by Dan Freedman
The man had a strange accent and, for some unaccountable reason, Jamie took an almost instant dislike to him.
Perhaps it was because Jamie knew that this one man held the key to his entire future in his hands.
An hour later, Jamie was feeling far more confident. He’d nailed the beep tests and he knew it – he could see the astonishment in the doctor’s face as he registered phenomenal times for his jogs and sprints. The doctor may have been surprised but Jamie was not. He had always been one of the fittest footballers around. Archie Fairclough, the assistant manager at Hawkstone, had once jokingly asked Jamie whether he had two hearts – so impressive were his levels of physical endurance.
“OK, now we come to the important part,” said the doctor in a slow and calculating voice, before pointing to what looked like a white plastic coffin in the corner of the room. “If you lie down on the machine over there, we will now slide you into the scan. This will allow us to see your bones and joints – to check that everything is normal.”
The three minutes that Jamie spent trapped inside that sealed capsule, listening to the laser lights beaming their way through his skin and inside his body, seemed to stretch to infinity. The thought that the machine had broken and that he would never be able to escape even crossed Jamie’s mind. And all the while, he knew that the innermost weaknesses of his body were being laid bare to the doctor. Secrets were now impossible.
When the machine finally spat him back out, the doctor’s face held exactly the same blank expression as before. He was giving nothing away.
“How does it all look?” Jamie asked, sitting back down and trying to hide his nerves.
“This knee,” said the doctor, grabbing Jamie’s left leg just above the shin. “Does it feel OK if I do this?”
And with that, he tried to twist Jamie’s knee to the side. Instinctively, Jamie shouted in agony: “Aaagh!”
The doctor let go and Jamie clutched his knee back towards him, wincing in both pain and embarrassment.
He knew how to get through games, how to get through life, by protecting that knee, treating it like a precious jewel. Why had the doctor twisted it like some cheap toy?
It was at that moment that the doctor stood up and left the room, without so much as telling Jamie where he was going.
Jamie put his trousers back on and slumped deep into the chair.
He knew something was wrong. Badly wrong.
Jamie told Godal everything.
Perhaps they already knew anyway; these clubs did months of research on players before they signed them. But that wasn’t the reason Jamie started talking as soon as Godal came into the room the doctor had vacated.
It was more simple than that. He just knew he couldn’t hide the truth any longer. If Jamie kept secrets inside, they just got bigger and bigger, grew into monsters and destroyed him from within.
Jamie didn’t want that. If he was going to play for this club, he had to tell them everything about him. And just pray that they still wanted him after.
So he told Godal about the car accident three years before, which had crushed his knee. He told him about the reconstructive surgery which had rebuilt it and how the joint was now held in place by metal screws. And he told him about the series of injections that he had had in his knee to get him through the World Cup.
He told him that, these days, he could never play football without feeling pain.
But he also told Godal that it was OK. That he could handle it. That he could still be that special player that Barcelona were looking for.
Jamie searched Godal’s face, trying to read his reactions. Godal had listened to Jamie and was looking at the doctor’s notes. He was shaking his head.
“I like you, Jamie,” he said finally. “I decided the first time I saw you play. You ran from your penalty area all the way to the goal and you ran so fast your feet did not even seem to touch the ground. I turned to my scout and I said: ‘I have to have this player. He must come to Barça!’
“But this problem with your knee. This is worse than we thought. We knew about the knee operation, but we believed it was fixed. We did not know the problems it is still causing you. How can I turn to the president and fans – who own this club – and say that we are paying such a big transfer fee and such big wages to a player who cannot play football without pain?
“It wouldn’t make sense, Jamie. I cannot be reckless with the club’s money. I would not buy a car that has a problem with the engine. So how can I buy a player who has a problem with his knee?
“The doctor here is very clear in his notes. He says your knee needs rest. That is your only chance to play football again without pain. He is a very good doctor, Jamie; you should listen to him. He says otherwise you could break down at any moment … that your knee is like ‘a ticking bomb’…”
Jamie laughed. Not in joy but in desperation.
“I’ve heard all this stuff before,” he said. Where did they all get this figure of six months’ complete rest? There was no time for that.
“I’ve heard it from other doctors,” repeated Jamie. “But I know my body better than anyone else, Señor Godal. I know what it’s capable of and how to treat it.”
But Godal only smiled weakly in return.
“The risk is too big, Jamie. We cannot pay so much for a player with such physical problems, no matter how good he is. I am sorry. I will call Hawkstone to tell them that the deal is off.”
“No!” shouted Jamie. “Please! Just wait a second.”
He knew, both for his sake and for Hawkstone’s, that he could not let this deal slip through his fingers. He knew that there is never “another chance” with a club like Barcelona. You have one shot. Only one shot of playing for a club like that.
Jamie frantically searched for an answer and then, from somewhere, came up with an idea that was so ridiculous, so risky, that it might just have a chance of working.
“Señor Godal,” began Jamie, sensing a feeling of euphoria lift up from his stomach, through to the rest of his body. He knew what a massive gamble he was about to take. “If you’re worried about paying me lots of money and then me getting injured, why don’t we do a deal that means that doesn’t happen?”
Godal looked at Jamie quizzically before sitting back down.
“Go on,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
Thirty-four steps down, deep into the heart of the cavernous belly of the stadium, then eight steps up, up and into the light…
Jamie Johnson walked out on to the pitch at the Nou Camp and looked up … up … and further up… The gigantic stands curved towards the sky on all sides, reaching so high it was almost impossible to see the top. No wonder the Barcelona players felt blessed to play for the club, Jamie thought to himself. They were pretty much being watched from the heavens.
This was his first chance to take in the full, wondrous grandeur of the stadium. He’d seen it on TV many times, but to be here, standing on the pitch, was completely different.
And now, after he and Godal had reached their unique agreement – albeit a highly risky one on both sides – Jamie could finally call himself a Barcelona player. This ground, this phenomenal piece of architecture, was his new footballing home.
“Jamie!” said one of the Barcelona press team, putting a club scarf around his neck. “The fans! They have come to see you! Why don’t you show them something special?”
And with that, from somewhere a specially branded Barça football was launched at Jamie.
The twenty thousand fans in the stadium erupted with noise. This was what they had come to see: their precious new signing kicking a ball.
Immediately, Jamie’s heart sang and his body smiled.
This was what he was here to do. There had been too much talk. Too much delay. Too many worries about knees and money. That wasn’t what was important. This was.<
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Jamie accepted the ball on to the side of his shin before flashing his foot around it to trap the ball between his calf and the back of his thigh.
Instantly the fans responded, leaping to their feet to chant Jamie’s name.
He smiled and back-heeled the ball all the way back over his head. He watched it loop on to his right foot and then gave it an almighty thump, rocketing a volley high into the air above him.
The camera flashes all captured the image of Jamie staring up into the sky, eye fixed firmly on the ball. Then, as the ball dropped, he arched his back, allowing his chest to cushion the ball high enough for it land on his forehead.
For an instant, he was back in his granddad Mike’s garden, Mike clapping, urging him on, telling him to have fun with the football – to “show it you love it”.
With the ball balancing on his head, Jamie turned to the cameras and, quickly tilting his chin up, let the ball drop on to his lips.
He kissed the Barça ball and, in that moment, with his joy at signing for his dream club clear for everyone to see, he began to win the hearts of his new fans.
Barcelona was already coming under Jamie Johnson’s spell.
“You realize how big this gamble is, right?” asked Jack, as Jamie inputted the security code to open the door to his new apartment. “I mean, let’s say you do get injured…”
“I had to find a way,” replied Jamie. “I couldn’t let this chance go. And anyway, what was the alternative? Go back to Hawkstone – after all the hype of me coming over here? I’d look like an idiot and Hawkstone would go bust. No way I’m letting that happen. Anyway, life doesn’t look too bad from here, does it?”
And with that, Jamie opened the door to a new level of luxury.
Jamie was taking over the apartment that had been made vacant when Ivan Viduka, Barça’s Croatian striker, had departed from the club to sign for Bayern Munich earlier this summer.
Overlooking the shimmering Barcelona coastline, it was the kind of home that you would normally see in the glossy magazines… And now it was Jamie’s. And Jack’s.
Jamie sprinted from room to room like an excited child. He flung open all the cupboards and switched on all the TVs at top volume.
Then he jumped on one of the huge double beds and stretched himself out as far as his body would go. There were only a couple of hours to settle in before he and Jack were expected back at the Nou Camp, as personal guests of the club president, to watch Barça’s first home game of the season against Valencia in the Spanish Super Cup.
But before any of that, there was something else that Jamie needed to do. If he could just pluck up the courage.
He strode out on to the balcony and put his arm around Jack’s shoulder. He looked into her dark brown eyes and tried to form the perfect sentence in his head.
Jamie opened his mouth but at first no words came out; nerves had stolen his speech. He took two deep breaths to steady himself and, as the scent of Jack’s hair filled his senses, he prepared to make his second huge gamble of the day.
“Jack,” he said. “I want us to… It’s never quite... Can we make it … proper between us out here? Will you be my girlfrien—”
Jamie’s voice trailed off and he took a step back.
Immediately, he knew that something wasn’t right. That Jack wasn’t happy.
Jamie had made a big mistake. He had assumed that Jack would be staying with him in Spain.
“If that’s what you were thinking, why didn’t you ask me?” demanded Jack. She was angry. She didn’t like people making decisions for her.
“I don’t know. Everything was happening so quickly… I’m asking you now…”
“Jamie, my job is to report on English football. How can I do that from Spain?” she asked, checkmating Jamie with one simple move.
“Can’t you report on Spanish football?”
“I don’t speak Spanish, Jamie! It’s all right for you. You score a goal and it means the same in any language. But I have to write about the goals and I need to do that in English.”
“But I’m earning enough that you don’t have to work,” said Jamie. “Just stay and … you can go shopping while I’m playing and then we can do stuff together after.”
Jack placed her hands on her hips and glared at Jamie. No words were required. She was not interested in shopping. She was an achiever. She had her own career. And she was brilliant at her job. Which were, of course, many of the reasons that Jamie liked and respected her so much in the first place.
“But if I’m here and you’re there,” he stuttered, “what about…?”
“Friends,” said Jack. “For now.”
So, it turned out that Jack and Jamie only had one evening together in Barcelona and, despite Jamie’s disappointment at what Jack had said, they still had a great night together. They spent it doing what they most enjoyed. It was what had brought them together in the first place and what would always keep them together.
Football.
SPANISH SUPER CUP FINAL SECOND LEG
Barcelona win the Spanish Super Cup 6-3 on aggregate
“That was unreal! I’ve never seen skills like that!” Jamie purred as he and Jack got into the limousine to drop Jack at the airport so she could catch her late-night flight back to England. They had watched Barça put in a spellbinding performance to win their first trophy of the season and it was still only August.
It was only as they pulled up to the airport terminal that Jamie started to get upset. True, Jack would always be there on the end of the phone, but that would be nowhere near the same as what he had hoped for when he had plucked up the guts to talk to her on the balcony.
“They were good,” smiled Jack, her elusive eyes refusing to reveal her own emotions. “But don’t hero-worship them too much! You’re training with them tomorrow. So now it’s time for them to see how good you are…”
There is no such phrase as the early bird catches the worm in Spanish and Jamie received his first lesson in his new culture at training the next morning.
Barcelona were gearing up for their first league match of the season – away at Athletic Bilbao – on Sunday night and Godal had told him that training began at ten a.m. Eager to impress, Jamie made sure he arrived at the training complex for nine a.m. and immediately began his warm-up routine.
In fact, it was almost eleven-thirty by the time Jamie’s new teammates rolled into town.
They were hugging and talking about the game the night before, so happy to see one another that they barely registered the presence of their small, pale new teammate in the corner. Jamie felt invisible. In fact, he felt completely ordinary. All of his new teammates looked as much like models as they did footballers.
The ponytails, the immaculately groomed goatee beards, the tight white T-shirts, the necklaces and the overwhelming aroma of fresh aftershave. This was half dressing room, half catwalk.
Finally, it was the Brazilian magician, Rodinaldo, who strolled over to welcome Jamie. While Jamie aspired to become universally recognized as one of the best players in the world, Rodinaldo had already reached that level and, as he approached, Jamie could not help but notice the amazing physical condition the player was in.
The man was built like a prize fighter, muscles rippling everywhere. There was not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.
Jamie had himself come a long way since the days of being a skinny ginger kid at school. He had done hours and hours of weights to build himself up and even tried yoga to loosen and stretch his muscles, but he would never look like Rodinaldo. The man was the perfect physical specimen.
“Buenos dias!” said Rodinaldo, his gleaming white teeth sparkling as he reached out his fist for Jamie to touch. “I ask Barça to bring you here to play with me! And you here! We make party together on football pitch!
Now, as if following Rodinaldo’s lead, the other Bar�
�a players came to introduce themselves too. High fives, pats on the back and hugs were coming from all directions.
There was Steffen Effenhegel, the tall, aristocratic-looking German centre-half who captained the team, offering Jamie the firmest of handshakes and a piercing look in the eye. And last to greet Jamie, the most mysterious and intriguing of all the Barcelona players: Major – short and squat in stature, with black hair and big childlike eyes. The story of Major was now almost mythical.
He had been an orphan brought up on the streets of Barcelona, kicking only rolled-up socks around the backstreets and alleyways of the city until, one day, the president of the club – on a goodwill visit to one of the centres for the homeless – had himself caught sight of this dirty boy with beautiful skills.
He had invited the young Major to join the rest of the Barcelona recruits at the famous La Massia Academy, where, along with perfecting his football, he had learnt to read and write.
Major, Jamie guessed, was the personification of what Godal had meant when he talked about Barça being more than just a club. Major had waited until the other players had gone out to training and now, wordlessly, he was taking Jamie’s clenched fist and tapping it softly against his chest.
“Welcome to the family,” he said in accented but clear English. “Now you are one of us.”
Jamie sprinted as fast as his legs would take him. He turned on his own internal extra-burners, he switched on his turbo gear and yet, no matter how fast he pelted across the grass, the ball was always gone, just a millisecond before he could get there.
There Jamie stood, panting in the centre of a man-made circle. This was a piggy-in-the-middle warm-up game in which a player, standing in the middle of the circle, had to try to intercept the ball as it passed between the rest of the group. Once the player in the centre captured the ball, he was replaced by the one whose pass had given away possession.
It was not the first time that Jamie had played the game. Many coaches across the world used it, as it was not only a good way to warm up and get some light-hearted banter going, but at its core it promoted a vision of the game based around possession and quick, accurate, staccato passing.