by John Hickman
CONTENTS
The Agent
Breathe
Seeing Red
Losing it
Burning Bridges
Tough Love
The Funeral
Kicking On
Hallowed Turf
Bonus Bits!
The Agent
Harry plays the ball through and I’m onto it, behind the other team’s left-back. I look to cross, but no one is in a good position. I go past the centre-back, and I’m still looking.
Everyone is marked tight. So I hit the ball with the inside of my left boot. It curls right into the top corner. The keeper had no chance.
It’s a hat-trick. The lads crowd around me, everyone is buzzing. This is the youth cup quarter final and we are 4-0 up, with five minutes left.
The ref blows the whistle for full-time, grabs the ball and hands it to me. “You earned it,” he says.
As I walk off the pitch, I look around. There must be a few hundred people here. That might not sound like much, but it’s the biggest crowd I’ve played in front of. And they are all clapping and cheering my name. I still can’t believe it sometimes. Me, Jackson Law, playing for United’s academy.
After the match, once I’m cleaned up, I leave the stadium with Mum and my girlfriend, Lauren. A few of the other lads congratulate me again, before heading off with their families.
“I can’t believe how mint you were,” says Lauren.
I still can’t believe she’s my girlfriend sometimes. I’ve had a thing for her since we were about six. She has dark hair, bobbed on one side and shaved down on the other. She has these big brown sparkly eyes and a cute little stud in her nose. And when she smiles, my insides turn to goo.
When Lauren and I first got together, I had to deal with her evil ex-boyfriend. He even tried to make me rob the United changing rooms. But Lauren was worth all that drama. Even if he did nearly try and kill me.
The only thing I’m gutted about is Granddad not being there. He’s not well at the moment. He can hardly walk, he coughs a lot, and has trouble with his breathing. Mum and I keep telling him to go and see the doctor, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
A man walks up to me. “Excuse me,” he says. “Sorry to bother you. Have you got a minute?” He looks sharp, dressed in a nice designer suit, wearing an expensive designer watch. He looks like a film star. “I’m Paul,” he says. “Paul Logan.”
“I’m an agent,” he tells us. He seems to guess that I have no idea who he is. “I represent Jesse Walters – have you heard of him?”
I smile. I have heard of Jesse Walters. He’s my favourite United player. He broke into the first team at eighteen and scored two goals on his debut. He’s the top scorer in the Premier League this season so far and he’s only twenty.
“Is anyone representing you, Jackson?” the man asks.
I’m not really sure what he means but I don’t want to look stupid. I shake my head. “Not really,” I tell him, hoping I sound cool.
“Well, after watching you out there tonight – and after everything I've heard – it might be something you want to think about,” he says.
I think about Wheeler, how he has always said he wants to represent me, but he was just messing around. What does he know about being an agent?
Paul turns to speak to Mum. “I know some agents get a bad press,” he says.
“Call me Carol,” she tells him. Her face and neck are all blotchy, the way they always get when she’s nervous.
“This isn’t about money for me. It’s about making the right choices for my players – making sure their careers go the way they want. Now, I know you have a temper, Jackson,” he says.
I want to tell him I don’t have a temper, but I can’t lie.
“I like that,” he says. “Passion – it can take you that extra mile. But you need to keep it focussed.”
“I am,” I tell him.
“So I hear,” he says. “There’s a good story here too. A kid from a difficult background – no offence, I’m from near the Fordwell estate myself.”
“How do you know where I live?” I ask.
“I do my research,” he says. “You started at the academy late, and it has been a battle for you. People will really get on board with that. You could be a role model.”
My mum smiles when he says this. “That’s what I’ve always told him,” she says.
“Take this,” he says, and he gives me a glossy business card. “Think about what I’ve said and give me a ring. Nice meeting you all.” He gives us a smile, and then heads off.
I stand there, staring at the card, even though I can’t really focus. The words blur into thick lines of grey. The truth is, my head is spinning with thoughts of agents and playing for United and England. Playing with Jesse Walters.
“Did you see his watch?” asks Lauren. “Pretty bling, wasn’t it?”
“Probably talking a few thousand pounds,” I say.
“For a watch!” says Mum. I worry for a moment she might have a heart attack.
Back at the flats, I’m bouncing around on the landing, holding onto my match-ball, while Mum unlocks the front door. I can’t wait to get inside and tell Granddad about the match, about the hat-trick and about meeting the agent. As soon as the door is open, I rush in. “Granddad,” I shout. “Wait till you hear this.”
He’s not in the living room. The TV is on – some old comedy show – but Granddad is not there. I put the match-ball down on the sofa, nice and safe.
“Granddad?” I shout again.
I stick my head in the kitchen. No sign of him in there. I knock on the bathroom door. “Granddad, are you in there?” I ask.
“I'll go and get tea,” says Mum, as she goes past.
“Yeah, cool,” I say. I try the door, and it opens.
Then I see him.
Granddad.
He’s lying on the bathroom floor.
Breathe
I just freeze.
Then I scream for Mum.
She rushes in. “What is it, Jacks...” She sees him too. “Dad? Dad!” She goes down on her knees and lifts his head.
“Is he alright?” I ask.
She leans down, puts her ear against his chest.
“Is he?” I ask again. I can hear the creak in my throat and feel the sting in my eyes.
“He’s breathing,” she says. “Dad, can you hear me?”
He tries to reply, but he can’t get the words out.
“Call an ambulance, Jackson,” she says and I just stare at her like my brain is frozen.
“Jackson!” she calls.
I pull my phone out, unlock it. My hands are shaking. I do my best to dial 9 9 9.
A few hours later, Granddad is in hospital, in a gloomy little room. He’s hooked up to a machine.
I sit at one side of his bed and Mum sits at the other. She holds his hand and says nothing, and I just stare at the floor. I can hardly look up. The light is so bright in here, it hurts my head. Plus I don’t want to see him, not like this. Not with that oxygen mask on his face. It makes this breathing sound, then two heartbeats. It makes me think of Darth Vader.
The truth is, I’m really scared. What will I do if I lose him?
He has been like a dad to me. I wish it was me in that bed, with that thing stuck to my face. I'm young, healthy. But Granddad has been getting weaker and weaker these last few months. I should have made him see the doctor. I should have dragged him there myself.
Someone knocks at the door. “Could I have a word with you?” asks a doctor. He’s young, with floppy hair and big glasses. Dr Abbot, the name badge on his shirt says. “Your dad has very weak lungs I’m afraid,” he says to Mum. “It’s a bad case of pneumonia.”
“Will
he be OK?” I ask.
The doctor smiles at me, and nods. “We are doing everything we can.”
Seeing Red
A few days later, there is an under-sixteens game against County. Granddad is still in hospital and he’s the only thing on my mind. I keep thinking about him in that bed with that machine breathing for him. What if he doesn’t recover? What if he does recover? How much worse off will he be?
In the changing rooms, before the game, all the lads are getting ready. Ryan sits next to me. He looks the same as he did when I first met him. He has still got that same skinhead.
“Alright, mate,” he says. “What did you do with your match-ball the other day?”
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“I would have framed it,” he says.
“As if you would ever score a hat-trick,” calls Ollie from the other side of the changing room. His blond hair is brushed back – he always has the latest style. He gives me this massive smile, with his super-white teeth.
“Everything alright, Jax?” Ollie asks me.
“Yeah, man,” I lie.
Then Liam, our coach, comes in. He gives us his pre-match talk, and the next thing I know, I'm out on the pitch.
It’s a cold Wednesday evening. I know I probably shouldn’t be here but I need something to distract me from worrying about Granddad. And anyway, if I’m going to be a pro and play for England with Jesse Walters, I need to be able to play no matter what is going on at home. I need to be professional.
The ref blows his whistle and the game kicks off. I get the ball and straight away their number 6 is on me. He’s an ugly thing, like a bulldog. He has got a scruffy beard and arms covered in tattoos. I shield the ball from him, but he kicks at my ankles, grabs onto my shirt. I try to shake him off, but he holds on.
I look to the ref, but he doesn’t seem to think I’ve been fouled.
I keep the ball, but the number 6 is still kicking, still grabbing. I try to turn. One way, then the other way. I try to get away from him but he’s still holding on.
Then I lose it and shove him away from me.
Now the ref blows his whistle. He holds his arms out wide, signalling for a free kick.
“At last,” I say.
He points in the direction of my goal. The free kick has gone to County.
“To them?” I shout. “Are you joking?”
The number 6 grabs the ball and shoves me out of the way.
“Move away from the ball now,” says the ref.
“Are you actually stupid?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” says the ref. “What was that?”
I say again, “Are you actually stupid?”
“Enough of your lip,” he tells me. “Any more, and you’re booked.”
Ryan jogs over, pulls me away. “Come on, man,” he says. “We’ve only just kicked off.”
“Jackson!” Liam shouts from the sidelines. “Focus.”
Their number 6 is at me for the whole game. Little kicks, little digs. The ref gives me nothing. I do my best to hold my temper, but it’s hard.
Then Ollie knocks the ball to me. I beat a man with a step-over, and I’m running towards their goal. I see him, the number 6, charging at me. I’m going to play it through his legs, and make him look like the mug he is.
But I don’t get a chance.
He jumps in, two-footed.
I jump the tackle, but he catches my foot.
I clatter against the grass.
Even though I’m in pain, I quickly get up again. He gets up too, the mug.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “You could have broken my leg.”
He just grins at me.
My temper boils over.
I grab hold of his shirt and pull him in.
Then I nut him.
His nose pops.
Blood everywhere.
All over his face. All over his shirt and all over me. Players rush in and everything is a blur.
Losing it
Next thing I know, I’m sitting in the changing rooms, with Liam standing in front of me.
“I just don’t understand,” he says. “What were you thinking?”
I don’t answer.
“Things have been going so well,” he goes on. “You played great in the cup game last week, and I know Paul spoke to you about being your agent. I thought you had your temper under control.”
“You thought wrong,” I say quietly.
“What was that?” he asks.
“You thought wrong,” I say again only a little bit louder than last time.
“What has got into you?” he asks. “Is something going on at home?”
“None of your business,” I tell him.
“Well, that’s where you are wrong,” he says. “When something is bothering one of my players, it is my business.”
“You don’t care,” I tell him.
“How do you mean?” he asks.
“You don’t care about me,” I say. “All you care about is winning – getting three points.”
“That’s not true,” he tells me. “You know that’s not true.”
“Well,” I say. “It’s all you ever go on about.”
“My players come before anything else,” he says. “I’ve taken a big risk with you.”
“How?” I ask and I can feel myself getting hot with anger.
“You were fifteen when you joined,” he tells me. “Clubs don’t take fifteen-year-olds on. Not clubs this big, at any rate.”
“So?”
“So,” he says. “I took a chance with you. I knew about your anger, and your bad attitude. But we worked through it, because I thought you were worth it. I thought you could make it.”
“Maybe you were wrong,” I say.
“Maybe I was,” he says shaking his head.
“So what are you doing then?” I ask. “Why are you wasting your time on a loser like me?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Come on, tell me,” I demand.
“Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said all those things,” he says. “But I thought we were getting somewhere, really getting somewhere.”
I stare at him, but I don’t speak.
“I don’t know what is going on with you,” he says. “Maybe you just need some time out.”
I stare down at the floor. All I can see is Granddad, hooked up to that horrible machine.
“Maybe you could talk with our counsellor,” he goes on. “It might help, talking with someone. I can set up a meeting, if you like?”
“So you think I'm some kind of nutcase?” I shout at him.
“I didn’t say that,” says Liam.
“Forget this,” I say. I jump up. And before I know what I’m doing, I tell Liam, “I’ve had it.”
“What do you mean, ‘had it’?” he asks.
“I’ve had it with this club,” I tell him. “I’ve had it with you.”
Burning Bridges
The next day, after me and Mum have been to visit Granddad, I sit in my room watching United highlights on my laptop. I’m not really watching though. I just stare at the card Paul the agent gave me. The intercom buzzes in the hallway and I can hear Mum answer it. After a moment, she knocks on my door.
“Am I OK to come in?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
She opens the door and sticks her head in. “Paul the agent is here. Did you know he was coming?”
Paul sits with us in the living room, holding a mug of tea Mum has made him. “It was really good to hear from you, Jackson,” he says. “I’m glad you called.”
Mum looks at me, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Have you thought about what I said?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“So what do you reckon?” he asks. “Are you up for signing with me?”
“No,” I tell him.
“OK,” he says slowly and he looks over at Mum.
“To be honest, Paul,” she says. “I didn’t even know he had cal
led you. It’s not a good time for us,” she goes on. “My dad has been taken into hospital, and we are both worried about him.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he says. “I can call back another day, when you have had more time to think.”
“That might be better,” says Mum.
“I’ve had enough time,” I tell him. “I don’t need an agent.”
“OK,” says Paul. “Are you going on your own?”
“No,” I tell him. “I’ve quit. So I don’t need an agent.”
“You’ve quit?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“He doesn’t mean it,” says Mum. “He’s just upset.”
“No,” I tell her. “I mean it.”
* * *
Later that evening, I’m outside, at the back of the flats. I’m blasting the match-ball against the wall, over and over again. I needed to get outside and get some fresh air.
Then I see Lauren, out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey, Jax,” she says. “Your mum said you might be down here.”
“She knows me so well,” I say.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch,” she says. “So has Wheeler.”
I don’t say anything.
“I made you these,” she says. She opens a biscuit tin and shows me some cupcakes. “I thought they might cheer you up.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I know I’m being mean, but I can’t help it. I just want to make everyone else hurt the way I’m hurting.
“I know you’re upset,” she says. “But it’s not fair what you’re doing, shutting everyone out.”
“And you think it’s fair what has happened to my granddad?” I ask.
“No, of course not,” she says. “Did I say that?”
“I know for a fact Mum asked you to come,” I say.
“She didn’t.”
“I’m sick of everyone thinking they know what is best,” I tell her. “Telling me what to do. No one has any idea.”
“I’m supposed to be your girlfriend,” she says.
“Yeah, supposed to be,” I tell her.
“What does that mean?”
“Why don't you just go?” I say. “Leave me alone.”