by Dan Freedman
“That one’s for you, sir,” he’d said.
Mr Marsden left the school the next day. The boys were told that a Mr Hansard – who had been the Kingfield football coach before Mr Marsden joined – would be returning to take over.
The day that Mr Hansard walked back into Kingfield School was the day that everything changed for Jamie. But not for the better.
Jamie and Mike continued to watch the game from the sidelines. It was a tight match; still no goals and only fifteen minutes left.
Both teams seemed content to keep clearing the ball as far as they could up the pitch – happy just to make sure their goal was not under threat. Hardly anyone was taking the time to control the ball.
Hansard was prowling up and down the touchline, continuously cupping his hands around his mouth to bellow instructions at his players.
“Grind it out!” he yelled. “Win your battles!”
The vein in his temple throbbed with each shouted order.
Every time Hansard shouted, Mike just shook his head.
“What’s he talking about?” he said, looking at Jamie. “This is football, not war. Whatever happened to skill?”
“Yeah, but he’s not interested in skill, is he?” said Jamie. “He wouldn’t have taken me off otherwise.”
Mike snorted through his nose. “Well, if this is Plan A,” he said, “I’d hate to see Plan B.”
At that moment, Hansard turned around and stared, first at Jamie and then at Mike. It was almost as if he’d heard their entire conversation. Jamie could see the anger burning in Hansard’s eyes.
At first, Jamie thought that Hansard was annoyed with him again, but then he noticed that it was Mike he seemed to be preoccupied with. Mike and Hansard were glaring at each other like two boxers trying to stare each other out before a fight.
For a couple of seconds, time seemed to stand still. Jamie wasn’t sure what was going on; all he knew was that he had never seen this look in his granddad’s eye before.
Then Hansard turned away to hurl another command at his team.
“What’s his problem?” Jamie whispered to Mike, who had still not taken his eyes off Hansard.
“He’s forgotten how to enjoy football.”
Jamie looked at Mike’s watch. There were seven minutes left. He wondered which team would have more energy in extra-time.
Kingfield had won a throw-in level with the Oak Hall penalty area. Ollie Walsh sprinted over to take it.
“Get it in there!” Hansard was shouting, pointing towards the penalty area. Ollie nodded. He wiped his hands on his top to get rid of the sweat. Then he picked up the ball and took a couple of steps back before running forward and releasing it.
Ollie had the longest throw in the whole school – the ball went all the way to the edge of the area. This was one of the moves that Hansard had worked on in training and, sure enough, Dillon Simmonds, who had pushed forward into the Oak Hall half, made a late, surging run towards the ball.
“Dillon’s!” he shouted, leaping to flick the ball on. It went high into the air above the penalty spot.
While the other players looked up, waiting for the ball to drop, Ashish Khan, Kingfield’s top scorer this season, went to meet it. With his back to the goal, he sprang towards the sky. In mid-air, he straightened his body completely, as though he were lying on an invisible bed. Then, as the ball fell towards him, he thrashed his right foot up and over his head.
His foot – now directly above his head – made powerful contact with the ball, firing it back towards the goal behind him.
It was the perfect overhead kick. As gravity reclaimed Ash, pulling him groundwards, his shot crashed into the underside of the crossbar with so much force that the ball bounced down on to the goal-line and then right back up again into the roof of the net.
The players’ brains took a second to process everything that their eyes had shown them. Then they realized; it was in!
Ash had scored!
Jamie and Mike both leapt off the ground, along with the rest of the Kingfield supporters.
Whatever Jamie thought of him, Hansard’s plan had paid off.
Kingfield were on their way to the Interschool Cup Final.
KINGFIELD SCHOOL REACH
INTERSCHOOL CUP FINAL
“You get on there and enjoy it,” Mike said to Jamie. The full-time whistle had just blown and all the Kingfield boys were celebrating together in a huddle. “Go on!”
Jamie wandered on to the pitch, leaving Mike to talk to the two blokes that he’d been chatting with earlier.
“We’re gonna win the Cup! We’re gonna win the Cup!” Jamie’s teammates were half-shouting, half-singing as they leapt around in a big circle.
Even though this was his team, Jamie felt like an outsider. He certainly didn’t feel as if he’d played any part in their victory.
He waited until the huddle had broken up before he went to congratulate Ash. Even though he was still devastated at being subbed, he was happy for Ash.
“Oh my days, Ash!” he said, slapping the striker on the back. “Best overhead I’ve ever seen!”
“Cheers, JJ,” said Ash, a wide smile revealing his gleaming white teeth. “Your turn in the final – you ready for Phoenix Park?”
This year the Cup Final was going to be played at a proper stadium. The boys had been buzzing about it ever since they had looked up a picture of Phoenix Park on the Internet a couple of weeks ago. Jamie’s whole body pulsated at the thought of running out there. Now it was going to happen!
“Ready?” he said. “I was born ready!”
Then Jamie jogged over to do a high five with Ollie. Their hands met with a firm connection. Ollie was easily his best mate on the team – he always made Jamie laugh.
“Great long throw, Ol,” Jamie said. “It went as far as a corner!”
“Yeah? Well, it’s all down to these special exercises I’ve got for my wrists,” said Ollie, grinning. “Eh – the gaffer doesn’t mind the spotlight, does he?”
Ollie was pointing to Hansard, who was having his picture taken by a photographer. He had his fists clenched and was looking straight down the lens of the camera.
Jamie realized this was the first time he’d ever seen Hansard smile. Normally he was angry, and usually with Jamie. Even the other boys had noticed it; it was as if Mr Hansard had hated Jamie from the day he’d first set eyes on him.
“OK – can I get all the Kingfield lads in for a team shot, please?” the photographer said loudly after he’d finished with Hansard. He had the kind of voice that you could hear from miles away.
“Are we gonna be in the paper?” asked Ollie.
“Course you are,” said the photographer, arranging the boys into two rows. “There’s going to be a big splash in the Advertiser tomorrow.”
“Wicked!” said Ollie, clicking his fingers together. “Wait till the girls see this!”
“OK,” said the photographer. “When I count to three, I want you all to say Cup Final as loud as you can! And lots of cheeky smiles! OK, here we go. . . One, two, three. . .”
“CUP FINAL!!!” The boys shouted as loud as they could and, in their minds, every single one of them imagined lifting that trophy at Phoenix Park in seven days’ time.
Then all the boys sprang off in different directions, looking for someone else to share their excitement with.
Jamie looked for Mike. He was still talking to the same two men. The men were nodding to each other now as they pointed towards Dillon and started to walk towards him.
“So your picture’s going to be in the paper then, Jamie?” said Mike, patting Jamie on the back. “First of many, I reckon.”
“I hope so!” said Jamie. For a second, he allowed images of stardom and celebrity to sparkle in his mind. Money, cars and parties all whizzed though his imagination. Jack had always told h
im he was going to be famous. Maybe she was right. Maybe the Cup Final at Phoenix Park would be where it would all start for him.
“Who are those two?” Jamie asked, pointing to the two men who were now talking to Dillon. “Are they from the Advertiser?”
“No,” said Mike. “They’re scouts.”
Jamie couldn’t believe it when Mike told him. It just seemed so unfair.
The two men that had spoken to Dillon after the game were football scouts. And not just any old scouts. They were from Hawkstone United – the club that Mike had played for and that Jamie had supported all his life.
“What?!” Jamie said, trying to make sense of all the scrambled thoughts suddenly scurrying around his mind. “Hawkstone scouts were here today? Mike! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you’d try too hard, Jamie. The best way for you to impress is to just play your natural game.”
“Yeah, but if I’d known they were here, I wouldn’t have started gobbing off at half-time and got myself substituted, would I?”
“It’s not the end of the world, Jamie, there are plenty of other. . .”
“. . .Now I’ll probably never play for Hawkstone . . . and he will.”
After the game, Dillon positioned himself outside the dressing rooms to make sure that everyone could hear as he broadcast his news.
“They said I’m strong and brave,” he boasted. “Right in the Hawkstone mould. . . Think about it – all you lot can say that you played in the same school team as Dillon Simmonds when you’re older.”
The other boys were crowding around him, asking questions. “When’s the trial?”, “How much money are you going to get?” They had already all started to suck up to him.
Jamie pushed his way past the scrum around Dillon. As far as he was concerned, this couldn’t have happened to a worse person. He and Dillon had always been enemies since Dillon had started picking on Jamie on his very first day at Kingfield. And things had got even worse recently, with Dillon trying it on with Jack the whole time. Jamie knew Dillon was just doing it to make him jealous but that didn’t make it any easier to take.
And now Hawkstone – the team that Jamie had always felt he was destined to play for – had asked Dillon to go for a trial! Jamie couldn’t bear it. And what made it all more infuriating than anything else was the fact that, deep down, Jamie knew he was a better player than Dillon.
Dillon was a bully – Jamie was a footballer.
If Hawkstone were going to sign a player from Kingfield School it should have been Jamie. Not Dillon. Anyone but Dillon.
As he waited to meet Jack so they could walk home together, Jamie realized something horrible: today could so easily have been the best day of his life. If things had gone differently, he could have stayed on and played brilliantly in the second half, inspiring Kingfield to the Cup Final and earning himself a trial with Hawkstone United in the process.
Instead, he’d been substituted in the biggest match of his life and the person he hated most in the world had stolen his chance of becoming a professional footballer.
How had it all gone so wrong?
And why?
“What happened in your game, anyway?” Jamie asked Jack. He’d had enough of talking about his match and why he’d been substituted; it wasn’t going to change anything.
“What do you think?” said Jack, throwing him the contagious grin that always made Jamie smile too. “Let’s put it this way – you aren’t the only one with a Cup Final to look forward to!”
As they walked home and Jack told Jamie how she’d saved a penalty to send the girls’ team through, Jamie felt even closer to her than normal. She didn’t seem to think any less of him because he’d been substituted. He could probably even score an own-goal in the Cup Final and know that she would still feel the same way about him.
Jamie put his arm around her shoulder. He liked doing that when they were out together. It made him feel proud.
“Can I stay at yours tonight?” he asked. “I can’t be bothered to go back to mine. It doesn’t even feel like home any more now. Not with him there.”
“I told you,” said Jack, lightly squeezing Jamie’s hand. “My mum says you shouldn’t stay over any more, now we’re . . . older. We’ll do something on the weekend, yeah? And anyway, what’s wrong with your place? I thought you liked Jeremy.”
“I used to. . .”
Jamie put his key in the top lock and twisted it. He hoped the door wouldn’t open, which would mean that no one was in. But it did. That meant that he was home. He being Jeremy.
Jeremy had moved in about three months ago. At first it had been all right; Jamie had liked seeing his mum happy. But now it was as if Jeremy thought he was in charge of the whole house. Whatever he said went.
The most annoying thing of all was the fact that he kept saying that Jamie wouldn’t make it as a pro. He called it a “pipe dream” and said that sooner or later Jamie would have to grow up and think about getting a job in the “real world”.
Jamie wished he’d keep his opinions to himself. He didn’t know anything about football and he wasn’t even Jamie’s dad. Why didn’t he just stay out of it?
Jamie’s legs were aching. Even though he’d only played half the match, he’d had to do the work of two players in that stupid wing-back role that Hansard had made him play.
He felt like slumping into the sofa and watching football on TV. Foxborough – the best team in the country – were playing tonight. The match started at eight. But, as he walked into the kitchen, Jamie could hear that Jeremy was already in the lounge watching his own programme.
This was supposed to be his home but Jamie couldn’t even watch what he wanted on the TV.
Jamie grabbed an apple from the fridge – he had to get to the nice green crunchy ones before Jeremy did – and then he left the house. He didn’t bother saying hello. He just wanted to get over to Mike’s.
At least he could watch the football there. In peace.
“It doesn’t work like that, JJ!” said Mike as they tucked into their toasted cheese sandwiches – Mike’s speciality – in front of the football. “Just because Dillon’s been spotted, it doesn’t mean that you won’t be.”
“And, anyway, you’re a late developer, aren’t you? You’re only just starting to get your growth spurt.”
Jamie was glad Mike hadn’t used the word “puberty”. Jamie hated that word. It sounded like a word a doctor would use.
But it was true – he had started to grow quite a lot over the last few months. His school trousers were now starting to get too short for him and he was practically the same height as Jack now, which made things easier.
His hair had started to change colour too, deepening from red to brown.
Jamie licked up a strand of melted cheese which had got stuck to his chin. He wondered how tall he was going to be when he was older. He couldn’t remember how tall his dad was – it had been such a long time since he’d seen him, and his mum had thrown away practically all of the pictures of him.
What if his dad was really tall? Would that mean that Jamie would end up being really tall too?
He would love it if he ended up being bigger than Dillon! He imagined meeting Dillon again when they were both older and him going up and pushing Dillon in the chest. “What’s the matter, Simmonds?” he’d say, as Dillon stared up at him trying to work out who this giant was. “Don’t remember me? Does the name Jamie Johnson ring any bells?”
Then Jamie’s tall story was interrupted by the commentator on the TV, who was going mad because the youngest player on the pitch had just scored on his debut for Foxborough. He was only seventeen.
Suddenly Jamie didn’t feel hungry any more.
“See, Mike?” he said, as though everything was somehow Mike’s fault. “This guy’s only three years older than me and he’s already making his debut – and
scoring! I’m way behind. I’ve blown it!”
“What are you talking about, Jamie? You’ve got a Cup Final to come in less than a week. If you’re ever going to turn it on, that’s the game to do it in. If there were scouts there today, they’d be mad not to come back for the Final.”
Jamie licked the roof of his mouth. It was burnt. Mike did have a point, though. The Final – that could change everything.
“Maybe you’re right,” Jamie said, going to get a glass of water from the tap. “But even if they are there, what’s to say they’re going to be impressed by me? I mean, I couldn’t even beat a man with my step-over today. How can I be a professional winger if I can’t do a proper step-over?”
Jamie looked at Mike, who was pushing his hand back through his greying hair. Jamie wondered what he was thinking.
“Remember when we went on holiday and you met that mouse with the huge ears?” said Mike, pointing to the photo of Jamie and the mouse on the wall.
“Yeah, course I do,” said Jamie. “That was my first proper trip away.” Stopping to look at the photo, he couldn’t believe how big his front two teeth had been when he was younger. But they were OK now.
“That poor guy in the mouse suit. You kept going on about his big ears!” smiled Mike.
“I know I did,” said Jamie, barging his granddad’s shoulder as he sat back down on the sofa. “But I’m not being funny, Mike – that was ages ago. I’m not a kid any more, you know. I’m serious, I need help with my step-overs, not talk about a mouse with big ears!”
“But who said the two aren’t connected, eh, Jamie?” said Mike, a little mysteriously. He still had his eyes focused on the TV. Foxborough were playing some great football.
“What are you chatting about, Mike?”
“I’m saying that maybe that mouse and his ears can help you with your step-overs.”
Jamie was mystified.
