by Dan Freedman
And worst of all was the fact that Fattifachi seemed quite content to have conversations and even a laugh with the Argentinian players in Spanish and yet the only English words he seemed to know were: “Foul” and “I am the referee, not you!”
Predictably, the harshest of the Argentinians’ treatment was reserved for Jamie. He was playing well; full of running and confidence, but so far the Argentinians had managed to contain him. Just.
If they weren’t jostling and jabbing him every time he got on the ball, they were tripping him, body checking him, and poking him in the eye. Pavon even bit Jamie’s ear! But they made sure that the same player never fouled Jamie twice in succession. They took it in turns so they didn’t get booked. It was a cruel tactic but also clever.
“Are you OK, Jamie?” asked Sir Brian Robertson at the end of his team talk. “Remember the fact that they are targeting you is really the ultimate compliment.”
Jamie looked at his ribs. He had an indentation of four stud marks on his torso. How did anyone manage to find his ribs when they were aiming for the ball? His shirt was torn and his socks had a hole in them from which blood was seeping out.
“I know, boss,” he smiled. “But they’ll have to do more than that to get rid of me.”
“Well, we’re just waiting for the players to come back out on to the pitch and get this semi-final back under way. And you can’t help thinking that there are a few more twists and turns left in this game. It’s a compelling drama and the best part about it is that there’s no script!”
The Argentinians seemed to have been given only one instruction at half-time: stop Jamie Johnson. At all costs.
Their plan now seemed ominously clear. They were going to remove Jamie from the game.
If they were playing dirty before, they now took proceedings to an entirely new level.
Sitting on the bench, watching Jamie be spat at for the seventh time, Sir Brian Robertson buried his head in his hands. He just hoped that Jamie would keep his composure. If he lost his temper and got sent off, there would be no way back for Scotland.
But he needn’t have worried on that score. Jamie was wound up. In fact, he’d never been so wound up in his life, but he wasn’t going to punch anyone. He’d already decided on a far better way of gaining retribution.
The next time he received the ball, he looked up and saw Bertorelli tanking towards him. Jamie stood still. Waiting… Then he knocked the ball cleanly through Bertorelli’s legs, shouted proudly “NUTS!” before proceeding to race away from the hugely embarrassed Argentinian captain.
Now, at top speed, Jamie faked to shoot but then continued to drive into the area, side-stepping the last defender.
With the crowd roaring and on their feet, Jamie let rip with a piledriver of a shot, which exploded off his foot and soared with the power of a hurricane into the top corner of the net.
“Oh he’s done it! He HAS done it! What a stunning talent this boy is – with the ball at his feet, he is a force of nature – quite simply irresistible! And with that goal, in a World Cup semi-final, Jamie Johnson has surely written his name for ever in the history of football!”
Jamie ran straight to the Tartan Army. They’d had a difficult start – but now he and the fans were as one.
“How do you like me now?!” he roared at the fans, kissing his Scotland badge and leaping into the air to punch the sky.
The celebrations were joyous. Faz joined Jamie for another rendition of their “rowing” routine and even Sir Brian Robertson was standing on the touchline waiting to give Jamie a high five.
Scotland were 1-0 up and Jamie had proved the majesty of his skills once more. But there was also a problem: striking the ball with all his might, Jamie had twisted his knee. Not disastrously, but painfully all the same. And there was still half an hour left of the game.
Jamie looked at the scoreboard.
Not long now. If they could do it, if they could see this one through, then a World Cup Final lay ahead. A World Cup Final! And a match versus either Holland or … England.
Jamie started to imagine the magnitude of a potential match against England. Against the team that he had so nearly played for… A World Cup Final against the hosts. Nothing could be bigger.
Perhaps he was not the only one whose mind had started to drift elsewhere because, almost without warning, Argentina made a late break into Scotland’s box, and as Allie Stone raced off his line to collect the ball, he was just beaten to it by the Argentinian striker. The attacker made the most of what minimal contact there was, throwing his body dramatically into the air and contorting it like a dying swan.
The referee bought it and immediately whistled. He pointed dramatically to the spot.
“Oh, and we’ve got unbelievable drama here at Old Trafford. Right at the last minute. So, Mattheus Bertorelli picks up the ball and prepares to place it on the spot. The Scotland fans behind the goal are booing as loud as they can to try to put the striker off but he seems deeply focused on his task. And look at this, the Scotland skipper, Jamie Johnson, is having a quick word in his goalkeeper’s ear. I wonder what he’s saying. Seems to be some form of advice. Allie Stone nods his head and, as the referee tells Johnson to get out of the area, Bertorelli places the ball carefully down on the penalty spot.
“So here he comes now… This kick to equalize and take the game into extra time and, oh look at Allie Stone, what’s he— But it’s worked! He’s saved it! Allie Stone – well, there’s no other way to put this – has shown Bertorelli his rear-end and Bertorelli has fired the ball straight at it, hitting Stone’s bottom, sending it high over the bar. What a way to save a penalty! That is phenomenal. Has there ever been anything like it?! And now Stone is being besieged by his celebrating teammates… He really is the hero of the hour. But wait! The referee doesn’t seem happy – oh, he’s showing Stone the yellow card. That must be for ungentlemanly conduct. And he’s asking for the penalty kick to be retaken!”
The Scotland Team surrounded the referee.
“That’s a joke,” they shouted.
“How much are they paying you?!”
But Fattifachi shooed them away. He was never going to change his mind.
Bertorelli smiled as he placed the ball back down on the penalty spot. And this time he made no mistake. He put Stone and Scotland to the sword by smashing the ball home into the bottom left-hand corner.
And, in doing so, he took the game into extra time.
The Scotland players slumped to the ground. They cradled their heads in their hands. Very many of them were verging on tears.
They had been so close. Minutes away. The World Cup Final had been there, waiting for them … calling them … and now it had been snatched away. They had to start all over again.
Jamie lay flat on the ground, panting. He had phenomenal stamina. In all the fitness tests, he always came out on top, and he never, ever got tired during games. But now, all of a sudden, he felt drained of all energy. Completely empty.
And that was when Sir Brian Robertson strolled on to the pitch like a man out for a Sunday afternoon walk.
With an easy smile, Robertson stood above his crestfallen team and, after a second’s silence, he took complete charge of the situation.
“OK,” he said. “Forget what’s just happened. Forget it completely. What I want you to remember is why you all started playing football. When you each kicked your first ball, all of you dreamed of being here, right where you are now. You are thirty minutes away from a World Cup Final. People are watching this match all over the world and every single one of them is asking themselves the same question: how are Scotland going to react to this? Have they got what it takes? And you know what the answer is? You’re damn well right we have.
“Right. How is everyone feeling? Everyone OK?”
All the players nodded.
“Jamie? How’s the
knee?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, thanks, boss.”
Jamie felt a pang of guilt as he lied, but he couldn’t help it. His pride wouldn’t allow him to give up now and besides, every cell in his body told him this was it. There would never be another chance like this in his career.
“Good,” said Sir Brian. “Then I’ll make my last change. Pat, you come off. We’ll bring on Bobby Stewart and go 3-4-3. That should allow us to compete better in the midfield. OK, boys, remember: you’ve proved that you are better than them once. Now go out and do it again.”
And with that, Robertson sauntered back across the turf to the touchline. He did not glance back at his team even once. It was time for them to stand on their own two feet.
The Scotland players looked at one another, each one seeing the fire of ambition burning in the others.
Slowly they raised themselves from the ground, a new surge of belief beginning to course through them.
Jamie Johnson looked at his teammates and realized there was no other group of people he would rather be with for the battle they were about to re-enter.
“Boys,” he shouted. “This is it! This is our time. Let’s make it happen! WINNERS!!”
“And so we enter extra time of this epic encounter. It has been a splendid see-saw of a game. But which way will it ultimately tip?”
After the thrilling culmination of the first ninety minutes, extra time was cagey. Very cagey. Both teams were equally tired but fully determined not to concede a losing goal, making it all but inevitable that a nail-biting penalty shoot-out would be required to separate the two sides.
However, with five minutes left, Bertorelli got on the ball and, sensing the weariness that had now set into the Scotland side, he went for it.
A path opened up for him right through the centre and he raced through it. Jamie quickly saw the danger. As Bertorelli broke through, charging menacingly towards the penalty area, Jamie raced back to cut him off.
Bertorelli was probably the only Argentinian player capable of going all the way, but Jamie also knew that he was the one player on the Scotland side capable of stopping him.
It was time for Jamie to exact his revenge. Finally, he could deal with his nemesis once and for all.
He’d take the man and the ball.
And this time Bertorelli would feel the pain.
Using every bit of his extraordinary pace, Jamie hunted Bertorelli down like a leopard. He prepared himself to make the lunge … to launch himself into Bertorelli. And that was the moment it went.
Jamie suddenly pulled up and toppled to the ground. His knee had locked and gone. Just at the moment when he most needed it, it had given way completely.
Bertorelli took one quick look over his shoulder and, with what sounded like a laugh, accelerated away towards the goal.
There was no way any other player was going to catch him and, what was worse, there was no way he was ever going to miss.
He dummied to shoot, leaving Allie Stone sprawling on the ground before dribbling the ball right up to the goal line, where he detonated the final, deadly touch.
Bertorelli had scored against Scotland. Again.
Jamie felt himself being hauled off the ground.
He was a broken puppet as he was being carried off the pitch. His body had been kicked and hacked at; his leg was punctured by a series of gaping wounds. Bertorelli and his buddies had aimed to kick Jamie out of the World Cup. And now their wish had been granted.
As Jamie was carried away on the stretcher, he saw his teammates’ faces dropping, their belief dissolving, their hope disappearing. He pressed his eyes shut. No tears. Not now. Not in front of them.
Jamie was the symbol of this team; he was their leader. As he left the pitch, so too, it seemed, did Scotland’s hopes.
“We’ll take you straight to the dressing room, so I can have a look at you,” said the doctor walking alongside the paramedics. These were Jamie’s worst fears realized. “Then we’ll go straight on to the hospital.”
Soon Jamie was being carried past the dugout. Brian Robertson patted him on the shoulder while brave Cameron McManus, his own head still swathed in bandages, was generously clapping Jamie on his way.
But suddenly Jamie gripped the doctor’s hand tightly.
“I’m staying on,” he declared.
“What do you mean?” said the doctor. “Your knee’s completely—”
“I’m captain of this team,” insisted Jamie, staggering unsteadily to his feet, the searing pain burning through him. “And they need me.”
“Brave as that sounds, Jamie, with one leg, you’re really not going to be much use out there. I mean, you can’t even run!”
“No,” said Jamie, now aware that the referee had just blown to give Scotland a free kick. “But I can still kick a ball.”
Seeing Jamie preparing to come back on, The Tartan Army rose as one to applaud and encourage their wounded leader. Meanwhile, standing by the side of the pitch waiting to limp back into the action, Jamie realized that there comes a moment in every player’s career which defines him for ever.
He understood that, for him, that moment was now.
Scotland had a free kick. It was twenty-five yards out, just to the right of centre. Perfect for a left-footer. Perfect for Jamie Johnson.
Jamie looked at the goal and the wall in the front. The Argentinians had set up the wall to stop Jamie bending one of his signature left-foot curlers into the near post. However, the truth was that Jamie’s left leg was so badly damaged that there was no way he’d be able to take the free kick with that foot.
Jamie limped up to the ball, each step provoking a spear of pain. Then, taking the whole stadium by surprise, he swept his right foot into the strike. He wanted to swerve it with the outside of his boot right into the top, far corner.
Instantly, he knew it was perfect. As he crashed back down to the ground, Jamie saw the ball beautifully curve over the wall, fizzing fabulously to its target. It was a sublime free kick, flashing like lightning through the air. The goalkeeper, covering the other post, had been left marooned on the wrong side of the goal. There was no way he could save it.
As his strike flew in, Jamie was just about to give a colossal roar of delight, when Mattheus Bertorelli, who was standing on the goal line, leapt into the air and punched the ball over the crossbar – with his fist!
“Penalty, ref!” the players shouted and crowded around the referee. “He’s got to be sent off!”
But the referee did not see it. Or, if he did, he refused to give it. He simply whistled and pointed to a Scotland corner! The players continued to contest the decision, begging him to consult his linesman, but Fattifachi stubbornly shook his head and booked both Farrell and Tulley for dissent.
Jamie collapsed and crawled off the pitch. He knew now that he had nothing left. That had been his final effort before his body, at long last, surrendered.
All he could do was watch the last agonizing four minutes from the sidelines as Scotland’s ten men desperately tried to produce an equalizer.
The clock had only reached a hundred and nineteen minutes and forty seconds when Giovanni Fattifachi, with what looked almost like a satisfied smile, stopped his watch and blew the final whistle on the game.
And, just like that it was finished. Scotland’s World Cup journey had come to an end.
It was over.
World Cup Semi-Final
Argentina progress to World Cup Final
As the plane touched down in Edinburgh Airport, Jamie felt his stomach contract to the size of a golf ball.
The team – his team – were coming home without the trophy. Scotland had been beaten by England in the third place play-off. Jamie, sitting injured in the stands, had seen the look of pure desolation on the faces of the Tartan Army. He’d felt responsible and yet entirely helpless at th
e same time. They’d had everything they needed to win that tournament and yet, here they were, returning home empty-handed. All they were bringing back with them were regrets.
Jamie thought back to what the dressing room had been like after the Argentina game.
It had felt like the quietest, saddest place on earth. All of the players, even Sir Brian Robertson, had been reduced to zombies, frozen in their sorrow, paralysed in their anger and stunned in their disbelief.
They had sat and simply stared into space, the nauseating noise of the Argentinian celebrations in the dressing room next door torturing their every thought.
Then, quietly and proudly, Sir Brian Robertson had gone around the dressing room and shaken each one of his players by the hand.
Looking at the scene, Jamie had been overcome by guilt. He knew it was all his fault. If he’d told his manager the truth about his injury before it was too late, then Robertson could have replaced him with a properly fit player and they could have stopped Bertorelli and gone on and won the game. But no, Jamie’s pride had got in the way. He had tried to be the hero and, instead, he’d taken the whole team down with him. Soon everyone would find out and know what he’d done – how selfish he’d been.
Robertson had come to shake Jamie by the hand as he was leaving for the hospital. All Jamie could say through his tears was: “I should have told you. I should have told you!”
As the aeroplane door opened, Jamie watched his teammates queue up to get off. All the players were dressed in suits to look as smart as possible for the homecoming, just in case anyone was there to greet them. Somehow, that only seemed to make it sadder.
Jamie let all the other players get off the plane first. If the fans were going to boo him, there was no need for his teammates to be subjected to that too. So he waited until the plane was almost empty. Then, slowly, Jamie picked up his crutches and hauled himself up off his seat.
