by Dan Freedman
In an instant, Jamie spun and exploded away in the other direction, back towards the Breswell goal.
“Yes!” he screamed as soon as he made his run in behind.
Steve Robinson had played with Jamie long enough to know what he wanted. He curled the ball down the line, bending it around the Breswell right back. It fell perfectly into Jamie’s path.
Jamie collected the ball. He was away. He purred down the line like a brand new Ferrari. He overtook all the defenders in his path.
He put on the brakes just before he reached the byline and dinked over a perfect cross to the far post, where Ash was waiting to receive it. Ash bent back his right foot and unleashed a low, hard volley across the goalkeeper. It was past him. Jamie raised his hands to start celebrating.
And then he put them on his head. The ball had hit the inside of the post and rebounded straight back into the keeper’s grateful hands.
Ash kicked the post in frustration. What did the frame of the goal have against Kingfield? What with Dillon’s header in the first half too, this was the second time the woodwork had stopped them from scoring.
Jamie wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He had an awful feeling that maybe this wasn’t Kingfield’s day.
Jamie still felt dangerous; still felt as though he could change this game. But he was also aware of the clock’s race to the final whistle.
There were now just four minutes left. Jamie wished Hansard had given him more time. What could he do in twenty minutes?
Jamie was stood on the left wing wishing the Breswell goalkeeper would hurry up and kick the ball. He had the ball in his hands and was waving his teammates upfield. Jamie watched as he bounced the ball once, then twice.
Jamie’s mind drifted back to the conversation he and Mike had had about the Breswell keeper earlier. Mike’s words rang in his head: “He never kicks the ball out; always throws it. . .”
It was at exactly that moment that, without warning, Jamie suddenly sprinted forward at top speed towards the Breswell goal. The keeper saw Jamie coming and tried to stop himself throwing the ball out, but it was too late; he’d already released it to the edge of the area.
“Man on! Man on!” the Breswell keeper shouted, desperately trying to warn his defender. The Breswell full-back looked around but all he saw was Jamie whizzing past him.
Jamie seared away from him, stealing possession of the ball. The keeper froze in his spot, as if he were a scared animal in front of a car. Then he quickly back-pedalled towards his line.
Jamie sensed his weakness, driving forward into the box.
He was aware of the shouts and screams from the crowd as he dribbled the ball towards the keeper but, deep down, from the very pit of his stomach, Jamie sensed a calmness spreading throughout his body. He felt the cool confidence of an expert doing what he did best.
As the goalkeeper tried to narrow the angle, Jamie was more peaceful than he had been all day. He was exactly where he wanted to be – in the middle of the action.
Jamie looked at the ball. For a moment, all he could see was a big mouse’s face winking back at him. Then Jamie allowed his instincts take over. He let his feet do what had become natural to them and, as they spun around the ball in a mesmerizing whir of skill, he saw his step-over do its job.
The speed of Jamie’s spellbinding movements had paralysed the Breswell keeper. He was no more than a statue as Jamie knocked the ball past him.
Now Jamie only had one more thing to do.
He smashed the ball into the back of the net!
As soon as he saw the ball go in, a thousand volts of electricity tore through Jamie’s brain.
It sizzled. It soared with excitement. And release. All of his frustration at having been left out of the starting line-up burned away in his flames of ecstasy.
“Yes!” he shouted as he jumped into the air, punching his fist towards the sky. “Get in!!!”
His face was bright red. His blood was crackling hot with bliss.
Jamie could see Ollie and Ash closing in on him, wanting to celebrate the goal, but he turned and sped away from them. They couldn’t catch him. No one could catch Jamie when he ran his fastest.
Jamie sprinted down the touchline. He was a tornado of released emotion.
When he got to the Kingfield dug-out, Jamie stared straight at Hansard with shimmering eyes of intensity.
He wanted Hilary Hansard to have a good look at the player who had just saved Kingfield from defeat. He wanted to him to know how wrong he’d been to keep him on the bench.
Then Jamie grabbed his shirt and kissed it as hard as he could.
“And, the scorer of the equalizing goal for Kingfield, after eighty-seven minutes,” said the announcer. “Number 13, Jamieee Johnson.”
“You’re damn right it is,” said Jamie.
As the players from both sides collapsed on to the ground, Jamie looked around.
He still felt strong. He’d only been on the pitch for twenty minutes. He had more energy left than any other player.
He didn’t even need a break before the start of extra-time; he wanted to get going right now.
Jamie squeezed his lips together and ground his teeth. A snarling, warrior-like determination was racing through his veins.
The football pitch was his territory. Now he was playing, no one could get in his way.
“Get your breath back,” said Hansard, who was walking in a circle around his exhausted players. “Get some air back into your lungs.”
A few of the Kingfield boys had cramp. They had run enough to win two matches and yet had only managed to draw one. They had given everything they’d got, just as Hansard had asked.
Dillon was examining his thumb, which was swollen and purple with bruising.
“Look at them,” said Hansard, pointing to the Breswell team, who were in a huddle around their coach. “They’re scared!”
Jamie poured some water into his dry mouth. He could feel the icy liquid snaking its way down his throat and into his belly.
If the Breswell players were scared, it was probably him they were scared of. It had been obvious that Jamie was way quicker than any of them. After he’d scored, one of them had shouted, “Where’s he come from?!” and he’d heard them decide to put two men on him.
They could put as many men as they wanted on him. It didn’t mean they would be able to stop him.
“. . .so now we can go back to 5 – 3 – 2,” Jamie heard Hansard say. “Hit them on the counter-attack.”
Jamie spat the water out of his mouth. What? Hansard was reversing to 5 – 3 – 2? But 4 – 4 – 2 was what had just got them back into the game! Why was he changing it now?
“Keep it tight and give nothing away,” concluded Hansard. “And if it goes to penalties, so be it. We’ll win.”
Jamie had his hands on his hips as he waited for the ref to start extra time. He’d had twenty minutes playing as a winger. And in that time he’d scored a goal and hauled Kingfield back into the game.
So what did Hansard do? Go back to 5 – 3 – 2 and make Jamie play as wing back.
He’d obviously never heard of the phrase “attack is the best form of defence”.
Hansard’s plan was working in one way: with Kingfield playing more defensively, Breswell were finding it difficult to create chances.
In fact, with only a couple of minutes of the game left and neither side having come anywhere close to scoring in extra time, Jamie realized that perhaps this was precisely Hansard’s plan . . . Hansard wanted it to go to penalties. That would be perfect for him – winning the Interschool Cup for Kingfield in exactly the same way that he had done the last time. It would prove his tactics still worked.
As he saw Dillon pile in with a hefty challenge on the smallest Breswell striker, Jamie’s mind turned towards the penalties. Would Hansard ask for volunteers or w
ould he just tell the players who were taking them?
“That’s it!” Dillon’s dad shouted from the touchline, clapping his son’s challenge, which had resulted in a corner to Breswell. “Break his legs next time!”
The little Breswell striker sprang up from the ground. He was visibly angry, not just with the tackle but also at what Dillon’s dad had said. He started to march over to have an argument with Dillon’s dad, who was clearly enjoying the fact that he’d upset an important player from the opposition.
“Hey, Max!” the Breswell coach shouted to his fuming striker. “Forget it! You know how to give your answers.”
The striker nodded gravely and turned to make his way into the box for the corner.
Jamie took up his position on the far post. He wondered which end they would take the penalties at.
“Everybody mark up!” Dillon shouted. He took the little Breswell striker that he’d just tackled.
Although Breswell had more skill, Kingfield had won practically every header the whole game. Now they just had to win one more and everything would go down to penalties.
It was probably because Kingfield had such a height advantage that the Breswell corner taker decided to fire in the corner low. He only hit it at about waist height.
As it fizzed towards the near post, there didn’t seem to be any danger . . . until the Breswell striker that Dillon was marking made an electric burst to get to the front post.
Once he’d got there, he leapt into the air, spinning his body around in mid-flight. He looked as if he was doing a karate move, twisting his body to unleash a powerful kick. His strike diverted the ball backwards, towards the Kingfield goal.
Most of the Kingfield players were still taking in the technique that had been required for the little striker to karate kick the ball in mid-air when they suddenly realized that his shot was actually right on target.
“No!” pleaded Dillon.
“Clear it!” roared Hansard.
But it was too late. It was already in.
The Breswell players were in a bundled mass of celebration by the corner flag. One after another of their players piled on top.
“Max!” they were shouting. “You’ve scored the winner!”
Dillon slammed the ball back into Kingfield’s net.
“Whose man was he?” he shouted. Everyone knew he was Dillon’s man.
“Take the centre quickly!” Hansard yelled, pointing to his stopwatch. “Back to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack! Attack!”
Hearing Hansard say they should start attacking now – with one minute left – made Jamie’s mouth let out a sound.
He wasn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a cry.
There was barely time for Kingfield to kick off and punt the ball up towards Ashish Khan before the ref blew his final whistle.
It was over. The dream had ended.
All around the pitch, the Kingfield players dropped to the ground.
Ollie had his arms around his legs and was rocking slowly backwards and forwards as if he were in a trance.
Ash was lying flat on his back with his hand covering his eyes.
Jamie sat on the grass and put his head in his hands. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This wasn’t the story he’d written in his head. He was supposed to come on and change the game and lead Kingfield to win the Cup. Maybe even score the winning penalty in the shoot-out. He was supposed to be the hero. Not a loser.
“That was your fault!” Dillon’s dad shouted at his son, storming on to the pitch. “He was your man!”
He cuffed the back of Dillon’s head.
“Go and get changed, you idiot!”
Jamie shook his head. He wondered if sometimes it was better to have no dad at all than a dad like that.
“You did well, Jamie,” said Mike. “I’m very proud of you.”
Jamie smiled. He knew that, whatever happened, Mike would always be on his side.
“But we lost,” said Jamie, looking on in envy as the Breswell players made their way up the podium to lift the Cup. “Isn’t that the only thing that counts?”
“Eh, you won just by getting on that pitch today,” Mike smiled.
Jamie looked over to see Hilary Hansard sloping away towards the dressing rooms. He seemed older now, smaller somehow than he had before the game.
“So where does this leave you and Hansard?” asked Jamie.
“Oh, that’s over,” said Mike, putting his arm around his grandson. “It was over the minute you came on and scored your goal.”
“Hard luck!” said Jamie’s mum, ruffling his hair, as she had always done since he was a little kid. “We thought you did some great kicks.”
“Thanks,” said Jamie, moving his head away from her hand. He wished she wouldn’t try to talk about football.
“So, did you get our note that Jeremy and I wanted to talk to you about something important?” she asked brightly.
Jamie wasn’t in the mood for talking. He’d just lost a Cup Final.
“Mum – I already know!” he said bluntly. He’d known about his dad coming back before she had.
“You know? But how?” she said, a little confused. “We only decided last night.”
“Decided what?”
“We’re getting married, Jamie! That’s what we wanted to tell you!”
As his mum and Jeremy walked hand in hand back to the car where they said they would wait for him, Jamie’s eyes scanned the pitch. It was big news that they were getting married, but he couldn’t think about it now. Not with the remnants of the Cup Final still freshly scattered in front of him.
The Breswell players were draped in one of the big banners their supporters had brought. They were jumping up and down with the Cup, singing: “Championés! Championés! Oh way oh way oh way!”
In front of them, the photographer was snapping away.
“That’s it, lads,” he was saying. “Cheeky smiles. There’s going to be a big splash for you boys tomorrow!”
Jamie couldn’t help but think it should be the Kingfield boys up there on the podium. He could almost see him and Ollie lifting up the Cup and then running around the pitch with it. Kingfield had come all this way. And now they were going away with nothing.
Instead of celebrating, Jamie’s teammates were silent; some of them were even crying.
It occurred to Jamie that maybe this was the way his professional dream was supposed to end. He’d had his bit of personal glory coming off the bench to score but, ultimately, his team hadn’t been good enough to win the Cup Final.
Maybe this was the footballing gods giving him a little nudge. He was fourteen. If it hadn’t happened for him by now – and it hadn’t happened for him today – it was never going to happen.
Jamie should enjoy his football as a hobby but give up the idea of trying to go professional.
Perhaps that was the real reason that he’d got so annoyed with Jeremy lately. Perhaps somewhere, deep down, he had understood that Jeremy was right. Jamie hadn’t been angry with Jeremy. He’d been angry with the truth. . .
The truth that Jamie should start thinking about life in the “real” world.
The truth that the time had come for Jamie Johnson to accept that he would never be a profess. . .
“Well played, Jamie.”
He felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
“Dad!” Jamie said. The word slipped out before he could stop it. “I didn’t think you were here . . . sorry I lost . . . I—”
“Don’t sweat it, Jamie – you were brilliant. We both thought so.” His dad gestured to the man standing next to him. “This is my friend Steve Brooker.”
“Hello, Jamie,” said the man shaking Jamie’s hand. He had the firmest handshake Jamie had ever felt.
For a second the three of them stood there in silence until Jamie’s dad ad
ded: “Steve’s Academy Director at Foxborough, by the way.”
He said the words so casually, as if he were mentioning that it was forecast to rain tonight.
“What?!” said Jamie. “Foxborough as in Foxborough the biggest club in the country?!”
“Yes,” said Steve, laughing. “Well, we like to think so, anyway.”
“Oh my God!” said Jamie. His eyes were practically popping out. He couldn’t stop staring at Steve. Now he noticed the little Foxborough club badge on his coat. “I can’t believe you’re actually here!”
“Well, when your dad told me that there was a gifted left-winger playing today, I had to come down and take a look,” said Steve. “We’re all looking for left-wingers at the moment.”
“I’m a left-winger!” Jamie exclaimed.
“I know,” smiled Steve. “You’re the one I came to see.”
Jamie felt the golden sunlight warm his skin as he listened to Steve Brooker talk.
He wanted to take in every word, hear every syllable that came out of his mouth. Steve Brooker was the most important man that Jamie had ever met.
“I have to admit,” Steve was saying. “I was a bit surprised that you started on the bench, but then I suppose it was the way that you were able to turn the game on its head in such a short space of time that really caught my eye.”
“As a coach, sometimes you only need to see one piece of magic, one passage of play to convince you that there is something you can work with in a player. When you did that step-over today, Jamie, I knew I’d seen something special. Something very special.”
Jamie swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. He could feel his head starting to judder with excitement.
“Thanks,” he just about managed to splutter.
“Jamie,” Steve continued, “I think you might have something. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’d like to find out. I’d like you to come and play for Foxborough.”
