by Dan Freedman
Acknowledgements
Thanks to:
Mum and Ivan for your honesty.
Dad for taking me to football.
Sir Trevor Brooking for your time and your vision.
Hazel Ruscoe; this is inspired by the ideas we had together.
Ena McNamara and Oli Karger for your invaluable advice.
Gary Lineker for your support.
Jon & Phil for being there every step of the way and Joanne for being lovely.
Caspian Dennis and Lola Cashman for your belief in me. Elv Moody and the fantastic team at Scholastic for everything you have done to get this book into people’s hands…
Contents
Cover
Title page
Acknowledgements
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Two
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
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Copyright
Jamie flung his body across the turf to make the tackle. He had tracked the Oak Hall midfielder all the way and, when the time was right, he’d made his move.
But Jamie Johnson was not a defender and he never would be.
Jamie was the best left-winger in the whole of Kingfield school. He had the pace to beat any defender. So why was Mr Hansard playing him at wing back? And how could he do it in a game as important as the Interschool Cup Semi-Final?
It was stupid. Pointless.
Jamie should have been Kingfield’s most dangerous weapon, not the one doing all the defending. If they were going to go out of the Cup, they should at least go out trying to win the game.
It was 0 – 0 and, with ten minutes left until half-time, Jamie realized that the Oak Hall keeper hadn’t made one save yet. It was actually embarrassing.
Jamie looked at the crowd watching the game from the touchline. There were probably about a hundred people there. He dreaded to think what they were making of Kingfield’s long-ball tactics.
There had been a few whispers that some scouts from professional clubs might be coming to check Jamie out today. But even if any of them had turned up, there was no way they could have been impressed by a winger who wasn’t allowed to enter the opposition half.
It was as if Mr Hansard wanted to play him so deep that no one would spot his talent.
Jamie wiped his shirtsleeve across his forehead to soak up the sweat. He was waiting impatiently for Oak Hall to take their throw-in.
Deep down, he knew this cup run might be his last chance of earning a trial with a professional club. He was fourteen. If it didn’t happen now, it probably never would. It was time for him to show what he could do.
Jamie anticipated what was going to happen. He raced to intercept the Oak Hall throw-in and won possession of the ball.
If he was going to stick to Hansard’s tactics, Jamie now had to whack the ball into the channel for Ashish Khan to chase. But Jamie didn’t feel like sticking to the plan.
Jamie pushed the ball a good ten yards in front of him so he could really open up his stride. As soon as he started running, his pace kicked in; he rocketed down the line. The Oak Hall right back came across to close him down but Jamie just flew past him.
He felt his marker try to clip his ankle and it would have been a free-kick . . . if Jamie had gone down. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to stop now; he just kept on running.
Jamie drove further and further forward, deep into the heart of Oak Hall territory. As he approached the penalty area, the crowd on the touchline strained their necks to keep up with the action. Now they were seeing the real Jamie Johnson.
One more defender – that’s all Jamie had to beat.
“Yes! Play me!” shouted Ash. He was the only player who’d been quick enough to keep up with Jamie. He was making a run across the box to the penalty spot.
Jamie looked up and shaped to cross it to Ash; that’s exactly what everyone would be expecting him to do. But Jamie wanted to do something a little bit more special than that. He wanted to do something for any of the scouts that might be there. He wanted to go all the way himself.
Jamie put his head down and dashed towards the last Oak Hall defender. When he got close enough, he moved his left foot over the ball with a flourish to make it seem as though he was going to go on the outside. Then, just as the defender closed him down, he pushed the ball inside with his right foot to head straight for goal.
It was a classic step-over. There was just one problem: the defender didn’t buy it. He’d stayed on his feet and kept his eye on the ball. He tackled Jamie just as he was on the brink of a brilliant individual goal.
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head up to the sky. “Aaagh!” he growled in anguish. He’d been so close. Why didn’t his step-over work? All the best wingers were wicked at step-overs. . .
“Johnson!!” Hansard roared from the sidelines. “Get baaack!!”
Jamie turned around to see that the defender that had tackled him was now leading an Oak Hall counter-attack. There was a huge gap down Kingfield’s left flank – exactly where Jamie should have been.
With no one to mark him, the Oak Hall player had been able to get all the way to the edge of the penalty area, from where he delivered a sumptuous curling cross to the far post.
The ball sailed effortlessly over all the Kingfield defenders’ heads, finding its target of the tall Oak Hall striker. The attacker sprang high into the air and pulled his head back before jerking it forward again with power and precision to fire the ball across the goal towards the far corner of the net.
Jamie had only got back as far as the halfway line. He was still out of breath from his own run. As his lungs panted their exhaustion, he knew that Hansard would blame him for this goal. He could already hear the abuse coming his way.
But then Calum Fogarty, the Kingfield goalkeeper, flew into the air, clawing towards the ball like an eagle swooping for its prey. He got the ends of his fingertips to it, and touched it around the post for the corner.
He hadn’t just saved a goal. He’d saved Jamie too.
“Johnson!” bellowed Hansard. He sounded more like an army general than a football coach. “Get back and defend the corner! Play for the team, not for yourself!”
“You tell him, sir!” shouted Dillon Simmonds, Jamie’s biggest enemy on the team. “It’s like we’re playing with ten men!”
Jamie sprinted back towards his goal. If they wanted to see how fast he could run, he’d show them. Why was it always him that they had a
go at? Why couldn’t they pick on someone else for a change?
And what did either of them know about football anyway?
It was boiling hot as Hansard pulled his team around him for the half-time team-talk. Jamie could taste the salty sweat seeping into his mouth. He could feel the heat radiating from his forehead without even touching it.
Maybe he felt the heat more than the others because his skin was so fair.
“OK. Apart from one or two certain individuals who seem to think that they are too good to stick to the tactics, things are going to plan,” said Hansard, staring right at Jamie as he spoke. He had that same look on his face – as if he’d just tasted some milk that had gone sour – that he got whenever he looked at Jamie.
“Semi-finals are about seeing who cracks first. If we stick to my tactics, we’ll keep a clean sheet and we’ll win this game. I can promise you that.”
“We protect what we’ve got and hit them on the counter. They’re mentally frail. They will break. I can see it in their eyes.”
With the sun reflecting off the top of Hansard’s head, it looked like a newly polished cue ball on a pool table.
“Is everybody clear on the tactics?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the boys answered robotically.
“Good. Has anyone got anything they want to say?” he asked, looking at Dillon, who was the captain.
“Sir, I have. . .”
As his teammates looked round at him in surprise, Jamie realized that he was the one who was talking. His friend Ollie Walsh was shaking his head at Jamie, trying to tell him not to carry on. But Jamie had already started.
“If we can get it to my feet . . . I can get past their defenders easily,” he said. “Can we play it on the ground a bit more?”
Hansard stared at Jamie as if he’d suggested that they all get different outfits and play the second half in fancy dress.
“I’m sorry, Johnson – for a second I thought I was the coach of this football team!” Hansard snarled. “You’ve already nearly cost us a goal through your selfishness and now you’re trying to tell me how to do my job. . .”
“But, sir!” Jamie said, feeling Ollie’s elbow dig into his ribs. They knew Hansard hated being interrupted. Still, it was too late now.
“All these long balls . . . we just keep giving it away. How can we score a goal if we haven’t got the ball?”
“Fine,” said Hansard in a much calmer voice than Jamie had expected. “No problem at all . . . if you don’t like my tactics, Johnson, you don’t have to use them. Walker, get warmed up, you’re coming on.”
Jamie’s mouth hung open. Hansard couldn’t just take him off! Not Jamie. And not in a match this big.
He was committing football suicide!
“Sir, I was just giving my opinion, I thought. . .”
“And what’s so special about your opinion, Johnson? Do you think you’re better than everyone else?”
“No, sir, I just. . .”
“How do you spell team, Johnson?”
“Erm . . . T, E, A, M, sir.”
“Exactly. There is no I in team, Johnson – and you can think about that during the second half,” he said, turning his back on Jamie.
“Exactly,” Dillon Simmonds parroted, smiling sarcastically at Jamie.
“Now,” said Hansard. “Has anybody else got any comments to make about my tactics?”
As the ref blew his whistle to get the second half under way, Jamie was torn in hundreds of different directions. Part of him wanted Kingfield to lose really badly so everyone could see what a fool Hansard had been to sub him. But, then again, Jamie knew that the only way he was going to play in the Cup Final was if Kingfield went on to win without him.
He couldn’t bear the thought of just being an onlooker when he should have been out there playing. He thought about walking off to go and see how Jack was doing. She was in goal for Kingfield’s girls’ team, who were playing their own Cup Semi-Final at the other end of the fields.
At least he would be appreciated there; she would love it if he went over to support her.
But then Jamie thought about how bad it looked when professional players who had been substituted just disappeared down the tunnel instead of staying to support their team. It seemed as if they didn’t care about the game, only about themselves.
Jamie didn’t want people to think that about him. He did care. He cared more than anyone.
In the end, Jamie poked his foot into the black plastic bag by the side of the pitch and dragged out one of the footballs they had used for the warm-up. He rolled the ball between his feet as he made his way around the pitch to where his granddad, Mike, was standing.
As far back as Jamie could remember, Mike had watched every single game that Jamie had ever played. He loved talking about football and always got into conversations with some of the other boys’ dads. Today, though, Jamie didn’t recognize the two smartly dressed men that Mike was talking to.
When he saw Jamie coming, Mike said goodbye to the other men and walked towards his grandson.
“How come you’re off, JJ? Did you pick up a knock?” Mike asked. Jamie could tell he was worried. His forehead was rumpled across the middle. That only happened when he was concerned.
“Nope,” said Jamie. He kept his eyes fixed on the ball as he rolled it back and forth under the sole of his boot; he was embarrassed. Mike had been such a good player that he had probably never been subbed in his whole career. It made Jamie being hauled off at half-time seem even worse.
“What? So he hooked you, did he?”
Jamie nodded.
He and Mike turned to see what was happening in the match. They let their disappointed silence fill the air as they watched Dillon Simmonds jump highest to make a headed clearance.
The ball skipped out of play and sped straight at Mike. But he didn’t move. Or even alter his stance. He just let the ball bounce up on to his thigh before softly volleying it with his instep perfectly into the path of the Oak Hall winger who had come across to take the throw.
The Oak Hall player looked at Mike for a second to make sure that what he thought he’d seen had actually happened. Had this old man just produced the best bit of skill anyone had seen the whole afternoon?
Of course he had. What the Oak Hall player didn’t know was that forty years ago, this “old man” was a professional player with Hawkstone United and was rated as one of the best teenagers in the whole country. His knee injuries may have forced him to retire before he was twenty but, even now, Mike Johnson still had the touch of a professional. And everyone had just seen it.
For a second, as he looked at Mike, Jamie felt a swell of pride. But it was soon drowned by a wave of doubt rising up within him.
Now the same dark questions that always haunted him gathered once again around his mind: was it too late for him? Was his dream of following in Mike’s footsteps and becoming a professional footballer only a stupid fantasy? Was he going to be a . . . failure?
As an Oak Hall player did a neat back-heel, drawing applause from the crowd, Jamie’s frustration began to accelerate into anger. He should still be out there; he should be the one that people were clapping for.
If Kingfield ended up losing this Semi-Final and Jamie missed his chance to prove himself on the big stage, he would never forgive Hansard.
“All I said was that we should try and keep the ball instead of hoofing it the whole time!” Jamie said to Mike, half-explaining, half-apologizing for being substituted.
“Hmmm,” Mike responded, taking in Jamie’s words like a detective slowly putting together the clues of a crime. All the time, his eyes were flickering from side to side, tracking the action on the pitch.
“What?” Jamie snapped. “What’s wrong with that? You think he’s right to sub me? For that?! That’s a load of. . .”
“I haven’
t said anything, JJ! You know I’ll never agree with anyone who subs you . . .”
Jamie smiled. He knew Mike would always be on his side.
“. . . but I also know from my own experience that no coach likes having his tactics questioned in front of the rest of the team. It sounds to me like he wanted to make an example of you so everyone knows who’s boss.”
“Yeah, but Mr Marsden never had to do that! And we still knew he was the boss.”
Jamie wished Mr Marsden was still coaching the team. He always encouraged Jamie; and when he called Jamie his “secret weapon” and his “pocket rocket”, it used to make Jamie play even better.
After one of Mr Marsden’s pep talks, Jamie felt he could terrorize any defence. Even if they put two men on him, he just took it as a compliment and tried to beat both of them!
It had been a disaster when it came out that Mr Marsden and Ollie Walsh’s mum had been having an affair. At first Marsden had tried to carry on as normal but when the other mums – who were probably just jealous – went to see the head teacher, Mr Patten, about it, the gossiping started to sweep through the school like a plague.
It was in his team-talk just before Kingfield’s first tie in this Interschool Cup run that Mr Marsden had told the boys that he was moving schools.
“It’s not that I want to,” he’d said. “It’s just that, with the way things are here, I don’t think I can do my job properly any more. I’m sorry, guys; you’re one of the best teams that I’ve ever worked with. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you go on and win this cup.”
The last thing he’d said to them in that team-talk was: “You don’t need tactics from me today – just go out there and enjoy yourselves.”
When he’d finished talking, all the boys started clapping.
That day, Kingfield won their match 5 – 2. It could have been ten. Jamie scored two goals. The second was a beautiful left-footed volley from just outside the area. It was the type of strike that the TV pundits would have called a contender for Goal of the Season.
When it went in, Jamie dashed straight over to celebrate with Mr Marsden.
