Final Whistle

by Dan Freedman

  And while Jamie Johnson held his arms aloft on the pitch, Archie Fairclough hurriedly searched through his pockets on the sidelines.

  His hands were shaking with excitement as he dialled the number. It rang twelve times before the call was finally answered.

  “This better be good, Archie,” said an agitated Harry Armstrong. “We’re right in the middle of a team-talk. You do remember we’ve got the most important game in the club’s history on Wednesday night?”

  “Yes, gaffer, I remember all right,” said Archie. His eyes were wild with childlike excitement and his chest heaved with anticipation. “That’s why I suggest that you get yourself down to the training ground as quick as you can…”

  That night, Jamie opened his bedroom window and looked up at the night sky. As he tilted his head back and stared at the stars, he replayed in his mind what had been one of the greatest days of his life.

  The football he had played today had been sublime. He knew it. He could feel it.

  And it wasn’t just what he had done on the pitch. It was the way his body had felt too. It had actually taken him about half an hour to work out what had been different.

  He knew something had changed from the way he had played before the injury but he couldn’t identify exactly what. It was only when he had completed his sixth long-distance sprint down the line that it finally dawned on him.

  The pain in his knee.

  It had gone.

  Sure enough, no matter how much Jamie had twisted, turned and tested the joint, it stood up to the challenge. It didn’t just feel good. It felt sensational. As good as new.

  Perhaps it should have come as no real surprise; every doctor that had examined Jamie’s knee had told him the exact same thing – it needed at least six months’ rest in order for it to heal. And when he did the calculations, Jamie realized that the period he had been out for – the length of time that had passed since that fateful match he had played for Barcelona against Real Madrid – had been five and a half months, almost to the day.

  The ticking time bomb had finally been defused.

  Breathing in the cool night air, Jamie smiled as he remembered the sight of Harry Amstrong’s car speeding into the training ground to catch the last ten minutes of the match he was playing in.

  As he had scored his fifth goal of the game, Jamie had turned to see Harry and Archie in deep, animated discussions on the touchline. And then, almost as soon as the match had finished, Archie had marched up to Jamie and wrapped his big, warm arm around his shoulder.

  “I’ve got one question for you, Jamie,” he’d said. “Do you want to play for Hawkstone United again?”

  It was probably the single most stupid question anyone had ever asked Jamie in his life.

  Champions League Round of Sixteen Second Leg

  LIVE TV STUDIO COVERAGE

  Presenter: Good evening and welcome to what is certain to be a night of pure drama here in Hawkstone. Quite simply, Hawkstone United must win this match against Real Madrid to prevent the club from going bust… I’ve literally just been handed the team news, and taking a huge gamble tonight is the Hawks boss, Harry Armstrong, who has selected JAMIE JOHNSON to start this tie… Johnson, who, it has been revealed, has been training secretly with Hawkstone since last Friday, has apparently showed such scintillating form in practice that Armstrong believes he has no choice other than to play the little genius… And yet, at the same time, questions remain about whether it can ever be sensible for the nineteen-year-old, who has only just returned from a major head injury, to ever take part in top-level football again….

  As Jamie breathed in the familiar smell of a football changing room, he smiled to himself. He was back home.

  Barcelona had been fantastic. Although they still held his registration as a player – they had never cancelled the contract just in case Jamie did ever come back – they had agreed to loan him to Hawkstone United, who had made a special request to Barcelona in light of their financial difficulties.

  Jamie sat down and looked at the Hawkstone United kit next to him. He, like everyone else in the city, knew that Hawkstone United was now on a life-support machine. That support was the Champions League. If they went out tonight, the machine would be switched off and the club would die. A one hundred and twenty-seven year existence would end. But if they could progress into the quarter-finals of the competition, the money it would generate would be enough to keep the club afloat until at least the end of the season.

  It was a simple equation: win and survive or lose and die.

  The only thing standing in their way was a certain football club called Real Madrid.

  With ten minutes to go until the game kicked off, Harry Armstrong walked into the Hawkstone dressing room and looked around.

  Jamie could already feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up. Armstrong was a general about to send his troops into battle. Before that, he had one final message for his men.

  “I don’t have to tell you how big this game is for the club,” he said. “I want you to put all of that other stuff out of your mind and just take a look at this dressing room…

  “Look around you,” he said, each word laced with meaning. “You are a team. And you should be proud to walk out there tonight with these men on your side. I look at each one of you and I wouldn’t swap you for any other player in the world… If I were facing the biggest challenge of my life, I would want you alongside me in the trenches,” he said, pointing to his big goalkeeper. “And you, and you…”

  Harry Armstrong went around the whole team before he finally pointed at Jamie.

  “And you,” he said to Jamie.

  Despite everything Jamie had been through, Harry didn’t single him out. He didn’t make any special reference to him. He just treated Jamie like any other member of the team.

  And Jamie liked that.

  It was all he had ever wanted to be. A member of the team.

  Jamie Johnson strode down the tunnel, up towards the light of the pitch ahead. The clicking of the studs matched the rhythm of his beating heart.

  And then, as he made his way out on to the pitch, the music started. The same music that had set the adrenaline pulsing through Jamie when he’d watched Champions League games on TV as a kid.

  As he stood shaking hands with the Real Madrid players, humming the music as it blasted out around the Hawkstone ground, Jamie imagined football fans all over the globe getting ready to watch this game with their tea.

  Dillon and Robbie would be at home, kicking a ball around, having a little wrestle, making their predictions. Stonefish had already told him he would be tuning in from Spain, tucking into a doubly big bowl of baked beans at the same time.

  For a second, Jamie’s stomach lurched as he considered his dad watching from prison. And then, almost immediately, he was calmed by the instinctive certainty that, from somewhere, his granddad Mike would be watching over him too. As long as that was the case, Jamie knew he’d be OK.

  Slowly but surely, it began to dawn on Jamie: tonight – this match – Hawkstone United v Real Madrid – would be the defining moment of his football career.

  Jamie broke away from the team photo and sprinted off towards the fans, who roared his name as he raced towards them.

  As he got closer to the crowd, he saw a quite beautiful sight. In the top right-hand corner of the stand behind the goal was a group of about four hundred Barcelona fans, all mixing and singing with the Hawkstone fans.

  The black and white colours of Hawkstone mingled with the blue and maroon colours of Barcelona. Jamie was so happy that the Barcelona fans were there to support him.

  As they cheered, the fans lifted a huge banner above their heads. Half of it was in Spanish and half of it was in English and, when he saw the words on the banner, a huge smile came across Jamie’s face.

  There were seven minu
tes until kick-off. Just enough time to warm up and smash a few balls into the net.

  As the PA announcer called out those famous words – “Number eleven … Jamie Johnson!” – Jamie raised his hands above his head to return the applause that was coming his way. He clenched his fist and punched the air. He knew the team needed the fans to be pumped up tonight. And they needed to see that he was back to his best.

  Jamie knocked the ball out to Glenn Richardson and pointed above his head for where he wanted the ball delivered back to him. It was time for an overhead kick.

  As he waited for the inch-perfect pass to be delivered to him, Jamie flicked his eyes at the goal to assess the speed and angle that would be required from his strike.

  And it was at that moment that he saw them. All five of them, standing there, behind the goal.

  And in an instant, Jamie’s world crumbled before him.

  They hadn’t even been doing anything. Just carrying the stretchers down the touchline to make sure that they were there in case anything happened during the game. But just seeing the paramedics in their fluorescent yellow jackets had suddenly brought the recall crashing back down on Jamie.

  Seeing those bright yellow jackets was enough for the memories of that fateful day – the last time he’d played against Madrid – to come tearing back into his mind.

  For the very first time since it had happened, Jamie had total recollection of his injury. Launching himself head first to clear the ball … the horrific impact of the Madrid player’s boot into his skull … the paramedics rushing on to help him … to assess him… Jamie seeing their jackets and the stretcher and instinctively pushing them away telling them he was fine, despite the booming, pulsating headache like a hammer hacking away at his brain … and then getting to the changing room at half-time … feeling wobbly, dizzy, sick … and then it had gone black.

  Jamie now watched the paramedics walking down the tunnel, readying themselves for the game. Instantly, he felt the blood drain from his body. His excitement faded into fear. His confidence dissolved into distress.

  “Jamie!” hollered Glenn Richardson from the sideline. “Here you go!”

  The crowd cheered as Richardson drifted over a gorgeous little dink of a cross to where Jamie was standing. All around fans got up to witness Jamie’s overhead kick. The final signal of his return.

  But Jamie was rooted to the spot. Paralysed by the memories that had just returned to haunt him.

  The ball simply hit him on the shoulder and bobbled away behind the goal.

  A murmur of concern raced around the ground.

  “Is he OK?”

  “His face looks blank.”

  “He’s got a problem.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  Jamie Johnson was walking off the pitch.

  “It’s all coming back, like lightning bolt flashes in my head!” stammered Jamie.

  His heart was beating like a drum and he was breathing so fast he felt as if he was about to have a panic attack.

  “I can remember my injury for the first time, how it all happened, and … I’m worried, Jack. I mean, the doctors have said I’m fine but how do they know what can happen in the game? Anything can happen out there. What if exactly the same thing happens?”

  “Jamie,” said Jack in the most certain, most positive voice she could manage. She was standing in the tunnel waiting to interview Harry Armstrong just before kick-off. “The doctors know what they’re doing. Calm down. Everything’s going to be OK.”

  Jamie shook his head. He was in a state of complete frenzy.

  “But I haven’t even gone for a proper header since I’ve come back. I’ve been too scared. What if it happens again? I can’t do it—”

  Jacqueline Marshall smiled. She had to stop Jamie talking. And she knew the perfect way.

  She leaned forward and gave Jamie Johnson a kiss. A real proper one. And as she did so, she could feel his startled, scared body begin to calm.

  “Right, enough of this,” she said, pulling away. “Now can you please get out there and give us something good to report on?”

  Jamie nodded. There was no going back now.

  “I’ll see you after the match,” he said, before walking back down the tunnel towards the pitch.

  “Make sure you do,” Jack responded. “And remember… It’s just a game.”

  Tie stands at 1-1 on aggregate.

  90 minutes are up.

  Injury-time is being played.

  If the score remains the same, Madrid go through on the away goals rule…

  Hawkstone had so very nearly done it. Jamie Johnson’s sublime first-half chip – which had seemed to kiss the underside of the crossbar on its way into the net – had, for so long, looked as though it might have been enough to send the Premier League side through to the first Champions League quarter-finals in their history.

  There had been other chances too. Jamie’s stunning wing-play had created countless opportunities for his teammates but, somehow, each of them had been spurned. And then, with just over ten minutes remaining, Gazzi, the Madrid poacher, had latched on to a loose ball in the box, turning it into the net from only six yards out.

  It had been a dagger into the ribs of the Hawkstone fans, with the Madrid coach, Fernando Nemisar, running the full length of the touchline and sliding along the grass on his knees to celebrate with the fans.

  Although Harry Amstrong had tried to rouse his troops for one final push, there was a sense in which the chance had gone. They had been so close – just minutes away – only for the dream to snatched away at the last moment.

  Many of the fans were in tears. And now, with the referee checking his watch, the final whistle loomed. Hawkstone United, this proud club, this institution that meant so much to those who loved it, was about to draw its final breath.

  Jamie picked up the ball just inside the Madrid half and tried to go on one final run, but his legs simply refused. Harry Armstrong had kept him on for the entire game. However, these last ten minutes had been too much for Jamie; his body had been out of action for too long. He had nothing left.

  He flicked the ball out to Glenn Richardson on the right wing and staggered towards the box. As he took possession of the ball, there was just something about the lightness of Richardson’s movement, the ambition in his stride, that brought one final flurry of hope to the Hawkstone fans. As one, they stood up, straining to get a better view of the action.

  In a whirl of skill and agility, Richardson beat his man and bent in a cross to the far post.

  It was a powerful, deep centre and it was heading for the exact space where Jamie was now arriving.

  The ball drifted over the goalkeeper’s head. It hit the ground and bounced up.

  It was in the air, just five yards out from the goal. Suddenly it was there for the taking. Everything.

  Jamie and the last Real Madrid defender began sprinting. They both knew whoever got there first would win the tie for their team.

  Jamie powered forward, injecting every last jolt of pace he could conjure into his sprint. But the defender had a two-yard head start; the distance was too short for Jamie to make up the gap. The defender was already launching his boot at the ball to clear it.

  Jamie’s football brain quickly clicked into action. It told him that there was now only one way Jamie could reach that ball before the defender cleared it for ever.

  He had to go with his head.

  He knew he shouldn’t. He knew every piece of logic said he should protect himself. He knew the fear in his chest was a warning sign for him to stay on his feet…

  But Jamie let his heart rule his head. He let his spirit lead his mind. And as he dived head first into the air, the world seemed to turn in slow motion.

  He could see himself from above, diving towards the ball, just as the defender lashed his boot in the exact sam
e direction.

  As he glided through the air, Jamie understood that it had all been building up to this moment. Not just the last few months, but his whole life … ever since that day when his granddad had first given him a football. This was what it had all been leading towards…

  The ball was on the line.

  The defender swung his boot. Jamie Johnson dived forward. The crowd held their breath.

  Want more thrilling footballing action? Catch up on Jamie Johnson’s journey to the top.

  Scholastic Children’s Books

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2012

  This electronic edition published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2013

  Text Copyright © Dan Freedman, 2012

  The right of Dan Freedman to be identified as the author of the book has been asserted by him

  eISBN 978 1407 14394 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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