by Dan Freedman
“PUSH UP!” he was yelling. “COOONCENTRATE!!!!”
But when Jamie had looked out on to the pitch, he’d seen that no one was there. The entire pitch was empty.
Had Porlock really gone round the bend this time? Jamie had wondered. Had he gone as mad as sixty boxes of frogs all put together?
“Mr Porlock!” Jamie had said to him. “Who are you shouting at? There’s no one there!”
Porlock had pretended to look shocked at first, and then he’d smiled at Jamie.
“When you step out over the white line, James, I’m pretty much helpless,” he’d said. “There’s only one way that I can affect a match while it’s happening – and that’s by shouting at you lot! Telling you what to do! But shouting is like anything else; there’s a technique to it . . . and what I’m doing now is practising that technique.”
“So . . . you’re . . . practising shouting?”
“Got it in two, James!”
Now, on the TV, Seaport were attacking! Dillon Simmonds had laid the ball off to Stuart Cribbins, who was racing through . . . Cribbins was one on one. . . He drilled the ball towards the goal and it beat the goalkeeper . . . but then hit the post!
But that was not it! The ball rebounded so hard that it smashed Stuart Cribbins flat in the face and then bounced back into the goal!
“Ohhhh! You little beauty!” Jamie roared, sprinting around his room in circles like someone doing a rain dance. “Go on, Stuey Cribbins, my son! Smash it in with your face, why don’t you! Don’t matter how they go in as long as they go in!”
Jamie couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.
Seaport Town had made just it in to the play-offs!
On the TV, Jamie could see the whole squad huddled in the centre circle celebrating. Their pride and passion shone out.
It was funny, Jamie thought to himself, how football teams reflected the spirit of their manager. Jamie knew now that he had misjudged Raymond Porlock when he’d first arrived at Seaport. He’d thought that Porlock was mad. He wasn’t. He was just mad about football. . .
Jamie’s phone started ringing.
He looked at the name flashing up on his screen and he smiled.
He let it ring a couple more times – didn’t want to look too eager – and then he answered it just before it was about to go to voicemail.
“Hey,” he said.
“JJ!” said Jack. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
“What for?” asked Jamie.
“For what you said at the press conference today, stupid! The editor at the paper worked out that it was me who tipped off the police! Now they want me to write a massive article for them AND they’ve asked me to go and work there full-time when I finish my A levels! I’m so excited! I’m going to be a proper journalist! Thank you, JJ!”
“I didn’t do anything, Jack,” said Jamie. “You’re the one who did all the hard work! And you still haven’t told me how you did it! You know you’re amazing, Jack?”
“Don’t be so cheesy!” snapped Jack. She always told Jamie when he overstepped the mark. “Oh, all right, then. Go on, you can be cheesy. Just this once!”
And then they laughed. They had always made each other laugh like this, right back to when Jamie used to sing and make fart noises by putting his hand under his armpit and squeezing it up and down like a bagpipe!
“No, I mean it,” insisted Jamie. “If you hadn’t believed me – trusted me – about Bertorelli and then done all that digging . . . well . . . I don’t know . . . I guess I’d still be at Seaport and he’d still be—”
“Hey, don’t sweat it, Jamie. What are friends for, right?”
“Right,” said Jamie.
And then a silence fell down the phone line. It sat there, waiting. . .
“Jack?” There was a stammer in Jamie’s voice and his stomach was beginning to ache.
“Yeah?”
What are you worried about? Jamie asked himself. Just get on with it!
“No . . . it’s nothing . . . don’t worry about it. . .”
Coward! Why am I such a coward?!
“Come on, Jamie . . . spit it out, will you?”
“No . . . I was just wondering if . . . after the game tomorrow . . . I didn’t know whether you wanted to . . . I dunno . . . maybe we could—”
“You can pick me up at eight,” said Jack, putting Jamie out of his misery. “If you do the business for the Hawks tomorrow!”
And then she was gone. Jack was never a great one for goodbyes.
Jamie looked at his phone and shook his head. How was it she always knew what he was thinking?
Premier League Table
WITH ONE MATCH TO PLAY
Jamie put his phone back in his pocket. That text would have made his granddad, Mike, so proud.
In many ways, Jamie felt as though his football career was for Mike as much as for himself. Jamie had got all his talent from Mike so now it was his job to make the most of that talent.
Jamie would be playing for both of them today.
Jamie looked out of the car window at all the kids pressed up against the glass. They had been waiting outside his house since this morning, just trying to catch a glimpse of him.
And now, as he was leaving to head to the ground, they were there to see him off. As Doug started up the engine, Jamie suddenly had a flashback to when he had been one of those kids. He remembered how excited he’d been whenever he’d seen a real footballer, live in the flesh.
“Just hang on for a minute, will you, Doug?” Jamie said. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Then Jamie Johnson got back out of the car.
The kids let out a cheer and gathered around him as though he were the Pied Piper.
“Score a goal for us today, Jamie!” they said.
“Are you going to win the league for us?” they asked.
“Can we have your shirt after the game?!” they joked.
Jamie signed every single one of their autographs. He knew that the next Jamie Johnson was in there somewhere.
“Are you ready to go?” Doug asked Jamie as he got back in the car.
Jamie closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Today was the day of all days. Hawkstone United’s chance to win the Premier League.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Let’s have a look at the paper,” Jamie said to Archie Fairclough while he was getting a massage to loosen his muscles ahead of the game.
Archie shifted around uncomfortably on his feet.
“Papers ain’t come in today, Jamie,” he said. “Postal strike or something.”
“Archie, I’m a pretty bad liar – but you must be the worst liar in the world!” laughed Jamie. “You can’t even look me in the eye! Come on, give it here! I know it’s a big game, but I’m not nervous. I promise.”
“Gaffer’s orders,” explained Archie, holding his ground. “You’re not supposed to look at the papers.”
“Archie, either you give me the paper or I go outside and get one off the fans. Your call. . .”
Archie considered his options for a couple of moments and then, with extreme reluctance, handed Jamie the newspaper.
“Thank you,” said Jamie, a little sarcastically. Then, instinctively, he turned the paper over to read the back page.
“What’s he doing reading that rubbish?!” shouted Harry Amstrong, storming into the massage room and ripping the paper out of Jamie’s stunned hands. “I told you not to let him read it – under any circumstances!”
But it was too late.
Jamie had read every word.
“OK, Gary,” said the producer into the presenter’s ear. “We’re live in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. . . You’re on the air. . .”
“So welcome to our very special coverage of this, the final day of the Premier League season.
Now for those of you who have been living on another planet, let me remind you of the situation at the top of the table: Hawkstone and Foxborough are level on points. Foxborough hold the potentially all-important advantage of a better goal-difference. Which all means that Hawkstone must simply get a better result than Foxborough today to win the Premier League Title. . .
“We’ll be switching live between both games to keep you right up to date with all the action, and joining us here in the studio to enjoy the afternoon with us, we welcome one of the real characters of the game . . . Raymond Porlock.
“So, Raymond, how do you see today’s events unfolding?”
“Too close for me to call, I’m afraid. . . But I will tell you one, thing, Gary: sometimes football can be the simplest game in the world. In the end, today might just come down to which team actually wants it more.”
Down in the tunnel, waiting to walk out on to the pitch, Jamie Johnson was doing everything he could to relax: concentrating on taking deep breaths . . . trying to clear his mind of everything other than winning the League title for Hawkstone United.
“Eh, good luck, mate! See you out there, yeah?”
It was the Brockburn Rovers’ young full-back, Ashley Blake, shaking Jamie’s hand. Blake, like Jamie, was seventeen years old and was being hailed as the best young full-back in the country. He’d only been playing football for the last seven years. Before that he’d been a hundred-metre sprinter. He still held the schools’ record. You could see it in his calf muscles. They were huge.
Blake was Jamie’s direct opponent today. So why was he being so nice? And why was he smiling so much? Wasn’t he scared of facing Jamie?
But there was no time to think about anything else.
It was 3.55 p.m. The players from both sides stared straight ahead as they walked out of the tunnel. There was a loud pop song playing, but it was completely drowned out by the gigantic blast of noise from the Hawkstone fans when they saw the players emerge. The sound – like a volcano erupting – rushed into Jamie’s ears.
It told him that this was going to be like no other game he had played in his life.
As Brockburn got the game under way, Jamie looked around the ground. Almost every fan had brought a flag or banner. And most had his name on them:
Jamie J – He’ll bring the League our way!
Jamie Johnson IS Hawkstone United
As soon as Hawkstone won possession, they immediately swept the ball out to the left to find Jamie, just as they had been instructed to do in every game since he had returned.
Jamie had the ball at his feet – and then suddenly the whole ground went quiet. All eyes were on the action. All eyes on Jamie . . . waiting. . .
The fans who had worked all week to have enough money to come and watch this massive game – they were all here to watch Jamie. To see some magic flow from his boots. To see him deliver.
Play your normal game, Jamie ordered himself. They’re not here to put pressure on you – they’re here to support you! Go for it!
Jamie knocked the ball down the line past Ashley Blake and raced off after it at maximum speed. But then something happened that had never occurred before: Jamie got to the ball second! In a straight foot race, he had been beaten to the ball.
Ashley Blake was faster than Jamie Johnson!
Blake knocked the ball out easily for a throw-in and then turned, smiling, almost laughing, towards Jamie.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he smirked, chucking the ball to Jamie to take the throw-in. “I heard you were quick.”
“Mate,” said Jamie, pretending to be unaffected, “I haven’t even started yet!”
But inside Jamie felt sick. His whole body was squirming. He could feel a weakness invading his veins.
This had never happened before, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. In his entire life, he’d never come up against anyone who was as fast as he was.
The next time Jamie received the ball – this time from a delicate Rigobert West chip down the line – he went for it again. If he could just find his turbo gear, maybe he could still beat Blake. This time he really turned on the afterburners, gave it everything he’d got.
But he just couldn’t get away from Blake. The defender stayed with him, neck and neck, before sliding in to nick possession from Jamie with a perfectly timed challenge. He even kept the ball too. Jamie could see the grin on Blake’s face as he sprinted forward out of defence.
“Come on, Jamie,” the Hawkstone fans were shouting, almost begging him. “Don’t flop now! We need you, mate. Foxborough have just taken the lead in their game!”
Projected Premier League Table
(if scores stay the same)
Jamie’s heart sank. There was a long way to go, but everyone knew that if Foxborough won their game, there was no way Hawkstone could take the league.
Jamie sprinted infield in search of the ball. But everywhere he went, Ashley Blake followed. It was as though Blake had taken him prisoner and Jamie had no way of finding the key to set himself free.
As it became increasingly obvious that Blake had Jamie in his pocket, the Brockburn fans began taunting Jamie.
Soon, they were in full voice, mocking Jamie with Barry Digmore’s criticism from today’s paper: “One-trick pony, he’s just a one-trick ponyyy!”
Jamie was angry. He could feel his temples pulsating as he fumed at his own inability to get the better of Blake.
It was only now that he realized how much he had always relied on his pace. It was his super power. His way of always beating his man. But now that had been taken away from him.
Jamie could only look on, helpless, when right on the cusp of half-time, the Brockburn centre forward belted a volley towards goal from twenty yards out. It was a great strike, but it didn’t go in.
It hit the crossbar. But then the rebound smacked into the back of the Hawkstone goalkeeper’s head and bounced in.
It was a horrible, ugly goal. The Hawkstone crowd had been silenced. Their hopes extinguished. They looked to Jamie. Prayed for him to do something. But Jamie had no idea how to bring back the magic.
Projected Premier League Table
(if scores stay the same)
It was a boiling-hot day and the results were going exactly the wrong way for Hawkstone, but Harry Armstrong still looked like the coolest man in the ground.
He was wearing a brand new grey suit and there was not a crease on it.
He stood in front of his players in the Hawkstone United dressing room, staring each one of them dead in the eye. Jamie could see that his manager’s shark eyes had returned.
It reminded Jamie of the occasion when Harry Armstrong had been playing for Hawkstone and there had been a ruck during a match against Crayhall. He’d taken on three of their team – and dealt with all of them. He’d been given a four-match ban for his troubles, but after that day, everyone in football knew never to mess with Harry Armstrong.
Armstrong was a warrior and his troops were waiting for him to unleash his fury on them. Would he pin them up against the wall and shout in their faces? Would he fling a tray of teacups across the room to frighten them into action? Harry Armstrong was capable of anything. . .
But instead, for two whole minutes, he said absolutely nothing. His stare was more than threatening enough.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“How dare you drop your heads?” he began. He wasn’t shouting, though. He didn’t have to. The fact that his voice was so calm and measured somehow made him even more scary than if he had been hollering wildly.
“How dare you give me that look like this title race is over? You . . . every single one of you . . . have the chance to make history today. This football club has never won the league, and here you lot are, potentially forty-five minutes away from achieving it, and you look like you’ve already been beaten.
“I want you to imagine for just a second what it will be like if we do this today. If we really make this happen. Have you any idea what it will mean to those fans? And to you lot? They won’t just be talking about this team for the next week or couple of months . . . they will remember you for decades. . .
“In sixty years’ time, kids who are up there in the stands today will be grandparents, and they will be telling their grandkids about the day that Hawkstone United won the Premier League for the first time. Now, do you lot want to sit here accepting defeat before it’s happened, or shall we go out there and make history?”
“Boss,” said Jamie as the players were heading out for the second half. “Have you thought about swapping me over to the right side? It’s where I played at Seaport and it worked really we—”
“Archie!” called Harry Armstrong, cutting Jamie off in mid-flow. “Have a word with your mate, will you . . . dispense some wisdom for me – we’ve got a match to win.”
Archie Fairclough strode over and put his arm around Jamie.
“Let me tell you something very quickly, Jamie,” he said. “When you go out there on to that pitch, it’s not about you versus Ashley Blake. Got nothing to do with that. You’ve got enough talent in your little finger to beat any defender. It’s about you understanding how good you are. Once you do that, everything else will fall into place, trust me.”
“Thanks, Archie,” said Jamie. Sometimes Archie reminded Jamie of his granddad, Mike. They both believed in him. No matter what.
“Just take your time, Jamie,” smiled Archie. “You’ll work out it . . . you always do.”
Then Archie put his hand behind Jamie’s back and gave him an almighty shove, practically throwing him back out on to the pitch!
“Now go out there and make yourself a bloomin’ legend!”
