World Class

by Dan Freedman

Onlookers at the match said that Johnson had even appeared to be distracted during the game itself, with one theory being that he had been put off by Marshall’s pitch-side presence.

  It raises questions about whether he has the mental strength to focus on his football when his girlfriend is close at hand.

  One thing is certain, Johnson will be hoping the French defenders are easier opponents than Marshall, who showed that she will pull no punches during her coverage of the tournament.

  YOUR SAY

  So what is the reason for Johnson’s woeful form?

  VOTE NOW:

  Put off by Jack Marshall 45%

  Not good enough to play at a World Cup 34%

  Realized he should have picked England 9%

  Who knows! 12%

  6 Comments:

  I’m not surprised he was put off by JM. She is lush! She can interview me anytime!

  Barry, Bushey, 6.34 p.m.

  Well said, Neil! Johnson was rubbish. Thought he was supposed to be a good passer. Didn’t look like he could pass wind to me!

  Hamish, Dundee, 6.09 p.m.

  Bring back Treach. He never let Scotland down. Johnson saying he “couldn’t care less” was a disgrace. Not surprised, though – he didn’t even sing the national anthem. He’s just dirty scum. We don’t need that sort of player.

  Neil, Clydebank, 6.01 p.m.

  Forget Johnson. He ain’t the prob. Everything in football’s about the manager. What’s Robertson on? Tactics were awful and how did he pick that team?! He couldn’t pick his nose. Korea looked a hundred times better than us last night.

  Alec, 5.49 p.m.

  We should drop Johnson. What was that tackle for their penalty?! Are we sure he’s not been sent to us by the English to get us knocked out?! I counted – he only touched the ball five times. And most of them were in the warm-up!

  Gregor, Ayr, 5.28 p.m.

  OMG! Just watched Jamie Johnson interview on TV. Guy speaks worse than he plays! He’s a joke!

  Dougie, Kilmarnock , 5.13 p.m.

  “Hi, JJ, how you doing?” said Jack, answering her phone. Suddenly she sounded like herself again. Like the real Jack, not the alien Jack. Not that Jamie was going to allow her to get off that easily.

  “How am I doing?” he snarled. “How am I doing?! Erm, well, let’s see… I had an absolute mare and then got hammered live on TV by … let me think, oh yeah, that’s right, by you! Thanks for that, Jack!”

  He spat out her name with a viciousness that shocked both of them. Jack didn’t say anything in response.

  “Why did you do that, Jack? Why?” he growled.

  “Sorry, Jamie,” she responded, colder now. “But what did you expect me to do? Say you were amazing?! I’ve got to ask the questions that need to be asked. That’s my job.”

  “So what is your job, then? To mug me off and make me look like an idiot on TV?”

  “Get a grip, Jamie.”

  “No, I’ve got a better idea,” Jamie barked. “YOU get a grip!”

  And without bothering to hang up, Jamie just chucked his phone at the wall, instantly smashing it into pieces.

  Jamie was in a foul, filthy mood.

  Not only had he just had another two threatening phone calls come through to his room, but a series of dark questions and doubts were beginning to seep through his brain like a black stain.

  He was upset, furious even, with Jack for making him look stupid on TV. He was also angry at himself for falsely assuming that it would be so easy for him to be accepted as a Scotland player. What had he ever done for Scotland, apart from give away a stupid goal against Nigeria? Now at least the England fans and the Scotland fans had something in common: they both hated Jamie Johnson.

  But neither of those issues, however, was his real problem. There was another deeper, more damning realization that was gnawing away at him. He tried to dismiss it, but like a painful ulcer, it stayed there, throbbing malignantly.

  The truth was that maybe Jamie had gone as far as he could go as a footballer. He’d been the star at school, he’d shone at academy level, and he’d already proved himself in the Premier League. But maybe international football – the World Cup finals – was one step too far for him.

  Suddenly Jamie’s thoughts were interrupted once again by the phone’s aggressive ringing. But, with his career in freefall and millions of people hating him, Bertorelli had picked the wrong time to start messing with Jamie.

  As he angrily picked up the receiver, all of Jamie’s fears and frustrations were translated into the volume of his voice as he roared down the phone: “Now you listen to me, YOU STUPID…”

  “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” said the unmistakeable voice of Sir Brian Robertson on the other end of the line. “But I want to see you in my office. Now.”

  “Where’s he gone then?” asked Robertson.

  He and Jamie were sitting across the desk from each other in the manager’s office that had been set up in the hotel. Robertson had his glasses on. He looked serious. And concerned.

  “Who?” asked Jamie.

  “The final piece of my jigsaw. The key to my team. Where’s he gone?”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Jamie. He had so many questions and doubts swirling around in his mind and they seemed to be doubling by the second. “It was just so different out there tonight; so tight, so tactical… Maybe I’m not clever enough for it … or maybe I’m just not good enough.”

  “Not good enough?” Robertson repeated, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “Not good enough?! Jamie, you are – how can I put this without giving you too big a head? You are a once-in-a-generation talent. You’re the type of player that granddads tell their grandkids about. You’re the type of player … whose name should live for ever.”

  Jamie felt his palms glisten with sweat. Hearing those words had sent a chill running down his spine.

  “Cheers,” said Jamie, shifting a little uneasily in his seat.

  “You don’t like it when people say nice things about you, do you, Jamie.” Robertson smiled. “Why is that, do you think?”

  Jamie shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes it’s easier when people just tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

  “Well, when you do something wrong, believe me I’ll tell you. Until then, I want you to forget the idea that you’re not up to international level. I believe in you. Totally. And in return, you can be honest with me and tell me what’s really up. Look at you. You look awful, those bags under your eyes. Have you slept since you’ve got here?”

  “Not much,” admitted Jamie. He thought for a second about whether he should tell Sir Brian what had been happening and quickly came to the conclusion that, right now, he had very little to lose.

  “I’ve been getting some funny phone calls,” Jamie said, almost apologetically. “To my room, late at night, heavy breathing and all that stuff. I mean, it’s probably just Bertorelli trying to wind me up – I know he’s got a problem with me and I’m not scared of him, but still, it gets to you after a while.”

  “Yes, I can imagine it does,” said Sir Brian Robertson, standing up and moving around his desk as if he had somewhere to go. “Especially at a World Cup… And you say all these calls have been direct to your room, none on your mobile?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “Well, now it makes sense. I wish you’d told me earlier, you know,” said Robertson, shaking his head. “No one can be expected to play if they can’t sleep… All right, well, I know now and I know what I have to do.”

  “OK, boss,” said Jamie, slowly getting out of his chair. He understood what Robertson was saying and he could hardly argue; it was time for him to go – in more ways than one.

  “Jamie,” said Brian Robertson, as Jamie was about to open the door. “Don�
��t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”

  “OK,” said Jamie, though it was hardly much of a consolation. He had an ominous feeling. He knew what was about to happen next.

  Robertson nodded gravely. “You can close the door behind you, Jamie.”

  An air of tension filled the room. It was 11 p.m. and the entire squad – some of whom had been asleep – had been called out of their rooms to attend an urgent team meeting.

  This was highly unusual and everyone knew it. Something serious was about to go down.

  “You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” announced Sir Brian Robertson reading his players’ minds. “Well, I’m not happy. Not happy with the performance against Nigeria, not happy with the result, and most of all, I’m not happy with the spirit in the camp. I’m not the kind of bloke that mucks around, so I’m going to make a change. Now.”

  The players looked at one another like a herd of antelope suddenly aware that they had been stalked by a hungry lion. Someone was going to be sacrificed. The question was: who?

  Jamie felt the butterflies rise in his chest. He had a pretty good idea who was going to be dropped.

  “I’m going to make a change in the left wing position,” Robertson said, confirming Jamie’s fears.

  Robertson paused before continuing.

  “What do you think about that, Ronnie?” he asked Ronnie Treacher.

  “Well … boss … that’s your call … but if you want me to play … obviously I won’t say no.”

  Of course you won’t, Jamie thought to himself, you suck up.

  “Yes, I thought not,” said Robertson, before turning to look Treacher in the eye. “So is that why you’ve been making threatening phone calls to Jamie’s room?”

  Suddenly all the players turned to face Treacher, including Jamie.

  “What?” said Treacher, his face filling with colour. “I don’t know what you—”

  “Be very careful before you deny it, Ronnie,” warned Robertson. “I’ve spoken to reception and I have the records of all the calls made from your room. So I’ll ask you again: why did you make the calls?”

  Silence. A bead of sweat rolled down Treacher’s forehead, dripping on to his shirt.

  “Just a bit of fun,” he said, attempting to squeeze out an uncomfortable smile. “Only a bit of banter, you know, him being the new boy and everything. Ask the lads. We always have a bit of fun with the new players.”

  Robertson nodded and then calmly said, “OK, Ronnie, you’re done. Go and pack your bags.”

  “What? You’re joking, gaffer. I’ve played for this team for twelve years. And now you’re going to drop me for phoning his room? You can’t even call up a replacement. You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?”

  “Look at my face,” said Robertson, his expression as hard as steel. “Do I look like I’m joking? Don’t worry, we’ll spare your blushes. I’ll tell the press you tore a hamstring in training. Now get your stuff and go. A taxi’s waiting for you outside.”

  Ronnie Treacher stood up and walked towards the door.

  “This is your fault,” he turned to shout at Jamie. “You should have stayed with England. You don’t belong here. You’ll never be one of us!”

  And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

  Sir Brian Robertson let his players take in what had just happened. Then he addressed them once more.

  “We’re all new to one another,” he said. “So perhaps I need to get a couple of things straight. One, I don’t give a monkey’s how it worked before I got here. Two, all of my teams are a unit. We play together, we work together and we support one another, no matter what happens or who’s playing.

  “Stick to those rules and we’ll be OK… And three, everyone, and I mean everyone, sings the national anthem before the game. If you don’t know the words, THEN LEARN THEM.

  “OK,” he said, suddenly lightening his tone. “Meeting over. See you for training in the morning.”

  With the execution now complete, the room began to empty. As the players filed out like schoolboys after assembly, a hush of total and utter respect accompanied them. An energy filled the air as they contemplated the swiftness and confidence with which Robertson had taken such a big decision.

  And in their own minds, all of the players were coming to the same realization. If they hadn’t already suspected it, there could now be no doubt – in Sir Brian Robertson they had a proper manager on their hands. Someone to be truly reckoned with.

  After a couple of minutes, only Jamie and Sir Brain remained in the room. It was Jamie who broke the silence.

  “Boss, how did you—?”

  But before he could finish, Robertson said, “You can’t dial straight to our rooms from outside the hotel. You have to come through reception and they have been told not to put calls through. Only someone else in the hotel could have called you in your room.”

  “Oh,” replied Jamie, beginning to piece it together in his mind. “Right… Well, thanks.”

  “I won’t regret it,” said Robertson. “Now go and get some sleep. You need it.”

  Jamie looked down at his bulging thighs before exhaling and pushing with all his might. His muscles strained and shook but he pushed harder. He believed he could lift that weight – he told himself he could. Then, with a huge, final heave, his feet and legs lifted the massive block of weights. He held it there for five full seconds before letting it crash back down with a loud clank.

  Beneath the large, worm-like scar that snaked all the way across his knee, Jamie could feel the blood rushing through his joints and muscles. If he tensed his thighs now they might burst through his shorts. He had spent hundreds of hours building up the muscles around his knee so that they would be strong enough to bear the strain of his playing top level football.

  It was amazing to think that a metal plate and set of screws were all that was holding his knee together. After the car accident at Foxborough, all the doctors had told him he’d never play again, but with Archie’s help he’d proved them all wrong when he’d made his comeback at Hawkstone. True, his knee would never be completely right again but that just made Jamie even more determined to work as hard as he could in the gym to stay in the best condition possible. It was the only way.

  Pace and strength. Jamie knew he needed both for this tournament. One wouldn’t be enough. It had to be both.

  He stood up and rubbed his biceps. He was now halfway through his daily gym session. He’d done his legs and chest. Now it was time for his arms. As he went to pick up a heavy dumb-bell, Jamie saw Sir Brian Robertson come up on the big TV screen in the gym.

  He turned up the volume.

  “Yes, there were a few grumbles from our fans at the end of our last game,” Robertson was saying to a packed press conference. “And they’re entitled to that – I would have felt the same if I’d been in the crowd. Our spirit wasn’t right in that game, but I’m confident that it is now.”

  Jamie nodded as he curled the dumb-bell up towards his shoulder, feeling his bicep tighten and rise in response. Since the incident with Treacher and the way the manager had handled it, a new invigoration and harmony had swept around the squad. It was as though, in that moment, Robertson had stamped his authority on the players and now they were completely in his hold.

  One of the most impressive aspects of Robertson’s style was his man management. He knew exactly how to treat each player. When dealing with rebellious centre forward Duncan Farrell, for example, Robertson would often be a little more lenient, as if he were dealing with a naughty but talented schoolboy. Meanwhile, with Jamie, he kept his instructions simple and encouraging, often taking his winger aside for a little chat.

  Robertson had not mentioned Jamie’s terrible tackle that had given away a penalty against Nigeria for four full days. Then this morning he’d approached Jamie at breakfast and said gently: “Do me a favo
ur, son. Stop messing around in our penalty area, will you? Get up the other end. That’s why you’re in the side.”

  “Brian, looking at the make-up of your squad, if Ronnie Treacher’s hamstring is that bad that it keeps him out for the whole tournament, that leaves you with just Jamie Johnson as your only recognized left-winger,” one journalist was commenting in the pre-match press conference. “That must be a bit of a problem because, after his performance against Nigeria and what he said about the fans after the match, you must be tempted to drop Johnson for the France game.”

  “Eh, laddie,” snapped Robertson. “How about you leave the management to me? Jamie Johnson is a humble lad. Yes, he’s got fire in his belly, but he’s been brought up with values. He’ll win the fans over. He just needs a bit more time – that’s all.”

  “But isn’t time the one luxury you don’t have, Sir Brian?” the journalist responded. “You need a win against France or you’re as good as out. Do you think he’ll be ready in time for tomorrow? And isn’t it about character, too? Are you convinced he has got the courage and the temperament to do it at this level?”

  “Courage? Temperament?!” Robertson said, visibly riled now. “You try having a steel plate inserted in your knee and being told your career is over when you’re fifteen! Has Jamie Johnson got the character to play at the World Cup? Will he be ready?” Robertson fixed the journalist with his steely stare. “I’d bet my house on it.”

  Still watching the TV, Jamie roared aloud as he raised the biggest weight he’d ever lifted. He’d be ready by tomorrow all right.

  If Scotland had thought that it was going to be any easier for them against France, then they were quickly corrected by the opening ten minutes of this vital encounter.

  The French unit seemed to be almost the perfect blend. Half of their team comprised big, strong and quick athletes, and they were the ideal complement to the nimble little ball players that played alongside them.