by Dan Freedman
It was only when Faz had tilted his head and said the word “Farrell” that it had finally dawned on the genial old man exactly who was standing in his house at midnight on the night before Scotland were due to face Brazil.
Perhaps understandably, the man had almost fainted on the spot, but after a hot mug of tea had helped him regain his composure, he had been kind enough to call his local minicab firm to come and pick up the two wayward stars.
The driver had been so excited to have Johnson and Farrell in the back of his cab that he’d told them not to worry about the fact that they didn’t have any money and, in exchange for a few autographs for his kids, he’d promised that he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to the press.
It had actually looked as if they might get away with the whole escapade as the pair – modelling some very dodgy-looking striped pyjamas – tiptoed their way back into the hotel reception in the early hours of the morning.
However, right there waiting for them, wearing a look of pure rage, was Sir Brian Robertson.
Like two timid children facing an angry father, the players offered their best expressions of meek regret.
Robertson gave them both a look of utter contempt and said simply: “I’ll deal with you two after the game.”
“OK,” said the doctor. “You might feel a slight scratch.”
Jamie tried not to look. He hated needles. The thought of the sharp metal piercing through the layers of his skin made him shiver … but he had no choice. If he wanted to play in this game, he needed to have this injection in his knee. The recurring memory of Mike’s career ending at the age of seventeen, through injury, kept haunting him, but he told the evil whisper in his head to shut up.
This was the World Cup. This was his World Cup and nothing was going to stop him from playing.
“OK, all done,” said the doctor, taking off his gloves. “You’re getting used to these now, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Jamie. He knew that was nothing to be proud of. What he was doing to his body was at best unnatural and at worst highly dangerous.
He stretched his knee backwards and forwards. Suddenly, he was completely pain free. He blocked the damage he was doing from his mind and focused on the only fact that mattered: he was going to be playing today.
It felt strange not to have the boss there with them in the dressing room. Everyone had expected him to be banned from the dugout. But not letting him even talk to his players in the dressing room seemed way too harsh. The room seemed so empty without his giant presence.
There were still forty minutes until kick-off and, without a pre-match team talk from the boss, Jamie went out on to the pristine pitch to warm up and take in the atmosphere. White Hart Lane was just starting to fill up. He looked up at the big TV screens that were housed high above the pitch.
They were broadcasting the press conference of Mario Caesar, Brazil’s manager, from the day before. Jamie had watched it at the time so he knew what was coming next.
“Are you surprised that Jamie Johnson seems set to play – after what happened to him against Argentina?” the Scottish journalist had asked Caesar.
“With great players, nothing should surprise you,” Caesar, an old, grey-haired legend of the game, had responded. “We know Jamie Johnson very well. We have watched many games of him. We know this player has a heart like a lion. In Brazil, we would call him Fenomeno. We will need to watch him very closely.”
Jamie juggled the ball and pinged it into the back of the net. It was a perfect strike – one of those Jamie knew he’d nailed, almost before he had made contact with the ball. His body shape had been virtually immaculate.
A group of fans behind the goal instantly clapped and started cheering his name.
Jamie waved to them and nodded to a ballboy to chuck him another ball. Fenomeno. He’d look that one up after the game.
Jamie knew he and his teammates were going to be up against something special as soon as he saw the Brazil team come out to warm up.
While the Scotland players were diligently going through their short sprint exercises and keep-ball games, the Brazilians were intent on displaying their full array of tricks. Two of their players were even volleying the ball to each other from about twenty-five yards away. They kept smashing the ball at each other, first time, on the volley, without even letting the ball bounce. Jamie wondered if anyone in the crowd knew how hard that actually was to do. If he was honest, he would probably have paid just to watch them warm up!
Then Jamie zeroed in on Rodinaldo, the Brazilian playmaker and the current World Player of the Year. The number 10 had tilted his head back and was balancing the ball on his lips!
Jamie stared at him. His physique was immense. Most pacey attackers were short and fast like Jamie, using their skill, feints and swift changes of direction to manipulate the ball and shimmy past opponents. But this guy could do all of that as well as being six foot two inches tall and built like a cruiserweight boxer. He’d been timed doing the hundred metres in 10.54 seconds. In his football boots.
Jamie remembered that Robbie had asked him to get Rodinaldo’s shirt after the game. That would be fine, Jamie thought to himself. Only problem is, I’ve got to catch him first.
If Jamie had thought Brazil were going to be the best team he’d ever played against, he was wrong. They were better than that.
They were the best team he had ever seen in his life and they seemed intent on giving Scotland the mother of all footballing lessons.
If any other team had teased and taunted Scotland the way that Brazil were doing now, Jamie would have assumed that they were taking the mickey on purpose. But these guys weren’t. They were just having fun with a football.
Every time they tackled a Scotland player, they winked to one of their teammates, and each time one of their own moves broke down, they still indulged in a warm hug as soon as the ball went out of play.
They had so much time on the ball that, as they were spraying it around the pitch like a bunch of mates playing Frisbee in the park, they even raised their hands to thank their teammates for the pass, while the ball was still in the air on its way to them.
This was football on another level. From a different dimension.
Despite the fact that it had gone 8 p.m., the temperatures were unusually high, with a dry, static heat – which made it difficult to breathe – filling the windless air.
Chasing around the pitch after the ball like dogs being teased by cruel owners, the Scotland players visibly wilted in the extreme conditions. Even the contest between the fans was becoming one-sided. Despite the fact that the Tartan Army, with England being right on their doorstep, outnumbered the Brazilians by about five to one in the stadium, the colour and the noise being produced by the South Americans was unbelievable. The whistles, the Samba beats … the Brazilian girls! Watching the fans was almost as entertaining as watching the football.
But in truth, there was only one star attraction. Rodinaldo was running the show. His skills were sublime. He’d mastered the art of looking in one direction and passing in the other, and the speed of his feet on the ball was almost balletic.
His crowning moment had come ten minutes before half-time when he’d bent home a free-kick with such finesse and wizardry that Allie Stone had whacked his head on his own post as he attempted – in vain – to keep it out.
Jamie had watched on as Rodinaldo, with his trademark smile, had jogged casually over to the corner flag and, taking it gracefully into his hand, had proceeded to lead it in a little samba dance.
Jamie shook his head in admiration. Even the guy’s celebrations were class.
As they slipped feebly into the dressing room and collapsed on to the benches, every single one of the Scotland players was bathed in sweat. Panting and out of breath, they were still only halfway through the harshest lesson that football had ever taught them. Had it not been for
a couple of quite stunning reflex saves from Allie Stone, Brazil would already have been out of sight.
What the Scotland players would have given to have had Sir Brian Robertson there with them. Now, more than ever before, they needed their manager.
And then, as if by a footballing miracle, the man himself suddenly appeared right in front of them.
His players were overcome by surprise and happiness.
“Boss!” they yelled. “What are you doing here? You’re banned! What if they see y—”
“Never mind all that,” snapped Robertson. “Now, do you want to get back into this game or not?”
There was hardly any time, but those few seconds were enough for Sir Brian Robertson to deliver the immortal lines to his team…
“World class,” he said, stalking the dressing room, looking each of his players in the eye.
“Do you want to know what that means? What it really stands for? It means that, in the biggest game of your entire life, you look inside yourself and you find another level. You scale new heights and play better than you’ve ever done before.”
Robertson let his words sink in. Then he smiled and continued in a hushed tone that made every one of his players listen ever more intently.
“Remember that old saying in football, boys – ‘Form is temporary and class is permanent.’ That’s true. But let me also tell you that world class – genuine world class – well, that’s for ever.
“Are you world class? We’re about to find out.”
The referee checked with his linesman before bringing the whistle to his mouth to get the second half under way.
And then, almost at that exact moment, something happened which no one in the ground was expecting. Not even the experts had predicted it. But it was to change the entire course of the match and, for that matter, the World Cup. A cluster of thick black clouds suddenly covered the sky and there was a loud crack of thunder. For a moment, the night was eerily still. And then the heavens truly opened. The rain didn’t just fall from the sky, it rushed down with tropical force. In just a few minutes, the entire pitch was drenched and all the players were so wet they looked as though they had been put in the washing machine by mistake.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Jamie wondered whether he might actually drown.
But although the rain was pouring like a river from his head and into his eyes, the water was also stirring something within him. It was sometimes in these conditions, when everything seemed to be going wrong, that Jamie found an extra, inner strength. Scotland were losing, they were heading out of the World Cup and the torrential rain was battering him and every other player on the pitch. It was time to give up.
Or stand up.
Jamie raced after Rodinaldo, who was making a dazzling dribble towards the Scotland goal. Rodinaldo was very, very quick, but Jamie at his top turbo speed was even faster. He pursued the Brazilian maestro and, when he was close enough, he launched himself into a sliding tackle.
Jamie slid across the slick, greasy turf, forcing the ball out of play, taking Rodinaldo with him as they both crashed into the hoarding boards.
Rodinaldo lay there, surprised and shaken by the force of the tackle. But Jamie was straight up, ready for the next challenge. He was smiling. He hadn’t done a slide tackle like that – a proper one, skidding for yards – for years. Probably since he was at school, where it had been one of his trademarks.
The Tartan Army rose to their feet, encouraged by Jamie’s show of heart and bravery. For the first time, they began to out-sing the soaking Brazilian fans. In fact, what was happening on the terraces was also a reflection of what was happening on the pitch. For as Jamie looked around him, he noticed that some of the Brazilian heads had begun to drop. They began slipping in the slick turf, looking suspiciously at their boots each time they lost their footing.
Soon – as their passes began to skid wildly off the grass and miss their targets – they could be seen staring at one another, at first quizzically, and then accusingly.
Their smiles had been replaced by frowns… They didn’t like this.
Jamie was not normally one to shout loudly on the pitch, but this time he knew he had to. He could see what was going on and had to convey the message to his teammates.
This was their chance.
As another wayward Brazilian pass skipped out for a throw, he clapped his hands together so loudly it almost sounded as if a firecracker had been let off.
“Boys! Let’s step it up now!” he roared through the sheets of pounding rain. “Look at them – they’re there for the taking!”
Like a starter’s gun setting off a sprint, Jamie’s words were the signal for Scotland’s players to step forwards; they were ready to make their move. Every member of the team ran for his teammate, every player covered, tracked, tackled and supported. And as soon as Brazil were in possession, Scotland swarmed around them like hungry wasps.
He may not have been there in the dugout, but Brian Robertson’s team could still sense his presence and belief. They knew they were doing exactly what Robertson wanted. This was what playing as a team truly meant.
Soon, the pressure on Brazil began to tell. First, they resorted to hoofing long, aimless balls forwards, which only played into the hands of Scotland’s brave giants at the back. Cameron McManus and Owen Tulley won every single header, bullying the Brazilian strikers into submission.
Then, when they realized that the long balls were never going to work, the Brazilians gave up on the idea of passing altogether. Instead, their flair players began to uncharacteristically hoard possession, lingering on the ball far too long, trying to do everything by themselves.
This was perfect for Jamie as, just after the hour, it allowed him to nip in and steal possession away from their central midfielders – snatching the ball like a cheeky pickpocket. He zoomed forward with a burst of electric speed, accelerating with each surging stride.
Facing up to the wall of defenders which converged on him, Jamie then shaped to pass, fooling the opposition so comprehensively that, just for a second, the defence seemed to open up and invite him through. It was as though he’d used a secret password to reveal a hidden gateway through the Brazil backline.
Jamie dashed through the gap and into the box, the ball doing whatever he wanted, utterly bewitched by his spell.
Three defenders all turned and raced back to shut the door to the goal. There was a split second of opportunity…
So did he belt the ball instantly there and then? Did he hit and hope? No chance. He took one final touch, and as the keeper sprang off his line to make the save, Jamie picked his spot. Then, with perfect timing and a soft touch, he used the outside of his left boot to simply caress the ball home, finding the corner of the net with a strike of almost poetic beauty.
The stadium could have collapsed with the mountain of noise that erupted within it.
Jamie, his heart beating with the joy of a thousand men, slid on his knees to the corner flag. It was a wicked skid all the way to where he wanted to get. Right over to the Tartan Army!
“And look at Mario Caesar – he doesn’t know what’s hit him! He may have told his players that Johnson had the heart of a lion, but did he also warn them that he had the touch of a sorcerer? Scotland’s number 11 is really starting to open up and dictate this game now.
“Here he is again! Two defenders confront him, but Johnson races between them, eating up the ground with his galloping stride. Another defender comes across, but look at Johnson go! He’s just knocked the ball forward and decimated the defender for pace. He’s on the rampage now and no one can stay with him! To the byline he goes. Now, can he wrap his foot around the ball and deliver a quality cross at the end of his lung-busting run?”
Jamie looked up and spotted his ponytailed target at the far post. Then he wedged his special left foot around th
e ball, curling it trademark Jamie Johnson style into the area.
The high cross, just hanging there, was an invitation Duncan Farrell simply couldn’t refuse. He was a bowling ball, knocking the defensive skittles out of his way, as he powered towards the ball. Then, exploding into the air like a meteor, he simply launched himself at the ball, putting the full weight of his fourteen-stone body behind his header. It flashed past the keeper and pummelled into the back of the net.
Three defenders were lying bulldozed on the ground. Farrell was still standing tall, hands raised to celebrate his goal and arms open, waiting for his partner in crime to join his celebrations.
As soon as Jamie arrived, Farrell jumped down to the ground and started pulling his arms backwards and forwards. He was laughing and indicated that Jamie should sit behind him and do the same. It looked like the strangest goal celebration that Jamie had seen until he realized what Faz was actually doing – he was rowing!
Jamie leapt down behind him and together they rowed very merrily along the rain-soaked pitch. Soon, the other players were all joining in too. They had no idea that they were reenacting Faz and Jamie’s ill-fated midnight trip down the Thames; they only knew Scotland were sensationally navigating their way past Brazil en route to the quarter-finals of the World Cup.
Scotland through to the quarter-finals!
“And that is good to see! Even the Brazil fans are applauding the Scotland players as their heroic captain, Cameron McManus, leads them on a lap of the pitch. That’s what makes Brazil such a wonderful footballing nation. They appreciate great football – no matter who it’s played by. And there, in the centre of the pitch, it looks as though an exchange is taking place between arguably the two best players in the World Cup so far…”