Skills from Brazil

by Dan Freedman

  Aaron Cody dropped his head. So too did the Talbot Twins, Jack Marshall, Rafael, Bernard, Mike and everyone else who wanted the kids to win. They all knew that, once the ball went out of play, Mr McManus only had to do a little time-wasting with the resulting goal-kick and it would all be over.

  The same result as always: the teachers beating the pupils…

  However, one of the kids was thinking of something else, somewhere entirely different. Seeing the ball loop past him, Jamie’s mind reverted to the beach … to playing Keepy Uppy with the rest of Mestre’s skills students by the water’s edge.

  What would he have done had he still been there? How would he have reacted to the ball threatening to get away from him?

  Jamie’s body answered the question before his mind. He raced after the flying ball, dashing across the hard playground cement just as if he were scampering across the boiling hot sand towards the soothing cool blue sea.

  Jamie knew that the only way he could keep the ball alive was to meet it … in the air…

  He launched himself towards the ball and, in mid-air, somehow managed to produce a perfect bicycle kick to not only keep the ball in play but also volley it hard and fast back across the goal.

  The ball scorched through the air, crashing smack into the back of Pratley’s head, rebounding directly towards the goal at unstoppable speed. Mr McManus was motionless as the ball bulleted past him. Pratley, with a little help from Jamie’s bicycle kick, had produced the perfect goalscoring header. The only problem for him was that it was an own goal.

  “Yessss!” roared Jamie, pumping his fist.

  “Noooo!” wailed Pratley.

  “Full time!” announced Mr Karenza.

  All Over?

  It may have been full time but that did not mean that this game was over. Not just yet.

  “OK,” said Mr Karenza, looking at his watch. “The match is drawn 3–3, but we need to have a winner in this game, so … now we’ll play next goal wins!”

  Mr Karenza blew his whistle to restart the game.

  Jamie stood bent over with his hands on his thighs, panting. He had given everything in this game; every ounce of energy that every cell in his body had to offer.

  He was also paying the price for the fact that they were playing on hard playground cement rather than soft beach sand. He looked down and saw the cuts, grazes and gashes that now made his left leg look like something from a horror movie.

  He had given his all. He had nothing left.

  And then the chant started.

  Softly at first, but getting louder and louder.

  “One Jamie Johnson,” the kids started to sing. “There’s only one Jamie Johhhhnsonn.”

  Jamie looked at all the kids in the school. He knew how desperately they wanted to win this game; how much they wanted to put one over on the teachers … how they yearned for this victory.

  Then Jamie looked at Mike. He was singing too. In fact, Jamie would have put money on the fact that it was Mike who had started the Jamie Johnson song in the first place.

  “One Jamie Johnson!“ his grandfather was bellowing.

  “There’s only one Jamie Johnsooooon!”

  First Jamie felt the buzz. Then his heart started to pump a little faster. He sensed the strength start to flood back into his body and felt the skills coming through, ready to shine.

  He was ready for one last push.

  Jamie immediately called for the ball and sprinted straight at Pratley. He felt so strong and confident … and cheeky.

  With futsal-like speed, he flicked the ball between Pratley’s legs for his second nutmeg of the game and was just about to run through for a shot on goal when Pratley pulled him back by his shirt.

  But Mr Karenza waved play on. He hadn’t seen it.

  The force was with Jamie now. He was motoring. He felt good but, on each occasion that he threatened to get away, Pratley simply did the same thing – he tugged Jamie back by the shirt.

  Finally, on the third occasion, Mr Karenza intervened.

  “That’s a booking for you I’m afraid, Mr Pratley,” he said almost apologetically.

  “About time!” snapped Jamie. “He keeps pulling my shirt – if he does it again you’ve got to send him off!”

  At this outburst, Pratley and Mr Karenza immediately turned their attention to Jamie, both frowning at him with an expression that suggested Jamie had overstepped the mark.

  “You’ve got a short memory, Jamie!” said Mr Karenza.

  He was referring to the foul that Jamie had committed for the penalty. And he had a point; Jamie was lucky to still be on the pitch himself.

  What was more, given the fact that Mr Karenza had already said that he didn’t want to send anyone off today, it was difficult to imagine that he would now send off one of his own teachers.

  But what did that mean? That Pratley had free rein to keep pulling Jamie’s shirt for the rest of the match? If that was the case, then Jamie was finished.

  Jamie looked across to Mike in despair. As always, Mike’s demeanour was calm and positive. He pointed to his head and told Jamie to think.

  And that was exactly what Jamie did. He searched his mind for an answer; for a solution that would allow him to get away from Pratley – even if it was just once. Quickly, he dug deep into the depths of his brain until he saw a small chink of light.

  Without saying a word to anyone, Jamie reached his arms over his shoulders and pulled off his top, chucking it to the ground by the side of the pitch.

  The people watching the game looked at Jamie. Some thought he had taken off his shirt as an act of disgust at Pratley’s constant fouling. Others believed it was because of the heat.

  They were wrong.

  Jamie had taken off his shirt because he wanted to expose the top he had on underneath.

  The item of clothing he now displayed to everyone was very old. It was dirty too. It had holes in it and it was so tight Jamie could barely breathe. And that was exactly the point … it was so tight that Pratley would never be able to tug his shirt in a million years, even if he tried – there just wasn’t enough material.

  Jamie looked down at his faded old Brazil shirt and thought back to the first time that he had seen it: when the kids playing in the slum had rushed towards him and when he had looked into the small, thin boy’s eyes for the first time.

  Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Rafael had also noted Jamie’s change of clothing and it had given him his own idea.

  It was in the middle of the game and the ball was in play but Rafael quickly called Jamie over to talk to him; to give him one final, vital message … in the form of two crucial words.

  He whispered those two words into Jamie’s ear, only for Jamie to turn and look at him as though he were beyond mad.

  “What are you doing?!” the kids shouted anxiously, aware that, with Jamie off the pitch, their team was down to four players and Vetterlein could score the golden goal at any moment. “Jamie! Get back on!”

  Jamie was still looking questioningly at Rafael and the two words he had said. Doubt was etched across his face.

  But the link between the two boys was now like that between a top coach and a star player. Rafael knew exactly what to say to Jamie and when.

  Rafael nodded to Jamie and mouthed six more words:

  Do it, Jamie. You are ready.

  This time Jamie nodded back.

  Ginga!

  Jamie flicked the ball into the air and drew all of his skill, rhythm and passion into one place. Then he tilted his head back and bounced the ball on his forehead.

  Next, continuing to bounce the ball on his head, Jamie did what he did best. He ran.

  Heading the ball in the air as he ran, Jamie skipped past one, two, three of the teachers, who were unable to even attempt a tackle on Jamie because the ball wasn’t on the grou
nd for them to contest.

  Jamie smiled. He was actually doing it. If only Mestre could see him now.

  “Wowwwww!” shouted the kids.

  “The boy’s a genius,” said Mike, shaking his head in disbelief at what his grandson was managing to achieve.

  The only person in the whole playground who was not shocked by what Jamie was doing was Rafael da Cruz. After all, it had been his suggestion.

  Jamie had followed Rafael’s instruction and he was proving his friend right with each step that he took. There was now only Pratley left to beat. Jamie ran on, confident that with the ball on his head and his Brazil top too tight to pull, Pratley had no possible way of stopping him.

  Jamie remembered how Pratley had doubted his ability earlier in the term and how much it had hurt him.

  Ginga! Jamie roared in his head as a danced past Pratley. That’s what I have that other players don’t: ging—

  Jamie suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain spear into the back of his left foot. Before he could turn to see what it was, he was tumbling helplessly, face first, into the ground.

  To gasps of shock and concern from the crowd, Jamie smacked his chin with dangerous force directly on to the cement and immediately sensed the warm trickle of blood ooze from the wound.

  Very quickly, he understood what had happened: Pratley hadn’t been able to tug his shirt, so, instead, he’d trodden on Jamie’s heel as he’d gone past.

  Jamie was now lying stricken on the ground, with a hole in his chin and no trainer on his left foot.

  It was over.

  Or at least it would have been for any other player.

  Jamie was back up in a millisecond, running, with one of his feet completely bare on the rough concrete ground. And yet he felt no pain whatsoever; the hardened outer layer of skin on the sole of his foot was protecting him completely.

  He latched back on to the loose ball and touched it once, softly, with his instep. Then, without a second’s extra thought, he let go of his strike.

  The ball flew off the outside of Jamie’s bare left foot, swerving and curling deliciously in the air before bending back in to crash home off the inside of the far post.

  Jamie went blank. Everything went silent.

  Then, with a rush of noise and with his teammates piling all over him, the world returned.

  Pupils win Wheatlands School Cup for the first time

  Championes, Championes, Olé, Olé, Olé!

  “Well, well, well,” said Mr Karenza.

  He was holding a microphone so all the kids, teachers and parents could hear what he was saying. He and the two teams were standing in the middle of the playground, with everyone else watching in a huge circle around them.

  “We started this game up eleven years ago because we thought that, as the Year 6s prepared to head to their next school, it would be a fun opportunity for them to show their abilities and to go up against the teachers. Well, we obviously had no idea what we were starting!”

  The parents all laughed at this comment.

  “Each year, the event has grown and the game has got more competitive and, as you know, this is the very first year that the pupils have won.”

  All the kids and the parents in the crowd cheered.

  “So we wish all of Year 6 the best of luck in your new schools and, remember, you can all take what has happened today as a lesson: just because something has never been done before, doesn’t mean that it’s impossible.

  “So our congratulations and the trophy go to the pupils and their captain, Jamie Johnson. If you’d like to come and lift the trophy, Jamie.”

  A huge roar went up around the playground as Jamie, a little embarrassed at all the attention, walked forward. He wiped his sweaty palms on his old Brazil top and shook hands with Mr Karenza.

  Then he placed his hands on the gleaming trophy. This was the first real trophy he had ever won. It was the trophy he had dreamed about lifting for months.

  But he knew he could not lift it alone.

  “Come on, guys,” he shouted to his teammates. “And you too, Rafa! Come and lift it with me!”

  It was only when they were all there, all with their hands on the trophy and with all the kids in the playground making the noise of a drumroll, that Jamie and his team finally lifted the prize high into the air.

  They were the champions. At last.

  The Gift

  “I still don’t know how we lost it!” Colin Pratley was saying, shaking his head.

  He was sitting down by one of the goals, talking to, or rather at, Gerald Duggins – the only person who was prepared to listen.

  The game had finished ten minutes before, and since then, the playground had been turned into party central! Jamie, Jack, Rafael, the Talbot Twins and Aaron Cody had all been lifted up into the air and given the bumps by the other kids.

  Then Rafael started playing samba music through his phone and he and Jamie showed everyone how to dance Brazilian style … even Mike had joined in. After all, that was his dream: to watch some Brazilian football skills and then dance the samba afterwards. Now he was even dancing with Ms Vetterlein!

  The only person who was not enjoying himself was Colin Pratley. Not only had he lost the big match but Mr Karenza had just announced that the teachers would have a new captain for next year. It was odds-on to be Ms Vetterlein.

  “Johnson should have been sent off when he brought me down for the penalty,” Pratley moaned, continuing his rant to Mr Duggins, who was nodding obediently.

  “He shouldn’t have even been on the pitch to score the winner … and what was that thing he was doing bouncing the ball on his head anyway? How are we even supposed to stop that?”

  “You can’t,” said Rafael da Cruz, breaking away from the celebrations. He was standing looking down at Pratley. “That’s the whole point.”

  For a second, Pratley was speechless – stunned by Rafael’s confidence. It was Rafael’s special tactics that had won the game for the pupils. He was now speaking with the confidence of a champion.

  “It’s called A Mágica,” Rafael continued.

  “A Mágica?” a bewildered Pratley repeated. “Where does it come from?”

  “You’ll have to ask Foguinho that,” smiled Rafael.

  “What are you talking about?” moaned Pratley. “Can you talk English please? And who on earth is Foguinho?!”

  “I am,” smiled Jamie, joining the conversation.

  As he looked at Colin Pratley, Jamie remembered something that Mike had told him not so long ago … something about what you should do when you win.

  “Well played, Mr Pratley,” said Jamie. “You’re a really good defender and it was a tough battle against you!”

  Mr Pratley turned and stared at Jamie. The man looked as though he had never been given a compliment in his life.

  “Yes … well,” said Mr Pratley. “Maybe there’s a little bit more to your game than kick and chase.”

  Jamie looked at Mr Pratley. Had he just heard right? Had Pratley just said something almost nice to him? Then suddenly something else clicked in Jamie’s head. When he had joined the conversation between Pratley and Rafael, he could have sworn that Rafael had been speaking without a stammer in public. Could it be?

  As if to answer the question, Rafael looked at Jamie and reached out his hand.

  “Here, Jamie,” he said in a clear, confident voice.

  Rafael was handing Jamie his notepad.

  “I can look at it?” Jamie asked.

  “No,” said Rafael, shaking his head. “You can keep it.”

  “No way,” said Jamie immediately. “There’s no way I can keep it.”

  Rafael nodded. It was a firm and warm nod.

  “It’s yours,” he said, placing the notepad into Jamie hand.

  Jamie gently accepted the notepad. He knew be
tter than anyone how much this little book meant to Rafael and how many hours he had spent pouring all of his football knowledge and ideas into it.

  With hands slightly trembling, Jamie opened it.

  On the first page was written:

  There were other people starting to gather around Jamie and Rafael now but it made no difference to Rafael’s speech; he still carried on talking freely.

  “You were right, Jamie,” he said. “It still hurts, but it does get better.”

  Rafael and Jamie smiled at each other.

  They were two football geniuses. Of a different kind.

  Play On

  Saturday 23 August – five weeks later…

  Bernard rested his hand lightly on Rafael’s shoulder. It was very nearly time for them to go. The plane was due to take off in half an hour.

  Jamie knew that he would miss Rafael so much. Everything that they had experienced over the last few months had bonded them together so closely.

  After the Teachers v Pupils game and the end of term, they had spent every day of the holidays together, back in their favourite old routine: going to the park with Jack and the others until it got dark and then home to Jamie’s to rule the world of football together on Soccer Manager. There wasn’t a team on earth that could stop them.

  Mike, who had brought Jamie to the airport to say goodbye, gave Bernard a firm handshake and Jamie saw that, once again, Bernard was smiling. Since Rafael had overcome his stutter after the match at school, Bernard looked as though the weight of a million years of worry had been lifted from his shoulders. Jamie recognized the smile too – it was just like the one in the photo in his house back in Brazil.

  “Last call for Flight 2410 to Rio de Janeiro,” boomed the airport announcer.