Man of the Match

by Dan Freedman

  It was the first to five and Jamie let the kid have the first four goals.

  He’s a good kid, Jamie thought to himself. A bit cocky, maybe . . . but he definitely reminds me of someone. Anyway, now it’s time to show him who’s boss. . .

  And with that, Jamie instantly turned on the skill, pulling three goals back straight away.

  Then, at 3-4 down, Jamie produced a wicked double drag-back to equalize with a goal that even shut the kid up for a couple of seconds.

  “Whoa!” said the kid, in awe. “Double drag-back! That’s the best skill ever! You’ve got to teach me how to do that!”

  “Maybe some other time,” said Jamie. “We’re in the middle of a game here. Four-four. Next goal wins!”

  Jamie wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never mind that he was playing against a kid in the street with an old tennis ball; it felt great just to be playing football again. It had been over a month since he’d played. He’d pulled it back and was going to win, but it hadn’t been easy. He’d had to put some effort into it.

  Now the kid was dribbling slowly out of his goal, but as Jamie advanced to tackle him, the kid’s eyes suddenly widened. His face transformed into a picture of surprise.

  “What the. . .” said the kid, pointing behind Jamie.

  Jamie turned around quickly to see what it was. But he couldn’t see anything. There was nothing there.

  “What were you—” Jamie started to ask, but it was too late. The kid was already gone. He’d sprinted forward while Jamie was looking the other way and now he was an inch away from the cardboard box. Jamie had been done by the oldest trick in the book!

  “Yes!” shouted the kid, slotting the ball home. “I win! I told you I would beat you!”

  “Well done,” smiled Jamie. Inside he was fuming, but he put on a brave face and offered his hand. “What’s your name?”

  But just as their hands were about to meet, the kid snatched his hand away and put his thumb on his forehead, wiggling his fingers!

  “Beat you again,” he shouted. “My name’s Robbie.”

  “I’ll have to keep an eye on you, Robbie. I’m Jamie.”

  It was then that they both heard a familiar voice echo their way from the end of the street.

  “RRRROOOBBBBIIIIEEE!” shouted Dillon Simmonds angrily. “Where have you been? I’ve cooked your dinner – get back home now!”

  Jamie and Dillon stared at each other down the street. They hadn’t spoken since Jamie had been sent off for pushing the ref when he’d meant to shove Dillon.

  “All right! Keep your hair on, fatso!” Robbie shouted and started to sprint towards Dillon.

  “Show me the drag-back another time, loser,” he shouted over his shoulder to Jamie. “Gotta go before psycho face gets angry!”

  “Hey, Robbie!” Jamie called after the little street footballer. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  And with that he hurled the old tennis ball as fast as he could at Robbie Simmonds. He wanted to see how Robbie reacted.

  The ball was going about forty miles an hour, but Robbie didn’t get out of the way. Instead, he moved towards the ball, chested it up into the air and controlled it on his forehead, before letting it drop down into his open hand.

  Well, what do you know? Jamie thought to himself. Not only does Dillon Simmonds have a younger brother, but the kid’s got talent. Serious talent.

  That night Jamie fell into a deep, deep sleep. He was revisiting the same moment that he often dreamt about.

  It was the time when he’d been a mascot for Hawkstone United when he was eleven years old. That had been the best day of his life. Jamie had done the most amazing overhead kick in front of a full Hawkstone United crowd!

  It had been that day – that moment – that had given Jamie the confidence to believe, perhaps for the first time, that he really could make it as a professional footballer. . .

  Except tonight the dream was different. In it, instead of being himself, this time Jamie was a member of the crowd, watching on from the stands.

  He was out of his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the pitch. He saw the young mascot flick the ball up and then leap into the air to execute the most perfectly beautiful overhead kick that you could hope to see. The ball flew into the back of the net, as though it was somehow desperate to get there.

  The supporters in the stands instinctively rose to their feet and clapped, all of them asking the exact same questions: “Who is that boy? What’s his name? He’s going to be some player. . .”

  And then Jamie saw the boy turn to each corner of the ground and drink in their applause.

  But in tonight’s dream, when the boy turned around, when he finally revealed his face, it was not Jamie’s eleven-year-old features that he saw. Instead it was those of the little kid he had met today, Robbie.

  In the dream, it was now Robbie who was lost in the joy of scoring a goal, bouncing around in ecstasy shouting the words, “I love football! I love football!” exactly as Jamie had done that day.

  Jamie woke up with a jolt. It was a jolt of both fear and realization.

  Fear that he might be letting his football career slip through his fingers.

  And realization of exactly what had been missing from his game for the last few months. What it was that he had lost.

  It was his love for football.

  “I’m not interested, James,” said Raymond Porlock before Jamie had even begun his speech.

  “I know your ban’s finished. But that doesn’t make any difference to me. I do what’s best for this football club. And at the moment, that does not include picking you. End of story.”

  Jamie nodded. “I know,” he said. “And you’re right, Mr Porlock. Like you said: the team comes first. There’s just a few things I think I need to say. Need to get them off my chest. It’ll only take a couple of minutes . . . will you just hear me out?”

  Porlock took off his glasses and rested them on his desk. “Go on, then,” he said and, with a wave of his hand, motioned for Jamie to continue.

  For a second Jamie shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. He felt as though he were in a school play and he’d forgotten his lines. When he’d walked into Porlock’s office he’d known exactly what he’d wanted to say, but now his mind had gone blank. He couldn’t access a single word.

  “Well, come on, then!” ordered Porlock. “Stop prancing around like you’re in Riverdance and get on with it!”

  “Well. . . What it is, Mr Porlock,” started Jamie. “The last few days I’ve been, like, asking myself what I would be doing if I wasn’t a footballer. Maybe I’d be working in a sports shop, maybe I’d be a PE teacher, I don’t know, maybe I’d be a bin man. . . But my point is, whatever else I could do, nothing would be as good as being a footballer . . . and that’s not cos of the money, or being famous. It’s because I love it.”

  Jamie tried to remember the last time he had actually scored in a match. It had been too long. Way too long.

  “Playing football – it’s the only thing I can do, Mr Porlock. The only thing I want to do. So let me play for Seaport Town again. Please . . . I’ll play anywhere you want me – in goal, I don’t care – just let me play football again. Let me show you what I can really do.”

  Raymond Porlock rested his elbows on his desk, linked his hands together and put his chin on his knuckles.

  Then he let out a deep, long sigh.

  “Would the real James Johnson please stand up?” he said.

  “What?” Jamie frowned. “I don’t under—”

  “I think, if I’m not mistaken, that a real professional footballer has just walked into my office,” said Raymond Porlock with a huge smile.

  “Welcome back, James. Welcome back.”

  As the game kicked off, Jamie’s heart began to pound with excitement. He could feel his
spirit awaken and his legs and feet come alive in a way that they had not done in months.

  He was ready to play.

  And the first time he received the ball, he knew exactly what to do. He pushed the ball in front of him and rocketed forward, soaring down the line. He could feel the wind battering his ears. He seemed to be running so fast he might take off.

  Two, then three players came across and tried to stop him in any way they could. A flying lunge, a pull of the shirt, a rugby tackle, even. But nothing was going to stop Jamie Johnson today. Nothing in the world.

  Jamie got to the byline on the right-hand touchline and without thinking, he wrapped his right foot around the ball to curl a glorious centre into the box. It was as sweet a cross as any he had ever made with his left foot.

  With pace and whip and curl, the ball arrowed to the far post, where Dillon Simmonds launched himself powerfully, bravely into the air and nodded the ball down and into the net.

  It was an awesome goal.

  Seaport Town were ahead after four minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

  Jamie looked to the dugout to see Raymond Porlock, dressed as ever in his bright green jumper, wheeling down the line with his arms outstretched. He was running towards the Seaport Town fans, leaning from side to side as he went. He was doing the aeroplane celebration!

  The Seaport players split into two groups, half of them gathering around Dillon to congratulate him on his strike, half of them patting Jamie on the back. They were fully aware that not many players in football could run down the line and put in a cross like that.

  But the celebrations didn’t last for too long. Quickly the Seaport players jogged back to the centre circle. There was a hunger in the air. An appetite for more goals.

  As they jogged past each other and prepared for the restart, Jamie Johnson and Dillon Simmonds made eye contact with each other.

  “Good ball,” snarled Dillon without a hint of joy. It looked as though it physically hurt him to say the words.

  “Nice finish,” spat Jamie.

  He wanted to wash his mouth out as soon as he’d said it.

  Right from the kick-off, the Seaport Town players charged forward. They were a unit, working as one. They ran, chased and harried, forcing an error from their opponents.

  Finally, a midfielder attempted to pass the ball back to his central defender, but his contact with the ball was too weak.

  The ball was there for the taking.

  Jamie raced in from the wing and took possession. Then he stopped and pretended he was about to back-heel the ball behind him. But as soon as he saw the defender falling for his trick, Jamie knocked the ball forward instead and scampered after it.

  He swiftly outpaced two markers and then, on the edge of the area, he nutmegged the final defender!

  He was so happy to be back playing he could actually feel himself smiling as he powered forward now, one on one with the keeper.

  He knew he could beat this keeper in any way he wanted: a volley, a curler, a side-foot into the corner . . . he even had time to set himself up for an overhead.

  But he just wanted to get the ball into the back of the net as quickly as possible.

  He looked down at the ball and, with his left foot, simply lashed it home. He wellied it, stonked it, absolutely hammered it! And the ball thundered right into the top corner!

  Jamie couldn’t contain his adrenaline.

  “Boom!” he roared. “Pick that one out!”

  Jamie was making up for lost time.

  It may have been 2-0 to Seaport, but Jamie Johnson was only just getting started. . .

  Seaport Town went on to win the game 9-2! It was the biggest away league win in their history!

  At the end of the game, as they walked off the pitch, the Seaport players couldn’t help but laugh.

  Their left-winger, Stuart Cribbins, the club joker, was doing the robot dance as his teammates got in a circle around him and clapped his moves!

  “That’s it, Stu!” they shouted, egging him on. “Throw us some shapes!”

  Meanwhile, Raymond Porlock had jumped into the crowd and was now singing with the rest of the fans: “Ten goals! We only wanted ten goals . . . we only wanted ten goals . . . we only wanted ten goals. . . Ten goals. . .”

  “Phenomenal, James!” said Raymond Porlock, as soon as they got into the dressing room after the game. “You were quicker than three leopards driving a Ferrari! No! Make that four!”

  “Cheers, Mr Porlock!” said Jamie, laughing. “Feels great to be back.”

  “Who needs Bertorelli when you’ve got James Johnson, eh?” gloated Porlock.

  But as soon as he heard that cheat’s name, Jamie’s smile instantly vanished. Just thinking about him made Jamie feel like puking on the spot.

  “So you want to tell me what’s up?” asked Raymond Porlock a little while later, as he sat down next to Jamie on the coach back to Seaport.

  The rest of the team were having a laugh and playing cards in the back three rows, but Jamie was sitting by himself, near the front, looking aimlessly out of the window.

  “Nothing’s up,” said Jamie, avoiding eye contact with Porlock. He was tracing a raindrop with his finger as it slid down the outside of the window. “I’m fine.”

  “Do me a favour, son. You play sensationally. I mean really sensationally. World class. You’re as happy as Larry and then I mention Mattheus Bertorelli’s name and suddenly you close up, go into your shell and don’t say a word to anyone. . . Look, you’re doing it again!”

  Jamie knew the red fury in his cheeks was giving him away. He couldn’t help it. Knowing what Bertorelli was planning – and that the game that he was going to get himself sent off in couldn’t be too far away now – made Jamie feel like punching a hole right through the side of the bus.

  “I just don’t like being compared to Bertor. . .” Jamie stopped and clenched his jaw tight. He couldn’t say his name. “I don’t like being compared to him, OK? I’m nothing like him. Nothing like him at all.”

  “OK, Jamie,” Porlock said. “I’ve got that. So do you want to level with me, then? Tell me what it is you’ve got against the guy?”

  A bit of Jamie did want to talk about it, wanted to get it out in the open. But he also knew that if he did, he’d never play for Hawkstone again. And that was something he couldn’t risk.

  “I just . . . don’t want to talk about it right now, Mr Porlock,” he said. “OK?”

  “Don’t want to or can’t?” asked Porlock, searching Jamie’s eyes for clues. But Jamie remained silent long enough for his manager to realize that the conversation wasn’t going any further.

  “Fair enough,” said Porlock, tapping Jamie’s shoulder as he stood up. “But remember, whenever you’re ready to talk . . . I’m here.”

  “Robbie?!” Jamie shouted. “What are you doing chucking stones at my window? You’re gonna break it!”

  “Come for you to teach me the double drag-backs, like you said!”

  “Fine,” said Jamie. “Wait there. I’ll be down in a sec.”

  As Jamie put on his tracksuit bottoms, he realized that he was quite looking forward to this. It had taken him weeks to perfect the double drag-back himself when he was younger.

  He was keen to see how long it took Robbie.

  “Cos you’re right-footed, I’ll show you it with the right foot,” said Jamie, demonstrating with Robbie’s old tennis ball.

  “Right. So you’re dribbling towards the defender, yeah? Then. . .”

  1 As you approach the defender . . .

  2 . . . turn your body away from him, dragging the ball back with your right foot.

  3 Keep turning, stepping over the ball and switching feet to drag the ball back with your left foot this time.

  4 Now finish the turn and your second drag-back at the same time. . .
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  5 And you’ll be facing

  the way you were

  originally running.

  6 But now you’ve got the defender behind you and the ball in front of you. . .

  7 So you’re ready to accelerate away!

  “That’s wicked!” said Robbie “Sick!”

  “Exactly!” smiled Jamie. “OK, your turn now. You’ll probably muck it up the first time, but don’t worry, I did too. It’s normal. The main thing is to drag the ball back twice and get the full turn in.”

  “OK,” said Robbie. “You mean like this?”

  And with that, Robbie sprinted forward and produced the double drag-back perfectly. First time!

  “Yeah,” laughed Jamie in amazement. He couldn’t work out whether he was more surprised or impressed. “Yeah, exactly like that!”

  Jamie and Robbie practised together for about an hour until Robbie suddenly looked at his watch and said: “Gotta go in a minute. Old fatty chops will have my dinner ready.”

  “What’s all this with Dillon and the cooking?” Jamie asked. “Does he want to be one of those TV chefs or something?”

  “It’s him or no one, innit?” said Robbie. “Just me and fat face now.”

  “What do you mean just you and him? What about your dad?” Jamie remembered seeing Dillon’s dad once. Scary bloke.

  “Nah, he died last year,” said Robbie without any emotion.

  “Oh,” said Jamie. “Sorry. I didn’t know. What about your mum?”

  Robbie looked down at his shoes. They were a grubby pair of old scuffed-up football trainers.

  “She’s gone to live with some other bloke,” he murmured. “Like I said, it’s just me and fat face.”

  As Jamie looked at Robbie, for the first time he saw through all the big talk to the little boy that he still was.