Shoot to Win

by Dan Freedman

  “Look,” said Mike, turning down the volume on the TV. “Bring that pad over here.” He was pointing to the square stack of sticky notepaper he kept by the phone.

  Jamie went and brought it over. It had lots of doodlings and telephone numbers on it. Mike had even been practising his signature on it!

  “Right,” said Mike. “Take a fresh piece and draw me a picture of the mouse’s head with his nice big ears.”

  “Fine,” said Jamie.

  He didn’t have to think too hard. All he had to do was look at the photo on the wall. He did a quick sketch and handed it over to Mike.

  “Not bad,” said Mike, laying the drawing on the table between them. “But maybe you’re right. It was ages ago that we met him. Maybe he needs you to bring him up to date a bit. How about you give him a new crew cut? And, in return, he can help you with your step-overs.”

  “He can what?” Mike’s advice was normally spot-on, but Jamie wondered if he’d actually lost it this time. How could giving an imaginary haircut to a drawing of a mouse help Jamie with his step-overs?

  “It’s simple, JJ. If you step on his ear, shave his head and then knock him away, you’ll be able to do your step-over.”

  “Mike, what are you—”

  “Trust me, Jamie. Just say it. You’re going to step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away.”

  “Fine, I’ll step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away. Happy now?”

  “Again,” said Mike.

  “I’ll step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away. And then I’ll be able to do a step-over.”

  “Good,” said Mike, taking the pen from Jamie’s hand. “So what we’re saying is, you’re going to:

  “Step on his ear with your left foot.

  “Then shave his head with your right foot.

  “And then knock him away with your left foot.”

  “Get it?” said Mike, getting up from his seat.

  “Sort of.”

  “Remember, it’s simple: step on his ear—”

  “I know, shave his head and knock him away.”

  “That’s it,” said Mike, moving cushions and chairs out of the way to make some room. He got a ball from the cupboard under the stairs and put it down on the carpet.

  “Are you ready to have a go?”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do, Jamie,” said Mike, smiling. It was as though he knew something Jamie didn’t. “Your feet know exactly what to do.”

  Jamie stood over the football and stared at it. He still couldn’t see the connection between the ball and what they had just been talking about.

  Then Mike did the funniest thing; he got a black felt-tip pen and drew two big eyes on the ball.

  All of a sudden, Jamie could see it. The ball was the mouse’s head!

  Without thinking, Jamie put his left foot over the ball, where the ear would be, swished his right foot around the ball as close as he could to shave the head and then brought his left foot back to knock the ball away.

  Step on his ear.

  Shave his head.

  Knock him away. As he did it, he just knew; it was the perfect step-over.

  “That’s it!” said Mike. “And explode away when you go!”

  “I can do this!” said Jamie, dragging the ball back into position to do another one.

  “Of course you can,” said Mike. “Now keep doing it; practise it until it becomes natural to your whole body.”

  Jamie did one after another, each time repeating under his breath: “Step, shave and knock … step, shave and knock.”

  After a while, his feet seemed to work by themselves. They knew how to do a real step-over.

  “Looking good,” said Mike, going to make himself a cup of tea. “Reckon you’ll use it in the Cup Final?”

  “Might just do that!” said Jamie, proudly. Then he swapped over to work the trick on his other foot.

  Before Assembly, there was a big crowd of people standing around Dillon. It was as if he’d already made his debut for Hawkstone.

  Jamie sat down and tried to read the sports pages of his paper. He wanted to work out how many points Hawkstone were behind Foxborough in the league table. It was impossible, though. All Jamie could hear was Dillon’s voice.

  “Yeah, I’ll have an agent soon,” he was saying. “They’ll sort out the contract and everything – I’ll just turn up and play.”

  “Wow, that’s so cool!” said a group of girls who had joined the crowd. They were pushing one another to get closer to Dillon. “How much money are you going to earn?”

  “A lot. And the best bit about it is that it’s the stupid fans like him who’ll be paying my wages!”

  Jamie didn’t have to look up to know that Dillon was pointing at him. He could feel his forehead burning as he sensed everyone’s eyes on him.

  “Poor old Johnson,” Dillon continued. “Sooner or later he’s got to accept the fact that he just ain’t gonna be a player. That’s it, mate – you read about the professionals. You’re never gonna be one.”

  Jamie ignored him and turned the page of the newspaper. It was best not to get involved; whenever he and Dillon had a fight, it was always Jamie who ended up coming off worse.

  “You’ll go to watch Hawkstone with your granddaddy and you’ll be cheering me on when I score a goal. You’ll probably even tell people you know me!”

  The group around Dillon were starting to laugh. Even the girls. Jamie tried to force a smile to make it look as though he didn’t care what Dillon said. He knew one thing, though: he would never cheer anything that Dillon did. Ever.

  “I mean the only person that actually likes him is Jack – and she’s way too fit to be going out with a minger like him! I might have her myself, actually. Footballers can get any girl they want. And she needs a real man, not a—”

  That was too much.

  “Yeah?” said Jamie, putting his paper down and snarling fiercely at Dillon. “And why would any girl be interested in someone with big, fat spots all over their face?”

  “Oooooh!” the group around Dillon said in unison. They cleared a space between Jamie and Dillon. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they started chanting.

  “No girl would come anywhere near you,” Jamie carried on, getting up from his chair now. “I’ve seen you pick your nose and eat it! And your breath stinks!”

  “That’s cos I’ve been kissing your mum,” Dillon laughed. “And she’s—”

  Without even realizing it, Jamie had launched himself at Dillon. His head was swarming with anger.

  “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Dillon taunted.

  But as Jamie rushed towards Dillon, he felt his legs tangle beneath him and he fell over.

  Dillon had tripped him up and now, as Jamie lay prone on the floor, all he could see above him was Dillon’s ugly face snorting with laughter.

  “When will you learn?” he sneered. “You’re a skinny little runt and you shouldn’t mess with people that are stronger than you.”

  Dillon’s words stabbed Jamie’s brain. Anger and embarrassment spread through him; everyone had seen what had happened.

  Then Dillon turned to the group that had been watching the whole time. He pointed at Jamie and said: “No wonder he’ll never be a footballer! He can’t even stand up!”

  “Believe it or not, some of you are going to have to think about your careers soon,” said Miss Claunt, writing JOBS & QUALIFICATIONS in big letters on the whiteboard.

  Jamie was drawing the moves to his step-over on the back of his exercise book. He’d promised himself that he would visualize the skill every day between now and the Cup Final. He wrote the words “step, shave and knock” as neatly as he could above his sketches.

  Ollie Walsh, who sat in front of Jamie, must have sensed that he was thin
king about football. While Miss Claunt was talking, Ollie turned his back to her and said to Jamie: “We gotta get the paper today – see if our picture’s in there!”

  “Ollie,” Miss Claunt said calmly. “Can you turn around, please?”

  Ollie raised his eyebrows to Jamie and just completely ignored her. He seemed to have this spell over her that allowed him to do whatever he wanted.

  “Can you imagine what it’s gonna be like playing at Phoenix Park!” Ollie continued, as if they were having a chat on a football pitch, not in the middle of the lesson. “It gonna be—”

  “Ollie!” said Miss Claunt, now raising her voice. “I asked you to TURN AROUND!”

  Then Ollie did something that was either very clever or very naughty. Probably both.

  He stood up, looked at Miss Claunt straight in the eye, turned around in an entire circle and sat back down again, still keeping his back to her, facing Jamie.

  Jamie was laughing and so was the rest of the class.

  “What?” said Ollie, the picture of innocence. “She asked me to turn around! That’s what I did.”

  “OK – very clever, Ollie. Can you turn this way, please,” said Miss Claunt. Jamie could see that she was almost smiling. He was surprised that she wasn’t more angry. Then again, this was Ollie. She never got angry with Ollie.

  “Thank you, Ollie,” she said, pulling her fringe to the side of her reddening forehead as Ollie finally turned to face her. “So sorry to interrupt your conversation.”

  “No problem, miss.”

  “Now, since you’re in such a talkative mood today, Ollie, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to share with us the career that you would like to have when you’re older?”

  “Sure, miss. I’m going to be a federal agent.”

  “And do you even know what that means?”

  “Yeah, it means you get to wear a badge, be on TV and pull loads of girls. That’s my kinda job!”

  Everyone started laughing but Miss Claunt carried on, still trying to make her point.

  “I’m sure you would make an excellent federal agent, Ollie – you’ve certainly got the self-confidence – but you know you’d need top marks in all your exams to be accepted into the intelligence services. . .”

  Jamie drew a football on his book. Then he started to sketch in the mouse’s eyes and ears.

  “. . .about you, Jamie?”

  Jamie looked up blankly. He hadn’t been listening.

  “I asked you what career you’re interested in, Jamie.”

  Jamie should have just said doctor or dentist but, before he’d allowed himself a second to think about it, he’d already blurted it out: “Footballer, miss. I’m going to be a footballer.”

  The class started laughing again and Claunt marched over to Jamie.

  “Show me your exercise book,” she demanded.

  “Why, miss? I—”

  “Let me see it!”

  Jamie handed it over.

  “Not that side! The other side! The one you’ve been scribbling over all lesson. . . And what’s this?” she shouted, holding the book up so the whole class could see Jamie’s step-over sketches.

  “It’s a . . . football skill, miss . . . I just had it in my head . . . I was still listen—”

  “Right – that’s it!” said Claunt. “I’m not having people sitting here drawing cartoons in my lesson. I’ve had enough. Get out!”

  “Ah, sorry, miss,” said Jamie. “But it’s the truth! I am going to be a footballer!”

  Again the class started laughing, which only made Claunt angrier. Now there was no way she was going to accept his apology.

  “I don’t care what you think you’re going to be!” she screamed. “You can tell the head teacher when you explain to him why you’ve been sent out! Now get out!”

  Ian Reacher was in an empty cafe. He had just got back into town. He had been away for a long time, but now there was a reason to come back. He put down his coffee and stared hard at his newspaper. He couldn’t take his eyes off that boy’s face in the team photo at the end of the line; the one that was so familiar to him.

  He read the story again:

  He looked at the boy’s fair, reddish hair. His face was older now than the last time he had seen it. The boy was beginning to turn into a man.

  But when he stared into the boy’s eyes, he recognized the same brooding ambition that had always been there.

  Yes, he was sure he was looking at his son’s eyes.

  They were Jamie Johnson’s eyes.

  It was 4.30 by the time Jamie eventually got out of school. Mr Patten, the head teacher, had given Jamie the worst punishment for being sent out; he’d had to clean the floor of the boys’ toilets.

  It was disgusting: none of the boys lifted up the toilet lid when they did a wee. They seemed to spray all over the floor. It was sticky and smelly with yellow stains everywhere.

  What had made it even worse was that Hansard had walked past just as Jamie was scrubbing the floor. “You’ve missed a bit, Johnson,” he said, almost gleefully.

  Jamie felt like chucking the stinking cleaning rag right at Hansard’s face but, for the sake of his Cup Final place, he didn’t.

  When Jamie had told Jack about his punishment and that he’d be late out of school, she’d laughed. “Don’t worry,” she’d said. “I’ll wait for you – as long as you promise not to touch me until you’ve had a shower!”

  Now as he walked to meet Jack at the top gate, Jamie’s mind turned to the weekend. He was looking forward to relaxing outside with her. It was going to be hot – they could go to the park and have a kickaround . . . or whatever.

  But as Jamie got closer to their meeting point, he was met by a sight that made him feel physically sick. Jack was there as she’d said she would be – that wasn’t the problem. The problem was she that wasn’t alone – Dillon Simmonds was with her.

  He was leaning with his hands on the wall above Jack’s head. He was standing so close to her that Jamie couldn’t see her face.

  Jamie’s insides were twisting around themselves. Dillon had found Jamie’s weakness: Jack.

  “Come on, no one’s looking,” Dillon was saying as he grabbed Jack’s left hand.

  Jamie’s stomach lurched further into a sea of sick.

  “I know you want to,” Dillon said. He was whispering his poison into her ear. “You can say you got off with a professional footballer.”

  Jamie didn’t have to watch any more of this. He couldn’t. If they wanted each other, they could have each other. Jamie would get his revenge on Dillon one day and when he dumped Jack she’d regret it all right.

  He turned around and crossed the road to walk on the other side. He didn’t want either of them to see him.

  But why was he the one that felt embarrassed?

  As he walked home, Jamie thought back over everything that he and Jack had shared since that first day they had played together when she moved into his road.

  Maybe he would never have a friend like her again in his whole life.

  A small tear pricked the corner of his eye but he wiped it away angrily. If she was prepared to throw it all away for some stupid bully, he’d obviously never really known her in the first place. Maybe Jamie was the real idiot.

  “Hey! What happened to you?” said Jack, sprinting up behind him. “I waited for you for ages!”

  Jamie ignored her and upped his pace. He was trying to think of something to say that would hurt her as much as she’d hurt him.

  “Oi, grumpy!” she said. “How were the toilets?” She was laughing now.

  Jamie blanked her again. He was nearly home now.

  “Jamie!” she said, sounding worried. “What’s happened?”

  “Have a nice time with Dillon, did you?” Jamie’s voice faltered as he said Dillon’s name. It went higher,
and he sounded like he used to before his voice had broken.

  “What?” said Jack, tucking one of her dreadlocks behind her ear.

  “You heard me. If you wanted to get off with him, you should have just said. It’s fine. . . Just don’t expect me to. . .”

  “Ah, you’re jealous! That’s so cute.”

  “I’m not jealous and I’m not cute. You can’t get out of it by—”

  “Jamie! Will you shut up for a second! Look, he came up after school and started chatting his usual load of rubbish. That was it. I wanted to push him away but I didn’t want my hands to go anywhere near him so I let him say his piece and then go on to the next girl. I’m not interested in him, all right?”

  Jamie just shrugged his shoulders. He hoped she was telling the truth.

  “Why would I want him when I’ve got someone a hundred times better?” she said, softly straightening out the collar of Jamie’s dirty white shirt.

  Jamie was desperate not to smile. He didn’t want Jack to know how relieved he was.

  “Fine . . . I just thought. . .”

  “Well, you thought wrong, Jamie Johnson! Now, are we cool?”

  “Yeah, Jack Marshall. . . Yeah, we’re cool.”

  “Jamie!” his mum screeched up the stairs again.

  “I said, in a minute!”

  The more she shouted, the harder it was for him to concentrate. He was looking at his step-over drawings. “Step, shave and knock,” he said to himself as his feet flashed around an imaginary ball. He’d stuck them to his bedroom wall so they would be the last thing he saw at night and the first thing he saw in the morning. He packed his boots and a towel into his bag and opened his bedroom door.

  “This is what happens if you’re too soft on him,” he could hear Jeremy saying. “It’s time for you to try tough love.”