Man of the Match

by Dan Freedman

  Every minute had seemed like a week, with sickness pumping through Jamie’s body like poison as he tried to work out what he should do, who he should tell. . .

  Now he was watching Bertorelli juggling the ball in the centre of the training pitch. Bertorelli was chewing gum, looking around him at the other Hawkstone players. It was so clear to Jamie now. So clear that Bertorelli thought he was better than anyone else here. He did not respect them. He did not respect football.

  Even before the practice game kicked off, Jamie could feel his forehead glisten with a film of sweat. Tension raged within him. He had to do something to stop this traitor. . .

  And then suddenly, as Bertorelli picked up the ball and started doing his fancy skills, the answer came to Jamie in a flash. There was a way to stop Bertorelli; a way to prevent him from being able to carry out his plan. It was so simple Jamie couldn’t believe that he hadn’t worked it out earlier.

  He had to take Bertorelli out!

  Jamie did not like the idea of fouling another player on purpose – and he certainly would not have considered doing it to any other player – but for Bertorelli, for a cheat, he was prepared to make an exception.

  Jamie turned and charged at Bertorelli.

  He quickly built up to his top speed and then launched himself at Bertorelli with a flying, waist-high, kung-fu tackle. He gave him everything he had. He had to take Bertorelli out of the game for months . . . it was the only way. . .

  But Bertorelli was too quick. He swerved out of the way before Jamie could make contact.

  Jamie went flying through the air, studded boot outstretched, a look of pure aggression etched on his face. But he got nowhere near Bertorelli.

  And now he had been exposed.

  “Eh!!” Bertorelli shouted furiously, throwing his hands up into the air. “You crazy! What you do, little boy? You want to kill me, you idiot?!”

  “I’m no idiot!” Jamie roared, springing up off the ground and sprinting straight at Bertorelli. “I know what you’re doing, you che—”

  But before he could get the words out, before he could tell everyone what he’d found out, what was going on, he felt his legs and his body being lifted powerfully from the ground and marched off the pitch. He struggled but he couldn’t release himself from the grip.

  Both Harry Armstrong and Rigobert West, Hawkstone’s titan of a centre-half – the man they called The Beast – had hold of Jamie and they would not let him go until he was far enough away from the other players not to be a threat.

  “Get rid of him!” shouted Bertorelli as they dragged Jamie away. “I not play in same team as that idiot!”

  “It’s him!” Jamie screeched, pointing at Bertorelli, unable to control his voice and his emotions when they finally put him down. “We’ve got to stop him. You don’t know what he’s up to!”

  “Go and wait for me in my office!” shouted Harry Armstrong, so angry a vein was bulging out from the side of his forehead.

  “But Harry!” Jamie said. “You don’t understand! It’s Bertorelli! He’s going to f—”

  “Now, Jamie! Get in my office NNNNOOOWWW!”

  Jamie sat in Harry Armstrong’s office, waiting. His heart was still racing and his fists were still clenched. He wished he’d had the chance to give Bertorelli everything he deserved. He might not get another opportunity.

  How could Bertorelli do it? How could he cheat football?

  Jamie wouldn’t allow him to. He couldn’t stand by and watch this traitor use Hawkstone like this.

  Hawkstone was the team that Jamie thought about when he went to sleep. It was the team that was written in his blood.

  And that meant that he had to stop Mattheus Bertorelli.

  Because he was the only person who could.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Jamie,” Harry Armstrong announced, sweeping into the room like a hurricane. “Seriously disappointed.”

  He was staring at Jamie now. His eyes were harsh and cold.

  “I’m sorry, boss, but you don’t understand . . . it’s Bert—”

  “I haven’t finished yet,” Armstrong barked. “The reason I’m so disappointed in you is that you’re a Hawkstone fan. You’re always going on about how you were a mascot here when you were eleven, about how proud you are to play for this club. You, of all people . . . I didn’t expect you to react like this.”

  “React to what?” Jamie asked. “I don’t understand.”

  How come he was the one who was in trouble when it was Bertorelli who was the cheat?

  “React like this to us signing Bertorelli!” said Armstrong, his face reddening with anger. “Bertorelli is the single biggest signing this club, your club, has ever made.

  “And how do you react? Like a spoilt child! Just because the guy plays in your position, from the minute he walks through the door, you go into a strop and start causing problems for the rest of the squad. I mean, what was that out there today? It was an absolute disgrace! That’s what it was!”

  “Boss,” said Jamie, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation facing him. “Boss, it’s not like that. I haven’t got a problem with Bertorelli because he plays left wing. It’s . . . it’s something else. . .”

  “What is it then, Jamie? If it’s money, then you can forget it; you’ve just signed a new contract. You’re the highest-paid teenager in the country, for God’s sake! There’s no way you’re getting another—”

  “No,” said Jamie. “It’s not about money . . . well, not as far as I’m concerned, anyway. . .”

  “What are you talking about, Jamie?’ Armstrong demanded. “And let me tell you, this had better be good, because I’m rapidly losing patience.”

  “Bertorelli!” Jamie spluttered. “He’s a . . . cheat! A fake! He’s planning to throw a game! I heard him admit it on the phone this morning!”

  Now he’d said it, Jamie felt the relief seep through his body. It was as though a huge pressure had been released. A burden lifted. Now Harry Armstrong knew the truth and he could deal with Bertorelli himself.

  Jamie sensed Harry Armstrong’s stare zoning in on him.

  “Who’s he working with?” asked Armstrong.

  Jamie suddenly felt as though he were the one on trial.

  “I don’t know,” said Jamie. “He didn’t say.”

  “Which match is he planning to throw?”

  “I don’t know,” stammered Jamie, searching his mind for what he’d heard. “I think one at the end of the seas—”

  “OK,” said Harry Armstrong, with no trace of emotion in his voice. “I think I’ve heard just about enough. This is not what I wanted to do, Jamie, but the way I see it, I don’t have any other choice.”

  And then, right there in front of Jamie, Harry Armstrong took out his phone and called his old friend Raymond Porlock – the manager of Seaport Town Football Club.

  It was that quick. Before Jamie had a chance to say another word, he was out of Hawkstone United.

  Jamie was told not to report to Hawkstone for training the next day but to head to Seaport Town instead. Tiny little Seaport Town. In the third tier of English football. It may only have been twenty miles from Hawkstone, but it was a football world away.

  “A three-month loan period,” Harry Armstrong had explained on Hawkstone’s website. “To allow Jamie to rediscover his form and confidence away from the pressure of the Premier League. It’s the best thing for him right now. He’ll come back to us a better player.”

  But Jamie knew the truth. Jamie knew that he’d been shipped out of his club because the manager thought that he held a grudge against the star player. Because the manager thought he was there to cause trouble.

  And most haunting of all were Armstrong’s last words as he practically shoved Jamie out of his office:

  “If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone – and I mean anyon
e – if you undermine the best season that this club has ever had, I swear, Jamie, I’ll see to it that you never play for Hawkstone United again.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s still there when you get back,” said a familiar voice as Jamie cleared out his locker the next morning.

  It was 7.30 a.m. He was supposed to be at Seaport Town at 9.30 to meet their manager, Raymond Porlock, in his office.

  Jamie turned around to see Archie Fairclough, Hawkstone’s assistant manager, standing behind him.

  “That’s if I’m ever allowed back,” said Jamie. There was a tear in his eye, and when he looked at Archie, Jamie could see that he was upset too.

  After all, when Jamie had arrived at Hawkstone like an injured puppy, barely able to walk, let alone run, it was Archie who had patiently but brilliantly coaxed him back.

  When it looked like Jamie’s body had been broken, like he had no future in football, Archie was the one who had fixed him.

  Jamie would never forget that. Ever.

  But now all their hard work, everything they had achieved together, was going down the drain.

  As rain pelted against the roof of the Hawkstone training ground, the pair of them stood in silence for a second or two.

  “I don’t understand why he’s doing this,” Jamie said, his voice breaking. “Why is he sending me away, Archie?”

  Archie Fairclough pursed his lips. It looked as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

  “Sometimes, Jamie,” he said, trying to find the words he needed. “Sometimes . . . things happen for a reason. We don’t know why at the time, but when we look back . . . when we see things for what they really were . . . then we understand.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Archie,” said Jamie, putting his bag over his shoulder as he prepared to walk out of the Hawkstone training ground. “All I know is that I love this club. And now I’m being chucked out.”

  “Look, Jamie,” said Archie firmly. “You’ve been through worse than this and come back from it. So get your head down, work hard and just make sure you get back here as quickly as you can. OK?”

  Jamie turned and looked at Archie. He knew how much Archie wanted him to succeed.

  “OK,” said Jamie. “See you around, Archie.”

  “Hey!” shouted Archie, as Jamie opened the door to leave. “Remember . . . never bet against Jamie Johnson.”

  “Raymond Porlock,” announced the man, extending his hand to shake Jamie’s.

  Jamie was having his first meeting with his new manager, Raymond Porlock, boss of Seaport Town. He’d spent the last ten minutes waiting for Porlock, listening to the sound of rats scurrying beneath the floorboards.

  Now they were sitting in Porlock’s office, and for a moment, there was silence as the player and the manager stared at each other across the desk.

  Porlock had a face unlike any that Jamie had ever seen before. He was old – at least fifty, maybe sixty – and his face was wrinkled and weathered. How many nights must Porlock have stood on the touchlines, in the freezing cold, bellowing out instructions to his players, trying to eke out that extra ten per cent? He had seen everything that football had to offer.

  And yet, at the same time, his eyes were fresh, sharp and playful. They were alive with ideas, bright with enthusiasm.

  The word in the game was that Raymond Porlock was also slightly eccentric. Had his own way of doing things. Or, to put it another way, he was as mad as a box of frogs.

  “Now, what happened at Hawkstone, James . . . I want you to forget all about that,” Porlock was saying.

  “Jamie,” said Jamie.

  “What?” asked Porlock.

  “My name’s Jamie.”

  “I know what your name is,” said Porlock. “But we all have nicknames here. Yours will be James. Now, where was I? Yes, this is a new start for you, James. A new dawn. I want Seaport Town to be the place where you get back to your best. And that will be good for everyone. If you can get back to playing how we both know you can, then that will be great for you and cracking for Seaport Town! Back of the net, eh?”

  “Yup . . . back of the net,” Jamie said, smiling. But inside, he was thinking: Just get me back to Hawkstone. As soon as possible!

  “Morning, lads, gather in,” said Raymond Porlock, marching into the dressing room the next morning. He looked odd. He was wearing a lime-green tracksuit top and he’d paired it with bright blue tracksuit bottoms, one grey sock, and one pink one.

  ‘Right, it’s Albiston Athletic tomorrow,” said Porlock in his husky, croaky voice. “It’s the big one; could be ten thousand people watching.”

  Jamie tried to recall the biggest crowd he’d played in front of. Probably fifty thousand.

  “So, by way of preparation, what I want you all to do between now and tomorrow’s game is . . . and this is important . . . I want you to imagine all the Albiston players – the entire team – on the toilet.”

  The Seaport players all dissolved into laughter. Even Jamie.

  “Seriously, Mr Porlock?” they teased. “So shall we imagine them going for a wee or a number two?!”

  Raymond Porlock held up his hand to quell the chuckles.

  “Gentlemen . . . gentlemen . . . I’ll have you know that I’ve been studying a bit of psychology in my spare time, and one of the books that I read clearly states that if you are going into a situation that is making you nervous, just imagine your opponents sitting on the toilet. It makes them less intimidating . . . more, you know, human.

  “Listen, lads,” he said, aware that the giggles were starting up again. “Trust me, it’s all this modern claptrap that’ll get us promoted . . . I swear!”

  Jamie felt like standing up and saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I should be at this club. I need to get back to Hawkstone now,” and walking straight out of the door.

  But Jamie stayed sitting down. As a leak from the ceiling continued to drop cold, dirty water on to his forehead, he bit his lip so hard that he could start to feel the hot, sickly taste of his own blood in his mouth.

  It was his big mouth that had got him into this situation in the first place. And he’d decided to keep it firmly shut from now on. He hadn’t even told Jack the real story about Bertorelli even though normally they told each other everything.

  No. Harry Armstrong had made it very clear – Jamie had to keep his mouth shut and his head down if he ever wanted to play for Hawkstone again.

  He had fallen a long way. But the journey back was even further.

  “Some of you may have noticed that we have a new face in the dressing room today,” Porlock said as the Seaport squad got ready to head outside for training. “We’ve taken James Johnson on loan from Hawkstone United and he goes straight into the side for tomorrow’s match.”

  Jamie could feel his cheeks start to burn as he sensed the other players turning around to stare at him. Some would be pleased that he was here. Some would not.

  “James will be playing right wing,” Porlock concluded, almost as an afterthought.

  Jamie looked up immediately. He was startled. The whole point of him being at Seaport was to prove to everyone that he was still the best young left-winger in the country.

  But how could he do that by playing on the right?

  Dog poo. And lots of it. That was what struck Jamie first about Seaport Town’s training pitches.

  They were everywhere! Old ones, which were greying, crumbling, decomposing almost to nothing. And new ones. Moist, steaming, brown, smelly new ones.

  Jamie had already decided that he wouldn’t be making any sliding tackles today!

  As the Seaport players made their way out into the pouring rain for training, Jamie caught up with Raymond Porlock. He knew he had to sort out his position in the team as quickly as possible. He just hoped Porlock would see sens
e.

  “Er, gaffer,” Jamie said. “Just wanted to let you know you might have made a bit of a mistake back there earlier.”

  “Did I indeed, James?” smiled Porlock. “Wouldn’t be the first time!”

  “Yeah,” laughed Jamie. “Erm, it’s just you said I would be playing right wing. . .”

  “Did I?” said Porlock, now laughing too. In fact, they were both laughing hard.

  And then, abruptly, Porlock stopped laughing. His face suddenly looked deadly serious.

  “And what was the mistake I made?”

  “Well, you know I’m a left-winger?” said Jamie. “I don’t play right wing.”

  “James, you are a footballer, are you not?” asked Porlock, continuing before Jamie could answer. “Of course you can play right wing. I’ve thought about it. Got it all worked out. If you play right wing, not only will you score more goals because you can cut in and shoot with your left foot, but it will also improve your overall game because it will make you more comfortable on your right. It’ll make you twice the player!”

  Porlock’s excitement was in complete contrast to Jamie’s utter deflation. He was starting to get seriously worried.

  “Listen . . . gaffer . . . I’ve played left wing all my life. Never played anywhere else apart from left-wing back once, and that was a bad idea anyway. I mean, don’t forget, I’ve just been playing left wing for Hawkstone in the Premier League.’

  Jamie smiled. He didn’t think Porlock could argue with that!

  “Go on, just play me in my best position. Please, Ray! It’ll be—”

  “Have you finished?” asked Raymond Porlock. And when Jamie looked up, he could see that something had changed in his manager’s eyes. Gone altogether was the jokey spark. Now his eyes were hard. Hard as stone.

  “Yes,” said Jamie as an icy dagger of wind from the sea suddenly stabbed him right through his shirt.

  “Good. Then maybe we’d better get a couple of things straight between us. You may only be at this club on loan. But as long as you are here, you will be treated and behave like every other player at this football club.