World Class

by Dan Freedman

  Weakness: Discipline. Notoriously bad at taking orders. Said he would never play for Scotland again after former manager Walter Sergeant tried to substitute him against Croatia. Farrell refused to leave the pitch. A maverick talent who does not take well to authority. It will be interesting to see how Robertson handles him.

  Jamie went back and scanned all the profiles again. Not even a mention of him! Maybe the paper had gone to print before Jamie had announced that he was going to play for Scotland. Or maybe they just didn’t rate him as one of Scotland’s key players. Either way he was still disappointed not to have his own profile. But then he turned the page and saw a whole spread dedicated just to him!

  STAR MAN

  Jamie Johnson *

  Position: Winger

  Squad Number: 11

  Age: 18

  Caps: 0

  The fearless winger may be small but he uses his low centre of balance and electric pace to dance away from defenders with ease. Has everything in his locker to be one of the brightest stars of the World Cup. Indeed, this tournament could be his passport to an even bigger stage, as he is reported to have already caught the eye of several of Europe’s superclubs.

  Strength: Courage and charisma. Worshipped in England, Johnson just loves playing football. Has skill, pace and technique by the barrel-load. Also capable of enviable range of passing, Johnson has been blessed with a wand of a left foot.

  Weakness: His temper may be an issue. Has already been sent off three times in his career. Finds it difficult to control his anger. Opponents will look to exploit this. Is he simply too young?

  *Subject to Scotland beating Fifa deadline to register the player.

  5 THINGS YOU DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT SCOTLAND’S STAR MAN

  • James Michael Johnson was born in Hawkstone and has just turned 18 (birthday 18 May).

  • First came to prominence when, as mascot for Hawkstone United aged 11, he scored an overhead kick!

  • Was so good at school his teacher stopped him using his wand of a left foot in practice matches.

  • Puts his football skills down to his grandfather – a Scottish youth international whose career was cut short by a knee injury at 17.

  • His favourite foods are Chinese and chicken and chips but limits himself to eating them only once a month!

  Jamie closed the pull-out. Although he was glad that they had named him as the Star Man, he still felt a bit annoyed. Not because they had pointed out that he had problems controlling his temper – Jamie accepted that. It was true; sometimes he lost it. That was just the way he was.

  And it didn’t bother him that they had questioned his age either; in football, if you were good enough, you were old enough. Everyone knew that.

  No, it was actually the bit where they had written earlier in the piece that he’d been “blessed” to have such a good left foot that had got up Jamie’s nose.

  Yes, it was true that he’d been lucky to have been born with some natural talent – so were thousands of people. But that was only half of the deal. Everything else was down to pure hard work. And a story Mike had once told him. Well, told him lots of times, in fact.

  Every Christmas without fail, Mike had told Jamie the exact same story about the day one bad pass had almost killed him. It had happened when Mike was a ten-year-old kid growing up in Scotland. He’d been playing football with his brothers one afternoon and he’d made a really bad pass, kicking the ball into a river by mistake. His brothers – both older than him – had forced him to go in and get the ball back but, because the river had been almost frozen, Mike had ended up contracting pneumonia. It had been such a severe case that he’d ended up in hospital and had almost died! And all because of one bad pass.

  So, from the moment that Jamie had started playing football, Mike had constantly drummed into him that the aim of the game was not to kick the ball. It was to keep it. He’d made Jamie promise that he would practise his passing every single day of his life and Jamie had not let him down.

  Even now, he still stayed on for hours after training, honing his skills to become the best player that he could possibly be.

  That was why Jamie didn’t like it when people said that he had been “blessed”. He wasn’t lucky. Someone hadn’t just “given him” the ability that he had today. He’d earned it.

  And tomorrow, in his first World Cup training session with Scotland, he’d need to prove that once again to his new teammates, all of whom would be waiting to see exactly what Jamie Johnson could do.

  There was just one last thing left to do before getting into bed. Jamie opened up the World Cup Guide and ripped the Wall Chart out of the centre pages.

  It had all the groups, all the teams and the match schedule for the entire tournament. Jamie would fill it in after every game. As he stuck the chart to the wall in his room, Jamie’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the two spaces left for the teams that would contest the World Cup Final on 11 July at Wembley.

  The World Cup Final. The biggest game on earth. What Jamie would give to play in a game like that…

  Jamie wanted to get a good feed in before his first training session with his new teammates. The problem was, he didn’t know what to choose. There were scrambled eggs, poached eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and lots of—

  “Baked beans! My favourite!” said Allie Stone, Scotland’s huge goalkeeper, who was lining up behind Jamie in the queue for breakfast. He’d just become the first member of the squad to speak to Jamie.

  “Beans give me rocket fuel, if you know what I mean!” he smiled. “Allie Stone – nice to meet you.”

  And without a hint of warning, Allie let rip with what sounded like a ginormous, improbably loud fart. It sounded more like a trumpet noise than anything a human body should naturally be able to create.

  At first Jamie wasn’t entirely sure that he’d heard right. Would a footballer really stand there, in the middle of a World Cup training camp, farting his head off? But, then, almost immediately, Jamie heard it again. And this time it was entirely unmistakeable. As was the huge grin plastered across Allie Stone’s face.

  The fact that not a soul had even turned to acknowledge the loudness of Allie’s backfiring was a sure indication that this was far from unusual behaviour for the big man. This fellow was, quite clearly, a formidable farter.

  “All right, Allie, nice to meet you,” said Jamie, trying to ignore the continual noises being produced by his new goalkeeper’s rear end.

  “Call me Stonefish,” said the big keeper, offering one of his humongous hands for Jamie to shake. He had a friendly smile – revealing the absence of four front teeth – and exuded an uncomplicated kind of warmth which immediately made Jamie feel comfortable in his presence.

  “OK, will do, Stonefish!” said Jamie, carefully loading a poached egg on to his toast, trying not to tear the thin layer of egg white that housed the yolk.

  “Yeah, we all have nicknames here,” announced Stonefish.

  “Oh, right – so how come yours is Stonefish?” asked Jamie, struggling to hold in his laughter as Allie Stone produced another real whopper. Was there no end to this man’s wind?

  “God knows!” laughed Stonefish as he piled a fourth spoonful of baked beans on to his plate. “Treach is the man who gives out the names.”

  Jamie knew who Stonefish was talking about. Ronnie Treacher was the other left winger in the squad and Jamie had heard that he wasn’t too happy about Jamie joining up with Scotland at such a late stage.

  Feeling a little like the kid who wants to make new friends on the first day at school, Jamie poured himself some orange juice and looked around the hotel breakfast room for somewhere to sit.

  In the corner was the big ponytailed striker, Duncan Farrell. He was alone and looked as if he didn’t want to be disturbed. Meanwhile, on another table, the captain, Cameron M
cManus, and his centre-half partner, Owen Tulley, were deep in conversation, so Jamie was happy to see Stonefish waving him over to join him.

  Stonefish lifted his leg from his seat and let out a little high-pitched squeaker by way of welcoming Jamie to the table.

  Then, just as Jamie was sitting down, Stonefish slapped him on the back and said, “Ah – speak of the devil. Here comes Treach.”

  Jamie watched Ronnie Treacher take a seat opposite them. He was a thin, wiry man with curly black hair that was greying at his temples.

  “So what nickname are we gonna give to Jamie then?” Stonefish asked Treacher cheerily. “Poor little soul feels left out without a nickname of his own.”

  “At Hawkstone they call me SatNav,” Jamie added eagerly.

  But Ronnie Treacher turned and gave Jamie the kind of withering look a wrestler might give an opponent before clotheslining him. Jamie gulped and felt the smile drop off his face.

  Treacher had piercing weasel-like eyes perched closely together above a broken nose, and they were homed in directly on Jamie.

  “Why is that then?” he said finally, in a voice that could not have sounded more bitter if he’d tried.

  “Because my passes and crosses always find their destination,” said Jamie proudly.

  “Yeah?” replied Treacher. “I thought it was because you’ve got an annoying voice and you keep talking when everyone wishes you’d just shut up.”

  For a second, Jamie laughed, thinking it was a joke. Then he realized Treacher wasn’t smiling. The message was simple. Not every member of the Scotland squad was entirely happy to have Jamie on board.

  “Put your money where your mouth is,” challenged Allie Stone, bouncing up and down on his goal line. “Fifty quid says you can’t score a penalty against me!”

  The two of them were the last ones out on to the training pitch. The session had gone well and Jamie had lashed in five goals in the practice match. But he still wanted to work some more on his finishing, so he’d asked Stonefish to stay on to help him out. That was when the bet had come up.

  “You’re on,” said Jamie, quickly putting the ball down before Stonefish changed his mind. He hadn’t missed a penalty in about five years. This was going to be easy money.

  Then, as Jamie took three steps back, Allie Stone started a routine the likes of which Jamie had never seen before. It was obviously designed to put Jamie off.

  First Stonefish started headbutting the post; then he jumped on to the ground and began break-dancing horrifically in the grass, before finally jumping up to hang from the crossbar, making screeching chimpanzee-like sounds as he swung in the air.

  Jamie shook his head and concentrated on what he had to do. The World Cup was just around the corner. He was going to have to put up with worse than this during the tournament and besides, he’d already decided what he was going to do with this spot kick. Top corner. Right-hand side.

  Jamie sprinted up to the ball and was just about to strike it home when he looked up to see that Allie Stone had pulled down his shorts and his pants and was now doing a full-scale moony right in Jamie’s face.

  Jamie couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He ended up smacking the ball right into Stonefish’s bare bottom. It was as though his backside was a magnet to the ball!

  The ball belted straight into Stonefish’s behind before ballooning high over the bar, and although the powerful impact had left a big, round, red impression the size of a football on his bottom, the keeper turned around with a look of pure jubilation etched across his face.

  “Fifty quid!” he shouted triumphantly, dancing around his goal, smacking his big bum as he went. “You owe me fifty quid. That’s the bottom line, my friend – now show me the money!!”

  “Seriously, Brian. How far do you think you can take this team – realistically? This is Scotland, remember?”

  The manager had to do an official press conference before every game. It was a difficult proposition, not least because the journalists all worked in a pack, latching on to any misplaced word, attempting to take advantage and get a headline.

  But it was always worth watching a Brian Robertson press conference. He took the journalists on at their own game. It was a war he enjoyed waging.

  “Who knows how far we can go?” he said. “But I’ll tell you something right now – me and my squad have not just come here to make up the numbers. Obviously I’m looking forward to seeing Germany and Brazil both play their first games tonight, but from what I’ve seen of the tournament so far, I don’t think there’s anything for us to fear, so there’s no reason why we can’t go all the way.”

  The journalists could not help but let their amusement show.

  “But you can’t expect us to believe that you can suddenly turn this lot into World Cup winners. Come on, Sir Brian, you’re in the Group of Death – even qualifying for the next round’s a pretty long shot, isn’t it?”

  “To be frank with you, I couldn’t care less what you think,” Robertson responded. “It’s what my players believe, that’s what counts. You lot can sit there and giggle as much as you want – I can see you. But don’t expect me to hang around to watch it. I’ve got a World Cup to win.”

  And with that, Sir Brian Robertson stood up and strode out of the room.

  Watching in his hotel room, Jamie stared wide-eyed at his TV. That was the way this tournament was going to be, he’d realized; this bunch of players and the manager against the world.

  And he very much sensed that this was just how Sir Brian Robertson liked it.

  Jamie strode towards it. It was over thirty centimetres tall, made entirely of gold and, to Jamie, it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

  His hat-trick had blown away the opposition and now it was time for him to collect his prize.

  Just like Bobby Moore at Wembley all those years ago, Jamie wiped his hands clean on his jersey and took the glorious prize firmly in his hands. Then he kissed the World Cup trophy and lifted it high into the—

  Suddenly Jamie was awake. The aggressive siren of the hotel phone by his bed was boxing his ears.

  Jamie opened his heavy eyes and stretched over to the side of the bed.

  “Hello?” he said wearily, still trying to track down his senses.

  At first there was no sound on the other end of the line, but then slowly it started: the breathing. Heavy, aggressive breathing. It sent a shudder down Jamie’s back as if a spider had crawled down his spine.

  “Who is this?” demanded Jamie, anger and fear replacing his sleepiness.

  Still the breathing. If anything now more threatening.

  “I know it’s you, Bertorelli!” growled Jamie, sitting bolt upright in his bed. “When are you going to get it into your thick head that I didn’t do anything wrong? I just told the police what you were up to. You’re a cheat and a criminal and you got what you deserved!”

  Heavy, ominous breathing.

  Jamie thought back to what Bertorelli had said on the TV – that he wanted revenge.

  “I’m not scared of you either,” barked Jamie, but the tremor of fear in his voice said otherwise. “And I’m having this phone monitored, so you best not be calling me again!”

  And with that Jamie slammed down the phone before unplugging it at the socket.

  He tried to get back to sleep, but it was no use. His adrenaline was pumping and his eyes were wide open, staring into the darkness that surrounded him.

  It wasn’t just this phone call that had disturbed Jamie, or the timing of it – the night before Scotland’s first group match – it was the fact that this had now happened for four nights in a row.

  Tomorrow the whole world would be watching him play football. But tonight, as a clock somewhere in the hotel struck 1 a.m., Jamie felt vulnerable and completely on his own.

  Jamie was one of the first on the team bus and took one o
f the prized seats on the back row. He wanted to get settled, get his match head on and focus on the specific instructions Brian Robertson had given him in the pre-match meeting: if he didn’t get any joy going down the line in the first twenty minutes, Jamie had been instructed to switch wings so that he could cut inside from the right flank and power in some thunderbolt shots at the goal.

  Jamie was just trying to visualize himself firing a cataclysmic masterblaster into the roof of the net when a group of his teammates clambered over him to look out of the window back at the hotel.

  “Look at her! She’s fit as!” the lads were saying, pointing at a girl who was waving the team coach off as it departed.

  “Hey, look. She’s waving at me!”

  “No, you egg! She’s waving at me!”

  Jamie looked at the girl. He knew who she was. She worked in the hair salon in the hotel and she’d smiled at him the other day when he’d walked past.

  Jamie knew why the other lads were taken with her – she had shiny blonde hair and bright blue eyes – but he wasn’t interested. He already had his eyes on someone else.

  “Oi, PratNav – you’re in my seat,” said a menacing voice, rudely interrupting Jamie’s pre-match focus.

  Jamie looked up to see Ronnie Treacher. He did not seem happy.

  “I said: you’re in my seat,” he snarled, his thin, gaunt features tightening with anger.

  “Oh, right,” said Jamie, preparing to get up and move somewhere else. If he was honest, he could understand that Treacher was upset. Jamie had taken his place in the team and no footballer ever liked the feeling of being dropped – especially not for a World Cup game.

  “Move!”

  Now that Jamie didn’t like. There were ways of doing things and he didn’t like the way Treacher was doing this. If he’d asked Jamie politely to swap seats, there wouldn’t have been a problem. But speaking to Jamie like this – as though he were a piece of dirt – was just guaranteed to wind Jamie up. Generally, Jamie didn’t go looking for trouble but if it came to him, he had no problem standing up for himself.