World Class

by Dan Freedman

  Jamie tried to reproduce his “cool” smile that he’d practised hundreds of times in the mirror.

  He stared at the camera, concentrating on tensing his cheeks at the right time.

  But while he was focusing on getting his look right, Loretta did something that took Jamie completely by surprise.

  Just as the flash went off, she quickly leaned her lips into his cheek and gave him a kiss!

  Jamie smiled. He’d had every single paper delivered to his room. And he hadn’t been disappointed. He was on practically every back page. As always, he read Charles Summers’ report first. He didn’t always understand every word Summers wrote, but he liked the descriptions he used. Sometimes it sounded almost like poetry. If Jamie had been good at English instead of football, he would have liked to have been a football writer as good as Charles Summers.

  But probably the best part of all was the fact that, beneath Charles Summers’ report, the newspaper had employed an illustrator to recreate Jamie’s rainbow flick, to show kids at home how to do it themselves!

  Jamie gave the newspaper ten out of ten for putting in those illustrations. He still practised his skills every day, so he liked the thought of kids up and down the country going out to work on their own rainbow flicks. He’d like to know if Robbie Simmonds could do that!

  Jamie started to cut some of the reports out of the papers. His mum was away and he knew she’d want him to keep them for her folder. At home she’d kept all the articles that had ever been written about him, going right back to the ones from the local newspaper when he was still at school. Jamie suspected that she’d probably missed his goal against France anyway – she had an unfortunate habit of somehow always managing to be in the toilet whenever Jamie scored!

  He was just throwing away the rest of the papers when he thought he saw someone that looked like him on the front page of one of the tabloids.

  Jamie looked closer and could not believe what he saw. It was him.

  And there in full colour beneath the headlines was that picture of him and Loretta in the hotel, with her kissing him on the cheek!

  “Hooray!!!!” shouted the players as Jamie walked into the breakfast room. “Casanova!!!!!”

  Jamie took one look at the restaurant tables, which were covered with about twenty copies of the picture of him and Loretta, and walked straight back out.

  There was no point in putting it off any further.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, marching into the hotel hairdresser’s. He was seething. Not just at the lies that had been written about him, but also at the fact that Jack would have read the newspaper too. People would be asking her what it felt like to have been “substituted”. She’d think he was trying to get back at her for the interview after the Nigeria game. It was all a complete disaster.

  “Who are you after, love?” asked a cheerful podgy woman, who was washing a female customer’s hair.

  “Loretta,” Jamie said, almost choking on her name. “I need to speak to her. What time does she start?”

  “Oh, Loretta doesn’t work here any more. If you want to speak to her now, you’ll have to go through her agent.”

  “Agent?!” Jamie repeated. “You’re kidding me! What does she need an agent for?”

  He stomped out. This was absolutely ludicrous!

  Should he call Jack and try to explain or just leave it and hope it all went away?Both options seemed like losing ones. He sat down on the bed and scratched the back of his head, hard.

  Instinctively, he went to spin his ring on his bedside table… And then his body went freezing cold. His heart stopped and a leaping feeling of panic enveloped him.

  He frantically ripped away the duvet and all the sheets. Nothing. He got on his knees to search on the floor under the bed. Not there either.

  He ransacked all the clothes in his cupboard, forcing his hand into every pocket of every piece of clothing … but there was no sign of it.

  He checked the bath, the shower and the bedside table, but it wasn’t in any of those places either.

  His forehead was wet with sweat and his throat had contracted to such an extent that no air could get in or out.

  With a shaking hand and a faltering voice, he picked up the phone in his room and called down to the hotel reception.

  “Hi … it’s Jamie Johnson in room 121,” he said, trying to sound calm despite the torrent of sickness that was welling up within him. “Listen, have you, by any chance, had a ring handed in to you?… Gold, it’s got an inscription… I don’t know, this morning… No, if I knew that, then I wouldn’t be calling you would I?! Sorry, it’s just I have to get it back… Yes … please check everywhere. If you find it, call me straightaway – it doesn’t matter what time it is – just call me … please.”

  Jamie put the phone back down and sat on his bed, trying to force himself to breathe.

  He looked down at his hand. Without his ring, his finger looked pale, white, vulnerable. It looked disgusting.

  Jamie clenched his hand into a fist and ordered it to crash into his chin. He actually punched himself, such was the level of his fury.

  He didn’t just want to hurt himself. He wanted to destroy himself. It was all he deserved.

  That ring meant more to him than any possession in the world.

  Why was it that he seemed to lose everything in life that he cared about?

  “There is no romance,” said Jamie grumpily. “That girl asked for a photograph. That’s it. The papers just made the rest up. I’d appreciate it if we could stick to the football, please.”

  Jamie was in a bad mood and he wasn’t prepared to change it, even for this TV interview with Jack. Like everyone else in the squad, he was bored of waiting and bored of talking. The days between the matches had seemed like weeks.

  The manager had tried to liven the evenings up with group activities, but his maverick striker had not made it easy. When Sir Brian had suggested a night out at the movies, Duncan Farrell, famous for his fits of boredom, had shaken his head and said he wasn’t interested. Then the next day, the boss arranged for them all to go out to an Italian restaurant, and Farrell had said that he fancied going to see a film instead!

  The players were going stir-crazy. At times the Riverside Hotel felt like a five-star prison. Meanwhile, Jamie had suddenly been hit by the horrible thought that maybe one of his teammates had stolen his ring. Or one of the backroom staff. He’d tried snooping around in people’s bags, but then he’d realized he was the one who would end up looking like the thief.

  Though she was trying to be professional, Jamie could tell Jack was in a bad mood today too. Her nostrils were flaring when she spoke. That was always one of the giveaway signs with her. Jamie knew them all. In fact, there was nothing that either Jamie or Jack could hide from each other. They always knew what the other was thinking.

  “Yes, let’s look ahead to that crucial game against Argentina tomorrow,” Jack said, refusing to make eye contact with Jamie. “How do you feel about lining up against Mattheus Bertorelli? It’s not exactly a secret that you two have, to put it mildly, had your differences.”

  Jamie nodded. Jack knew better than anyone about what had really happened; how Jamie had overheard Bertorelli planning to fix a Hawkstone match – a discovery which had resulted in his own club teammate going to prison.

  “Yeah, it’ll be fine,” said Jamie. “It’s all water under the bridge.”

  “Are you sure about that? I mean, Bertorelli’s nickname in Argentina is ‘The Skilful Assassin’,” warned Jack. “With your previous injuries, aren’t you worried that—”

  “I said it’ll be fine,” insisted Jamie, getting irritated now. “We’ll shake hands before the game and it’ll be done.”

  As the interview finished, neither Jamie nor Jack said goodbye. They both just took off their microphones and walked away.

  They m
ay not have used the words out loud, but they were both thinking the same thing: You can go to hell.

  Current Standings

  Before Final Group Match

  Group D

  Final Group Fixture

  Scotland require a win or draw to reach the last 16

  “Hand it over, then,” said Tommy, with an even bigger smile than usual, stretching out his open palm to Jamie.

  “What?” said Jamie. There were twenty-five minutes left until kick-off. His mind was set to match mode.

  “Your granddad’s ring. Don’t you want me to look after it for you?”

  Jamie looked at the floor. Tommy must have been the only person in the whole Scotland set-up that didn’t know Jamie had lost it. How had he not heard? Jamie must have asked every player ten times if they’d seen it.

  He was just about to ask Tommy if he had any idea where the ring might be when Sir Brian Robertson intervened.

  “Can I have a quick word?” Robertson asked, putting his arm around Jamie and taking him to a corner of the dressing room for one of their little chats.

  “Don’t wind him up,” Robertson said to Jamie in a soft but icily clear voice.

  “Who? Tommy? I was just going to ask him if he’d seen my r—”

  “Bertorelli, Jamie. I’m talking about Bertorelli. Don’t wind him up. We both know that he’s going to come looking for you today, but I don’t want you to give him any excuses. And, if he does, you just let the referee handle it and don’t get involved. OK? Just play your normal game. This is very important, Jamie. This guy is not like us – he doesn’t play by the same rules. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” replied Jamie.

  And what was more, he knew Robertson was right.

  Jamie could sense the cameras zoom in on him as he stepped forwards. He did not smile or make eye contact; he simply reached out his hand.

  But Bertorelli completely ignored the handshake and walked straight past Jamie, offering only a look of pure hatred.

  His eyes seemed to be saying: “You sent me to prison. Now I’m going to put you through hell.”

  Fine, Jamie thought to himself. That was your last chance. If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s the way we’ll play it. You can bring it any time you want.

  Bertorelli may have been nicknamed the The Skilful Assassin, but Jamie was no mug. He knew how to look after himself.

  Jamie was just stretching his hamstrings when he felt someone behind him flicking his ear really hard. He spun around quickly to find a familiar face standing next to him, right there on the touchline.

  “All right?” the figure beamed. It was an eleven-year-old boy with stud earrings and tracks in his hair.

  “Robbie!” said Jamie. “What are you doing here?”

  “Deerrr! You doughnut! I’m the ball boy – remember! You’re the one that sorted it out for me with the football people”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jamie, still distracted by his encounter with Bertorelli.

  “Don’t worry about him either,” said Robbie, following the line of Jamie’s resentful stare. “I’ve got something up my sleeve for him!”

  The floodlights were on. The turf was lush, wet and ready. The fans were in place and an air of expectancy filled the ground.

  Jamie stood in the centre circle with Duncan Farrell. The unique, unmistakeable scent of the freshly watered pitch was carried to him on the warm evening breeze.

  The stage was set. This was what the World Cup was all about. This was what football was all about.

  The referee blew his whistle.

  Final Group Game

  “And right from the first kick, we can see the urgency that Argentina are injecting into their game. Playing their innovative 3-3-1-3 system, designed to win the midfield battle, they clearly want to finish top of the group, meaning they would avoid the huge obstacle that Brazil would represent in the next round.

  “The ball is out for a throw-in and Mattheus Bertorelli, leading from the front, charges over to take a quick one, but what’s happening there? The ballboy seems to be holding on to the ball… Hang on … is he juggling with it?”

  Robbie Simmonds flicked the ball up into the air. He knew he was being cheeky and that he shouldn’t be doing this but What the hell? he thought to himself. I’m on camera, there are loads of people watching – this is my chance to show off my skills!

  Robbie balanced the ball carefully on his forehead before flicking the ball back into the air and then allowing it to land on his neck.

  Now, some of the fans were beginning to take notice, giving Robbie a little cheer or two. That was all the incentive he needed to carry on, so although he was now aware that Bertorelli was arrogantly waiting for the ball, Robbie just completely ignored him. Instead he dropped his body to the ground and did a set of five perfect press-ups, all with the ball balancing on his back!

  “Nice one!” shouted the fans, now laughing and clapping as Robbie leapt back to his feet, giving one of the girls a wink as he began juggling the ball in time to their applause.

  “Hey! Give the ball! Now!!” Bertorelli venomously shouted in Robbie’s direction.

  But Robbie was still having way too much fun to end the party here. He did a couple of around-the-worlds to make sure that everyone was aware of all of his street skills.

  “Idiot!!” Bertorelli roared. “Give the ball or I kick you in face!”

  But Robbie wasn’t scared of Bertorelli. He’d grown up having scraps every day with his older brother, Dillon, who was much bigger and harder than Bertorelli.

  You want your ball back? Robbie laughed to himself as Bertorelli now strode angrily towards him. Fine, you can have it back!

  And with that, Robbie did a final back-heel into the air before volleying the ball right at Bertorelli. In exactly the area where it hurt most!

  Bertorelli slumped to the ground while Robbie turned to bow to the crowd. The Tartan Army loved him!

  The referee, however, was not so amused and ran over to help Bertorelli. He immediately ordered Robbie to be sent away from the pitch.

  But Robbie didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned; he was accepting and even milking the standing ovation he was receiving from the fans as though he were a seasoned showbiz star! He even blew a couple of kisses into the crowd before disappearing down the tunnel.

  Bertorelli pushed the referee away and quickly got back to his feet to take the throw, but Jamie could see that he was still hurt. He knew that a kick in the goolies was agony no matter how much you tried to hide it!

  Obviously what Robbie had done was wrong, but somehow Jamie couldn’t help but smile. Robbie was one of those people who just seemed to get away with breaking the rules. Besides, it had brought the crowd to life too. The Tartan Army were now in full voice with “Flower of Scotland”. They had loved Robbie’s little turn.

  Not that Jamie was about to let Robbie take all the glory.

  He was ready to turn up the heat on Argentina, and he knew exactly who he wanted to burn.

  The moment Bertorelli next had the ball, Jamie left his station on the left wing and sped across the pitch to close down his opposite number. Bertorelli was a great player and an experienced international competitor, but his skills were his shooting, his set-pieces and his distribution – not his dribbling. Moreover, he was still recovering from Robbie’s strike right in the bullseye!

  Suddenly aware of the close attention he was receiving from Jamie, Bertorelli tried to wheel away, swinging his elbows out dangerously.

  But there was no way Bertorelli was going to escape. Jamie avoided the elbow jabs and nipped in to steal the ball. As soon as he had it, he sprinted forwards with a blistering turn of pace.

  Cutting inside on his left foot, he bore right through the heart of the Argentinian defence, which had no power to resist the
charms of his charge.

  Only a blatant shoulder barge from the rugged Argentinian centre-half, Juan Rattin, was able to stop Jamie when surely his second goal of the tournament awaited him.

  “Johnson goes down … and is it? Yes it is! The referee had no hesitation. He’s pointed to the spot. And Scotland have been awarded a penalty here! Even though the Argentinian players are surrounding the referee, they can’t really have any complaints. Yes, you can see it there on the replay – it’s a stonewaller. Definite spot-kick. And now, Johnson picks himself up and dusts himself down. He’s yet to miss a penalty in professional football and he’ll be hoping to keep that record going now.”

  Jamie loved taking penalties. He felt it was the mark of a top player, a true talent, to be able to step up in any circumstance and dispatch the ball home. Yes, it was easy in a practice match or even in a league game when you were already 2-0 up. But to take the responsibility for a crucial spot-kick in a match as big as this? It was Jamie’s chance to prove to the world that he was born to play this game.

  He took a deep breath and kissed the ball. Then he placed it down on the penalty spot and took two steps back. His routine had been perfected over many years. His technique honed by hundreds of hours of practice. All to ensure that, when the moment came, he would be able to do what he had been put on this earth to do. That purpose was to stick the ball into the back of the net and that moment was now. Right now.

  Jamie sprinted hard at the ball to suggest he was going to thump it low and hard into the corner of the net but then – at the very last second – he slowed right down and, as calm as you like, simply chipped the ball straight down the middle of the goal! He sent it sailing softly through the air like a dandelion seed, drifting lazily on the wind. The keeper was flummoxed, flailing but failing to save it. Goal!