Shoot to Win

by Dan Freedman

  “But he’s my baby, I can’t help it.”

  Jamie banged his door shut and stomped down the stairs. He wanted them to know he’d heard them talking about him. “Tough love,” he repeated with contempt.

  “I’m going out in a minute,” said Jamie as he came into the kitchen, putting his bag down on the floor. His mum and Jeremy were sitting at the table waiting for him. They were on the same side and they had put a chair opposite them for Jamie to sit in.

  “Take a seat,” Jeremy said, pointing to the chair.

  “I’m all right,” said Jamie. He stayed standing up.

  “We’d like to know what all this is about.” Jamie’s mum said, handing him a letter. It was from the school, telling her that Jamie had been sent out of class for the second time this term.

  “It’s nothing,” said Jamie, handing the letter back. “Just Claunt overreacting again. She probably had her period or something – I dunno.”

  “Jamie!” his mum shouted. “Don’t talk like that. Overreacting to what?”

  Jamie sighed. Why did he have to go through all this rubbish? He answered as if he were a robot; with as little feeling as possible.

  “She asked me what job I was going to do when I was older and I told her the truth: that I’m going to be a professional footballer. Then she decided to send me out. That’s it. End of story. Can I go out now, please?”

  Jamie’s mum looked at Jeremy as though she was giving him some kind of signal that they had talked about.

  “How long is this going to go on for, Jamie,?” Jeremy asked. He was trying to put on his calm voice.

  “How long is what going to go on for?”

  “This stupid business about being a professional footballer. I’m sorry to have to say this, Jamie, but it’s for your own good: IT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN, And the sooner you realize that, the better.”

  “Who the hell are you anyway?” Jamie shouted, lashing out at the chair with a violent kick. His face had gone purple with rage. “You don’t know anything about football! And you don’t know anything about me. You’re not my dad and you never will be!”

  “You’ve got to get in the real world, Jamie. I’m only saying this because I care.”

  “Well, I don’t care about you!” Jamie raged, picking his bag up and slamming the front door shut behind him.

  “He’s probably just doing what he thinks is right,” said Jack as they walked to Sunningdale Park together.

  “Yeah, but why do they have to have a go at me the whole time?” said Jamie, still fuming. “Why can’t they just support me? I mean, I’ve got the biggest game of my life next week. This is the last thing I need.”

  “They probably think they are supporting you – just in their own way,” said Jack. “And don’t forget, they don’t play football with you like I do. Anyone that’s seen you play knows that you can make it.”

  Jamie smiled. How did Jack manage to make him feel so much better with just a few words?

  “Thanks,” Jamie said, almost shyly. “And, by the way, I’ve got a new trick up my sleeve to show you. . .”

  *

  “Marshall v Johnson,” said Jack. She put on her goalkeeper’s gloves and then smacked them together. “World Series. Loser buys milkshakes.”

  “Bring it on!” said Jamie, sprinting over to collect the ball.

  They were going to play “One v One”. Jack would start on her goal-line and Jamie would start on the halfway line with the ball. Once he kicked off, Jamie had ten seconds to get the ball into the net however he could, as long as it didn’t go out of play or Jack didn’t have two hands on it.

  The scoring was simple. If Jamie got a goal in those ten seconds, it was a point to him; if he didn’t, it was a point to Jack.

  They both loved the game because it had all the pace and excitement of a full match but they could play this game on their own. Just the two of them.

  By the time they got to the tenth point (it was 6 – 3 to Jamie), Jamie was already panting as if he’d just done the school cross-country. He’d been sprinting for the whole game; if he jogged, it just gave Jack the advantage.

  Jamie inhaled the warm summer air and put the ball down on the halfway line. He needed one more point to win the “World Series”. For a couple of seconds he focused his eyes on the goal and imagined himself scoring. Then he knocked the ball forward and hared off after it. One more touch and he was already level with Jack, who had come to the edge of the area to close down the angles.

  At that moment, Jamie’s body did something completely by itself. Jamie hadn’t even told it what to do.

  In a lightning flash, his right foot had circled the ball without touching it and his left foot had knocked it away from Jack. It was his step-over. He must have practised it so many times that his feet now knew how to do it automatically.

  Jamie hurdled over Jack’s outstretched arm. He was past her. She was a goner. Never coming back from that one.

  “Woah!” said Jack, sprawled on the ground. She had surprise painted across her face. “I thought I knew all your moves . . . what was that?”

  “Oh, that,” said Jamie, rolling the ball into the empty net. “That was my new step-over.”

  Jamie and Jack rolled their towels out along the raised slope on the side of the pitch and lay down.

  “Ah, that feels better,” said Jack, taking off her boots and socks.

  Jamie watched as she stretched out her long brown legs into the sun. She’d lost a bit of weight over the last few months, which had made her more confident. Jamie liked that.

  “Do you think I could be a foot model?” she asked, letting her leg rest across Jamie’s lap. “I mean, look at my feet, they’re still so pretty even though I play football the whole time. Go on, feel them,” she said, poking them towards Jamie’s face. “Go on – you know you want to!”

  “Get off!” said Jamie, tickling the soles of her feet.

  “Fine, have it your way,” said Jack, standing up.

  Now she was strutting down the touchline as if she were a model on the catwalk. When she got to the goalpost, she looked back at Jamie over her shoulder and pouted her lips at him.

  Jamie suddenly felt a burst of energy re-enter his body.

  “Nice moves,” he said, starting to juggle the ball while still sitting on the ground. “But how are your reflexes?”

  He leant on his hand and did a bicycle kick, volleying the ball towards Jack. She tried to save it but it hit her knee and bounced away.

  For a second they let it roll away, keeping their eyes firmly fixed on one another. They both knew what was going to happen next; it was just a question of who was going to make the first move.

  It was Jack.

  She sprinted away.

  “My ball!” she shouted.

  Jamie caught up with her, pulling her back by her waist. “It’s mine!” he said.

  Jack wriggled free and lunged forward to claw the ball into her clasp.

  “Got it!” she said triumphantly. “Keeper wins again!”

  “Not quite!” said Jamie, pulling her closer to him to grab the ball out of her hands.

  But even now he had the ball, he still didn’t want to let her go.

  Jamie didn’t know why he felt this compulsive urge to find out more about Mr Hansard; he certainly didn’t have it with any of his other teachers.

  There was just something about the way that Hansard had treated him, been so harsh on him right from the beginning, that didn’t seem to make sense.

  Jamie turned on the computer and checked his inbox.

  It was completely full of emails from Dillon. It was the same every weekend.

  As he scanned the inbox, Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. Dillon literally couldn’t spell.

  Jamie closed down his account. Then he opened a search engine. He typed in the letters
HANSARD. For a second, for some odd reason, he wondered if he was doing something wrong. What would Hansard do if he found out that Jamie had been snooping around, trying to find out stuff about him?

  Jamie cleared his mind; even Hansard couldn’t tell him what to do on his own computer. He pressed the search button.

  Hundreds of links came back, practically all to do with politics. Jamie was in the wrong area.

  He would have refined the search by entering Hansard’s first name but he didn’t know what it was. Mr Hansard’s first name was as big a secret as the code for the Queen’s safe.

  Instead, Jamie typed in “Hansard”, but this time he linked it with the word “teacher”. It was, he realized, the only thing that he actually knew about Mr Hansard – that he was a teacher.

  This time far fewer links came back and, as soon as he saw the top one, Jamie knew he was in.

  It was a newspaper story with the headline “Hansard Lifts the Lid on Cup Win”.

  Jamie clicked the link. It took him to an old article from the Advertiser from six years ago.

  Jamie read the story. . .

  “Huh!” said Jamie to himself. He was amazed. Not only had Mr Hansard won the Cup before, but he’d done it playing with wing backs!

  Why hadn’t he told Jamie and the rest of the team? Maybe Jamie would have shown him a bit more respect. One thing was for sure: if he asked Jamie to play wing back in their Cup Final, there would be no more arguments.

  Jamie chucked his sponge ball against the wall. He couldn’t wait for the Cup Final. Especially now he knew that Hansard had won it before.

  He looked at the picture of Hansard in the article. He’d hardly changed in the six years since it was taken. That was the good thing about going bald, Jamie realized – your hair didn’t go grey.

  Jamie was just about to close down the article when his eyes settled on the caption underneath the photo of Hansard. He had to read it twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The caption read:

  The first coach to lead Kingfield to an Interschool Cup win, Hilary Hansard.

  Jamie almost fell off his chair. He was laughing so much! Hilary Hansard! No wonder he never told anyone his first name. Hilary was a girl’s name!

  *

  Jamie couldn’t wait to call Ollie to tell him about Hilary Hansard. He knew he’d love it too.

  He was just on his way downstairs to get his phone when the doorbell went.

  “Hello,” Jamie heard Jeremy say, opening the door.

  “Hi,” said a voice that sent distant bells ringing in Jamie’s subconscious. “Is Jamie in?”

  “He’s upstairs,” said Jeremy. “Can I ask who you are?”

  “Of course you can. I’m Ian . . . his dad.”

  Jamie’s world had been turned upside down. He was so glad that it was the end of the day and he could walk home with Jack. He really needed someone to talk to.

  His mind had been whirring in circles all day. Hearing his dad’s voice last night had detonated an explosion in Jamie’s head. The fire was still burning.

  He’d listened from the stairs to the conversation between Jeremy and his mum when she’d got back from her shift at the hospital.

  “. . .No matter which way you look at it, Karen, the man has a right to see his son,” Jeremy had said.

  “He gave up that right the day he walked out on us – with no explanation!” his mum had whispered back angrily. “And what gives him the right to breeze back into Jamie’s life just because he feels like it? Jamie doesn’t need to know about this now . . . not yet, anyway.”

  They had no idea that Jamie already knew.

  Jamie had lain awake for hours last night. There was so much to think about. He was excited that his dad wanted to see him again, but he felt anxious too.

  Where had his dad been? Why had he come back now? And why had he left in the first place?

  When Jamie had finally fallen asleep, he’d had a dream – or nightmare – which was so vivid that he could still remember it when he woke up.

  In his dream, Jamie was a young boy again. He was five years old. He was walking down the old street that he used to live in and he was holding hands with his mum and dad. He was in the middle of them. He was smiling. He was happy. And so were they.

  But as they got to the end of the street, his dad started to turn to the left and his mum started to turn to the right. Neither of them stopped to see which direction the other was going; they both just kept walking and they both kept a hard grip on Jamie’s hand as they went.

  Jamie was in the middle. His arms were really hurting as both his mum and his dad pulled him in different directions. He was crying out to tell them he was in pain. But neither of them heard him. Or perhaps they just weren’t listening.

  “Woah! So he’s actually back,” said Jack, trying to take in everything Jamie had just told her. “Are you OK about it?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Jamie. “I mean, it’s what I wanted, isn’t it? I guess I’d just never thought about what it would actually be like if he did come back, though. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” said Jack, twisting her finger in her hair as she thought. “Why do you reckon he’s come back?”

  But Jamie didn’t answer the question. He couldn’t. All he was able to concentrate on was the man walking down the street towards him.

  “Hello, Jamie,” said the man as he came closer. He had dark, reddish-brown hair and his face was covered in a huge smile. “Long time no see.”

  Jamie couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t seen his dad for nine years and now, here they were, having dinner together.

  His dad had asked him if he wanted to “grab a quick bite and have a chat”. At first Jamie hadn’t been sure, but then he’d thought to himself: what if he disappears again? I have to take this chance.

  Now they were in the cafe together and Jamie was staring at his dad, who was eating his sandwich. Part of Jamie wished he could just come out with it and ask his dad what he’d been doing for the last nine years and why he’d left in the first place, but he didn’t want to ruin things – his dad was in a really good mood and Jamie was so excited to see him. He wanted to reach across the table and pinch him just to check that he was really there.

  “So, I see your mum’s got a new man,” his dad said as he took a bite of his sandwich. “How’s everything at home?”

  “OK, I guess,” said Jamie. It seemed so strange and yet so normal to be talking to his dad about stuff like this. “I s’pose the only problem is that I love football and I want to be a professional – but Mum and Jeremy just don’t . . . get it.”

  “Tell me about it,” said his dad, squeezing some tomato ketchup on to his plate. “When I was your age, I was in a band with my mates. We were pretty good, could’ve done something maybe, but all my dad said was: ‘Give it up, get a proper job.’”

  “That’s exactly what’s happening to me!” said Jamie. It was so good to talk to someone who actually understood what he was going through. He wondered what else he and his dad had in common.

  “By the way,” said Jamie. “I’m playing in a massive game on Thursday. It’s the Interschool Cup Final . . . you should come and watch!”

  Jamie wondered whether he’d said too much. He’d only just met his dad again. Was it too early to ask him to come along to a game?

  “Oh, I know,” his dad said. “I read all about the Cup Final in the newspaper . . . I want to know more about your football; what position do you play?”

  “Left wing,” said Jamie brightly. “I’m the quickest runner in the whole school.”

  “Really?” Jamie’s dad’s eyes were sparkling with interest. “A left-winger . . . with natural pace,” he repeated.

  “Yeah,” said Jamie, happy that his dad seemed to care. He was so different to Jeremy. “Scouts came to watch our last game, but th
e coach—”

  “And you’re absolutely serious about wanting to be a professional?” his dad said, interrupting Jamie. “You know it’s not just about talent; it’s about dedication too. You have to really want it.”

  “All I know is that I want it more than anything else in the world.”

  “Well then,” his dad smiled. “Maybe I can help you.”

  Jamie practically bounced out of the cafe. He was so happy.

  His dad had said that he knew lots of people in football – people who made things happen in the game – and that he’d see what he could do; see if he could help Jamie to get a deal with a club.

  Jamie couldn’t believe it. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

  “Thank you so much,” he’d said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He couldn’t wait to tell everyone – especially Dillon!

  “Don’t thank me yet – nothing’s actually happened,” his dad had said. “Look, you concentrate on your football, leave the rest to me. We’ll talk after the Cup Final.”

  Jamie surfed home on a wave of joy. A huge current of hope coursed through his veins.

  Not only had his dad finally come back into his life but he was also going to help make Jamie’s dream of becoming a professional footballer into a reality.

  At last, Jamie thought to himself, everything seemed to be falling into place.

  And just in time, too – in three days, he would be playing in the biggest match of his life.

  Jamie sprinted out on to the pitch and leapt high into the air.

  He had that warm feeling of confidence inside him; he knew he was going to play well.

  As he passed the ball with Ollie to warm up, his touch felt secure. Jamie’s foot and the ball – they were made to be together.

  It had been the same all his life: no matter what was happening, what kind of worries he had, they all seemed to dissolve away the minute he stepped on to a football pitch. When Jamie had the ball at his feet, he was free.