World Class

by Dan Freedman

  “Now that is how to take a penalty! And so confident too! Looks like the ballboy is not the only cheeky one out there tonight! Johnson gives Scotland the lead in quite audacious style!”

  On his way back to his own half, Jamie made sure he ran back past Bertorelli and, when he did so, he gave him a massive smile. He wasn’t scared and he wanted Bertorelli to know it.

  The rest of the half was punctuated with fouls and skirmishes, leaving precious little room for football, but that was fine with Scotland. A win would do them very nicely indeed. In fact, if they could get another goal, then they would top the group at Argentina’s expense.

  As Jamie headed down the tunnel, Bertorelli was already there, waiting for him, and as soon as Jamie got within five yards, the Argentinian began shouting.

  It was a stream of verbal venom, each word a bullet of bitterness.

  At first, Jamie wasn’t too bothered. He remembered what Brian Robertson had said to him before the game about not getting involved, and anyway, he couldn’t speak Spanish so he had no idea what Bertorelli was actually saying. He assumed Bertorelli was swearing but the only word he thought he could make out sounded like “poo”. But that wasn’t too bad anyway.

  So, even in the face of Bertorelli’s abuse, Jamie kept his cool.

  “Is that all you’ve got, mate?” he smiled. “You know what? It’s actually sad looking at you. I feel sorry for you, I really do. You’re an embarrassment.”

  And then a look in Bertorelli’s eyes made Jamie understand, perhaps for the first time, the level of hatred that the man had for him.

  Perhaps it was at that moment that Jamie should have realized that whatever this thing was between him and Bertorelli – a war, a vendetta, perhaps even a curse – it was nowhere near over.

  The flames of Bertorelli’s anger burned in his dark, evil eyes as he coiled his neck back like a cobra.

  And with that Bertorelli spat at Jamie. Right into his eye. Jamie could feel the slimy spit mingling with the moistness of the jelly in his eyeball. He closed his eye and felt some of the saliva slip down the side of his cheek.

  Jamie just snapped. Instantly something inside him went off and he flew at Bertorelli with a rage that went beyond anything he had ever experienced before. It was as if some maniac had entered his body.

  Jamie pulled back his fist. He wanted to slam it with all his might at Bertorelli’s putrid face.

  But, before he could take a swing, a bigger, more powerful hand intervened.

  “You sure you want to do that, Jamie?” asked Cameron McManus, Scotland’s warrior of a captain, whilst staring down Bertorelli. “It’s exactly what he wants.”

  Jamie looked at his skipper. McManus didn’t talk very often, so when he did, people tended to listen.

  “You’re right,” said Jamie, starting to recover his composure. “I’d rather stick it to him on the pitch instead.”

  The second half began again with Scotland immediately recapturing the superiority they had achieved before half-time and now, the longer this game was going on, the more Jamie was growing in confidence.

  Yes, he’d taken a couple of games to find his feet at international level, and it had been far from easy to win over the Tartan Army, but now, not only did they accept him as one of their own, he was swiftly becoming their favourite son.

  At this moment, with thirty thousand fans singing his name, Jamie Johnson felt completely at home on the world stage: one Jamie Johnson, there’s only one Jamie Johnson.

  In fact, he now had the warm belief that maybe his granddad Mike had been right all those years: perhaps he had always been destined to play international football. This was where his talent belonged and now, as a long throw from Allie Stone sailed towards him, Jamie was ready to prove it once and for all.

  Jamie instantly killed the pace on the ball, deftly cushioning it on his thigh. As it dropped to the ground, he flicked it forwards and glided after it in one easy, fluid movement.

  Using his perfect close control, he passed the ball from foot to foot, nimbly evading the tackles like a speeding slalom skier racing down a mountain.

  With his arms pumping and his legs racing, he galloped down the line. Once he hit turbo speed, Jamie was simply uncatchable.

  He was a superhuman playing against mortals. His skills came from another world.

  A huge grin was plastered across his face as he teased and destroyed the defenders with his speed and poise. He could beat anyone today and he knew it.

  However, what Jamie didn’t know was that, chasing behind him, desperately trying to stay with him, was Mattheus Bertorelli.

  All of Bertorelli’s fury and bitterness had been brought to the boil and he was now charging after Jamie like an angry bull.

  Perhaps, if Jamie had been able to see the savage, vengeful expression painted on Bertorelli’s face, he might have been able to predict what was about to happen next.

  Perhaps he might not have slowed down to bring out his step-overs to tease the last defender into a tackle.

  The cruel finger of fate was about to point at Jamie and yet, with his eyes still firmly fixed on the ball, he had no idea at all…

  “And Johnson now, rampaging through the Argentinian defence. They’re not content with a 1-0 victory, they want a second! Still Johnson… He’s past three … past four… And still Johnson goes on – just witness the pace! A step-over now, and another one! … But look at Bertorelli! He’s charging back at Johnson now and … oh! Oh no! That is an awful tackle. He’s hacked down Johnson from behind with a crushing foul. Oh, and the replay makes it look even worse! He’s trapped Johnson’s knee between his legs… Apologies to those watching at home who are squeamish… Those replays showing the knee being bent almost backwards are quite sickening…”

  The stabbing pain shot through Jamie as he lay crumpled in a heap on the ground.

  Writhing in agony, he raised his hand in the air to call for the physio. Almost instantly he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

  But when he opened his eyes, he did not see the physio or one of his teammates, he saw the smiling face of an assassin.

  “Now you got what you deserve,” said Bertorelli, leering over him. “I hope you never play again.”

  Bertorelli was instantly shown the red card by the referee, but a ten-year prison sentence would have been a more appropriate punishment.

  Not that Bertorelli was going back behind bars or anywhere else. He stayed exactly where he was, standing over Jamie, laughing at him, while Jamie was lying prone on the ground, clutching his knee in agony.

  Jamie almost couldn’t see through the pain. The torture tore through him like a furious forest fire. Bertorelli had known exactly what he was doing. In an evil scissors motion, he’d wrapped himself around Jamie’s knee, crushing it and twisting it until it almost broke.

  Now, as Jamie was carefully lifted on to a stretcher and given oxygen to breathe in, the pain was almost too much to bear.

  All that training … all that practice … all those hours fighting his way back from the last injury. It had all been about this; reaching the World Cup and showing the entire world his skill.

  But now Bertorelli had killed those dreams. He’d slashed them apart in cruel, cold-blooded revenge.

  Jamie covered his eyes as he was carried away from the pitch into the darkness of the tunnel. He couldn’t believe that this was it. That it was all over.

  “Don’t touch it! Please!” Jamie shouted as the physio and the doctor laid him out on the treatment table in the dressing room and tried to examine his injury.

  “Please!” he repeated, in agony. “Just leave me alone.”

  Jamie closed his eyes and felt the moisture of his tears trickle down his cheeks.

  Meanwhile, back out on the pitch, insult was added to injury when, late in the game, the Argentina centre forward Madistuta connect
ed powerfully with a volley at the far post to flash the ball past Allie Stone and into the back of the net.

  Argentina celebrated the draw like a victory, with Bertorelli even running back on to the pitch to join in, pumping his fist backwards and forwards in joy, right in front of the Tartan Army.

  The same player who had removed Scotland’s star man with a diabolical tackle was now celebrating right in front of Scotland’s fans, taunting them with his wolfish grin. He might as well have been trampling on their grave.

  It was too much for Sir Brian Robertson. As various players began swapping shirts, he leapt from the dugout and began shouting at his own player, Pat Renton, who was, for some unknown reason, about to swap shirts with Bertorelli.

  Robertson sprinted on to the pitch and pulled Renton’s shirt back down on to his chest.

  “Renton,” he growled. “There’s no way on earth that snake’s having your shirt.”

  Group D – Final Standings

  Argentina and Scotland both through to the next round.

  “Well, the ligaments aren’t torn or ruptured; they are just very badly strained, so with some rest and regular physio, you should be ready for the start of the next season with Hawkstone.”

  “What?” blurted Jamie. “Next season? You’re kidding me, doc! We’re in the middle of the World Cup here – I need to play against Brazil!”

  But the Scotland Team doctor was unmoved.

  “Jamie, the fact that your knee has ballooned up to three times its normal size should tell you that you’ve got a pretty nasty injury,” he said. “In fact, looking at the scans, your knee’s actually in a worse state than I thought. It links back to the injury you sustained two years ago.”

  “The severe nature of the trauma you suffered in your car accident has meant that, ever since then, your body – all your ligaments and tendons – has been overcompensating to protect it and, as a result, every time you play, you are actually doing more damage to yourself. Your knee joint already has the wear and tear we might expect in a fifty-year-old.”

  The doctor drew in a deep breath and solemnly rubbed his jaw with his thumb.

  “I’m very sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Jamie, but even when you recover from this injury, your body is simply not in a position to carry this strain for much longer. I couldn’t, in all honesty, see you playing professional football much beyond the age of twenty-five.”

  A silence wedged itself between them. The words just seemed to remain there, suspended in the air.

  “But,” said the doctor, suddenly aware that Jamie had not flinched or shown any kind of reaction during the entire time he had been talking, “you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  Jamie nodded. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that his body would not be able to play football at the top level for very much longer. He could feel it every day. Every time he twisted and turned, and every time he went in for a tackle. He’d fought his way back to fitness but he knew his knee would never be the same as it was before his injury. That was part of the reason that he played every single game as though it could be his last.

  “Look, doc,” said Jamie. “Forget about the future – just for a minute. Let’s talk about now. Just give it to me straight. Is there any way you can get me back on that pitch for our next game?”

  “No,” answered the doctor, putting his equipment away. “The knee needs complete and utter rest in order to heal. There’s no substitute for that. We’re talking weeks, possibly a couple of months to build you back up. There’s no way we could do it without seriously risking your health.”

  “Hang on a minute, doc. What are you saying? Does that mean it is possible or not? OK, let me put it another way. If your life depended on it, if there was no other choice, how would you get me on to that pitch to play against Brazil?”

  “Round the clock physiotherapy, intense cryotherapy and an absurdly high number of painkilling injections,” replied the doctor as though he were in an exam. “We might even be able to get you through the game itself, but the point is you’d be playing roulette with your career. I’d give you a fifteen per cent chance – at best – of getting away with it without doing some very serious long-term damage to yourself.”

  “Good,” said Jamie, hobbling to his feet. “Well, I think I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’m here to stop you,” said Archie Fairclough, capturing Jamie’s gaze and not letting it go. He’d come down from Hawkstone to the Scotland Team hotel and asked to see Jamie. In private.

  “Stop me?”

  “Yes, stop you. The doctor told me that you’re considering playing on, so I’m here to stop you from making what could the biggest mistake of your life.”

  Jamie stared at Archie. “He told you about the fact that I might not have too much longer?”

  Archie nodded. “You’re our player, Jamie. Hawkstone pay your wages; we know everything about you… Look, I realize how much you want to play at this World Cup – I get that. Of course I do. And I know that you hate being told what to do but, for once, you’ve got to listen. Come back to Hawkstone, Jamie. Let us treat you. Let us fix you like we did last time. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I can’t, Archie. We’re playing against Brazil! I just can’t walk away from that. It’s too big.”

  Archie let Jamie’s words sink in. He put his finger over his lips and took in a long, deep breath.

  “Well, then there’s something else you need to know too, Jamie,” he said, mysteriously.

  “Yeah?” said Jamie, through furrowed eyebrows. “What?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t be showing you this now, but—”

  “Come on, Archie, spit it out.”

  Archie didn’t say anything. He simply picked a newspaper out of his bag and tossed it on to the table.

  Jamie took one look at the paper and then stared blankly back at Archie; he didn’t have a clue what any of the words on the page meant. They were written in another language.

  “It’s true, Jamie,” said Archie, softly. “They’ve come in for you.”

  “Who?” asked Jamie, feeling his chest begin to pound with excitement. There were only a couple of words he’d recognized in the whole article but they were enough for his mind to piece together an unbelievable puzzle. Jamie watched as his coach looked around the hotel lounge to check that no one was listening. Then Archie leaned forwards and said the name of Jamie’s favourite club in the entire world.

  “Barcelona.”

  Jamie was in shock.

  “Are you serious?!” he shouted, standing up and grabbing the newspaper into his hands, trying to decipher its words. “They want me? I mean, I dreamed of it… Maybe one day … but I’m only eighteen! Oh my God, this is unbelievable!”

  “Exactly,” said Archie, calmly motioning for Jamie to sit back down. “They’re utterly serious and they’re talking very big money, huge money, the kind of money, well… Anyway, it’s all the more reason why you need to think very carefully about risking everything over one game of football. Because, believe me, Barcelona won’t touch you with a bargepole if they know you’re playing on and doing irreparable damage with every kick of the ball.”

  Jamie felt the excitement slide away from him. It was as if he’d been given the best present he could possibly imagine, but somehow knew he couldn’t accept it. It was a kind of tragic ecstasy.

  “Yeah, well, what if, right now, my country’s the most important thing to me, Archie?” he said, pushing the paper back across the table. “What if I said to you that right now I don’t care about anything else?”

  “Then I’d call you a liar. Even you know there are some things in life that are more important than football. This isn’t just about the World Cup or even Barcelona, Jamie. It’s about your future. And your family. Are you honestly telling me that, after all the injuries you’ve had, you now want to do m
ore damage to yourself? Permanent damage? Because I don’t believe that you do. Look at me, Jamie. Do you want your mum to grow old pushing you around in a wheelchair? You’re always talking about your granddad and what a great player he ‘could’ have been. Well, do you want to end up like him? Or worse? Because – make no mistake – that’s what we could be talking about here.”

  Jamie stared at the floor. That image was a dagger through his heart. He slumped into silence.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t want that.”

  “I’m not trying to frighten you, Jamie,” said Archie, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling as he searched for the right words. “It’s just that – do you know how long people in football have been waiting for a player like you to come along? What you’ve got, Jamie … it’s just too special; too special to throw away for one game. Please, Jamie – please, don’t throw it away.”

  The phone rang in Jamie’s room. He picked it up instantly, some warped part of his brain hoping it was Brian Robertson making a last-ditch attempt to convince Jamie to stay on, to play on through the pain barrier for him.

  But he knew that would never happen. When Jamie had told Robertson and the rest of the squad that afternoon that he had to go back to Hawkstone “on doctor’s orders”, he’d been able to see the disappointment in his teammates’ faces. They were visibly distressed and several of them had even told Jamie privately that they knew they had no chance against Brazil without him. But Sir Brian Robertson had been typically wise and supportive. He had put no pressure on Jamie to change his mind. “You know your body best, Jamie,” he’d accepted, firmly shaking Jamie’s hand. “So listen to what it’s telling you.”

  “Your taxi’s been ordered, sir,” said the efficiently cold voice of the hotel receptionist. “It should be here in ten minutes.”