamie had found some space.

  Instead of kicking it, the keeper pulled his arm back and bowled the ball out to Jamie, who had dropped short and wide to receive it.

  Jamie collected the ball on the halfway line. He had it at his feet. It was now or never. He knew what he had to do.

  Jamie concentrated all the power of his mind and body into one place. Then he just ran.

  He instantly clicked through the gears to hit top speed. Two, three, four of the Grove players tried to stop him, but they couldn’t keep up. Jamie’s pace was frightening. The boots weren’t holding him back any more. Nothing could hold him back now. He seemed to be going faster and faster the longer he kept the ball.

  Soon he was at the edge of the area with just one man left to beat: Bryn Staunton. Jamie had seen what he’d done to Ash in the first half. But he had no fear.

  Bryn thought he knew all of Jamie’s skills, did he? Well, now he’d have to prove it.

  Jamie ran straight towards Bryn, shaping to go on the inside. Bryn could see what Jamie was doing and moved across to cover that route to goal. But, just as Bryn committed himself, Jamie took another touch and nudged the ball down the outside instead.

  Jamie’s swift change of direction had destroyed Bryn. He was past him and into the area. He was through on goal!

  But Bryn had no intention of allowing Jamie to get away that easily.

  He turned around as quickly as he could and pulled hard at Jamie’s shirt, dragging him back. They both fell to the ground at the same time.

  And as they hit the deck, Bryn did something even sneakier. He made sure that he landed with his elbow in Jamie’s face. He crashed his forearm across Jamie’s nose. It was no mistake. He knew what he was doing.

  Jamie was seething. He was furious. Not only had Bryn stopped him from scoring, he’d also tried to take him out. And to make it even worse, Bryn was just pretending nothing had happened.

  Seeing Bryn get up and walk away like he hadn’t done anything made something snap in Jamie.

  All the anger Jamie had ever felt in his life had rolled up into one ball and turned his blood into venom.

  He chased after Bryn. He was going to kick him as hard as he could.

  But just as he was about to rake his studs right down the back of Bryn’s ankles, Jamie’s mind flashed back to the conversation he’d had with Marsden the day before.

  Jamie had promised him he wouldn’t let him down.

  “Oi, mate,” said Jamie in Bryn’s ear.

  “You didn’t remember that trick, did you?”

  Bryn turned around.

  “You little. . .” he snarled, pulling back his fist to smack Jamie, but the referee quickly put his body between the two players.

  He marched Bryn away to the touchline.

  “That’s it, Number Five, I’ve lost my patience with you,” he said. “Firstly, that was a goal-scoring opportunity for Kingfield and you made no attempt to play the ball, and secondly, I have no doubt you were just about to use violent conduct.

  “You’re off,” he said, first showing Bryn a second yellow card, and then a red.

  Bryn Staunton spat on the ground. With a glare of contempt, he pointed his finger at Jamie and mouthed the word “LATER”. Then he left the field.

  Jamie wasn’t bothered. Kingfield had a pen’ and The Grove were down to ten.

  Finally, Jamie had done his bit. He had won Kingfield a penalty single-handedly. Now he just hoped they could convert it. He was so full of anticipation. He looked around to see who was going to take it.

  “Johnson!” shouted Dillon. He walked up to Jamie and shoved the ball into his stomach.

  They stood looking at each other and, for a second, neither knew what to do. Jamie had his hands on the ball but was unable to accept it. Dillon was offering Jamie the ball, yet unwilling to let go.

  He wanted Jamie to take the penalty? After what had happened in the trials?

  Did Dillon really think Jamie was the best man to take it? Or did he just want him to make a fool of himself again?

  Then again, who else was there? Jamie was the one who’d won the penalty with a run all the way from the halfway line. He was the man in form.

  Jamie looked at Mr Marsden who was standing behind the goal. Marsden nodded back at him and clenched his fist.

  Dillon released his grip on the ball and walked away. It was Jamie’s penalty.

  The referee took the ball from Jamie and planted it on the spot.

  A million pictures and memories were sweeping around Jamie’s mind: the trials, Kenny Wilcox, Danny Miller, Jack, Mike. He didn’t want to let anyone down.

  He looked around and saw the big crowd on the touchline. They were all looking at him, waiting. Everyone knew that this penalty was going to decide the match.

  He saw that Kenny Wilcox was still there, standing next to Mike. Jack had arrived too and, next to them, was his mum. What was his mum doing there? Why wasn’t she at work?

  Jamie’s heart seemed to be beating all through his body. He could feel it in his chest, in his throat and in his head.

  Everything depended on him.

  He had to score.


  The keeper was waving his arms around above his head to put Jamie off.

  The whistle went. Then silence. Everything stopped.

  Jamie fixed his eye on the ball.

  “Be my friend now,” he whispered.

  Then he stepped forward, knowing that Kingfield were just one kick – his kick – from victory.

  Wallop. Jamie punched his foot firmly through the ball, sweeping it with his instep towards the top right-hand corner of the goal. He followed right through to get extra power. It whistled in search of its target.

  He was sure it was in.

  And it was a fine strike. But unfortunately for Jamie, the Grove keeper had guessed right.

  Jamie could only watch as the keeper sprang himself high into the air. It all seemed to be happening in slow-motion.

  Jamie saw the keeper extend himself to his very full length . . . the keeper shot his left arm up above his head . . . he clasped for the ball with his fingertips . . . and managed to poke it wide of the goal. It was a brilliant save.

  “Yes!” bellowed Bryn Staunton from the touchline, punching the air.

  “No!” fumed Mr Marsden, punching the palm of his hand.

  Jamie’s mum covered her face. She knew how much this meant to Jamie. Would he be able to cope with the disappointment? And would he blame her?

  But if everyone thought it was over, they hadn’t seen what Jamie had seen. The ball wasn’t out of play; it hadn’t gone much wide of the post.

  Jamie set off with a huge burst of speed. He instantly found his turbo gear.

  He left the defenders in his wake. It was a straight race between him and the keeper, who was scrambling towards the ball on his hands and knees.

  But nothing was going to stop Jamie. He slid along the ground and got to the ball just before the keeper’s desperate claw.

  From an angle, he scooped the ball towards the goal with his right foot.