by Dan Freedman
“Hey, Johnson! Mister – we can swap the shirts?”
Jamie turned around. It was Rodinaldo. He wanted to swap shirts with Jamie.
“Sure,” said Jamie, taking off his top and handing it over. He was a bit self-conscious that it might be too wet and smelly but really he was just relieved. He’d completely forgotten that he needed to get Rodinaldo’s shirt for Robbie. He was lucky that Rodinaldo had come to him.
The two players – one black and one a very pale white – hugged and a million camera flashes went off all at the same time. The pictures were to be on the back of every newspaper the next morning because it was an image that said everything about football and its ability to bring people together no matter where they came from in the world.
“Hey,” said Jamie, proudly slipping on Rodinaldo’s Brazil shirt. “Your fans. I think they’re singing something at me. Can you tell me what they’re singing?”
Rodinaldo smiled. He had the biggest, whitest teeth Jamie had ever seen. In truth, he probably needed a brace.
“Ah!” he laughed. “At you, they sing, ‘Fenomeno.’ It means they like you. Very much. They say you are a phenomenon.”
The mood in the dressing room was euphoric.
The players could still hear the fans outside singing:
Now you’re gonna believe us,
Now you’re gonna believe us,
Now you’re gonna beliee-eeve us…
We’re gonna win the Cup!
WE’RE GONNA WIN THE CUP …
WE’RE GONNA WIN THE CUP!
The players began singing along too. Now that they had beaten Brazil, who could argue with them?
Ecstasy filled the air. From somewhere a champagne bottle appeared and Allie Stone was just about to open it and spray the contents all over his teammates when he saw the expression on Sir Brian Robertson’s face.
“Put the champagne away, Allie,” the boss ordered, calmly. “Let’s celebrate when we win this tournament. Because that’s what we’re here to do.”
Then Robertson’s face darkened and his voice deepened.
“Johnson. Farrell. Meeting. Outside the showers. Now.”
Scotland’s goal scorers hung their heads and followed their manager over to the private area of the dressing room. Now was the time for his verdict on yesterday’s late-night riverside antics.
“Boss,” said Jamie, attempting to get his apology in first. “We’re really sorry. It will never happen again. Ever.”
Farrell nodded in silent agreement.
“You two! Especially you,” Robertson snarled, looking at Jamie. “After what your body’s been through? You two must be the most stupid pair of so-and-sos I’ve come across in forty years of football.”
Robertson stared at his pair of miscreants like a judge about to deliver their sentence, before saying: “But, by Christ, can you both play. Never again, gentlemen. Never again.”
Jamie and Faz were just breaking into a smile of relief when, suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was the drug-testing officials, making their routine examinations on the players after the game.
Realizing the potential implications of being discovered breaking his dressing room ban, Brian Robertson swiftly manoeuvred himself into the huge red plastic laundry box that was next to the showers.
“Tommy!” he yelled, getting in. “You know what to do.”
And with that, Tommy McAvennie put the lid on the container and, assisted by one of the physios, carried the rather heavy box out of the dressing room, right underneath the noses of the drug testers.
“And so that just about rounds off our coverage from White Hart Lane on what proved to be a quite incredible night. It will live long in the memory of anyone who was here to witness it. And Sir Brian Robertson, wherever you are – congratulations! Your boys put in one hell of a performance.”
Indeed, from within the very bowels of the stadium, as the Scotland Team back-room staff loaded their equipment on to the team coach, tucked away inside one of the big red boxes was a very happy manager indeed. And he had already begun hatching his plan for the quarter-finals.
“Chin up, Jamie. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” chuckled Allie Stone, giving Jamie a comforting pat on the back.
Jamie had no idea what he was talking about. He just stared at Stonefish as though he were a looney tune. He’d just played the game of his life, his chin was already up!
But when Jamie walked past Cameron McManus and Owen Tully and they both shook their heads at him in pity, he knew something was up.
And then he saw the front page of the paper.
Jamie felt like banging his head on the table. He’d been a complete and utter idiot. He’d been warned about gold-diggers and now he knew why. This girl had seen Jamie coming from a mile off and played him like a fool.
It was bad enough that the whole world thought he was some kind of item with a girl he didn’t even know. But now they all thought he’d been dumped by her too. Could his luck with girls get any worse?
At that moment, Jamie suddenly felt a soft hand rest on his shoulder and the subtle scent of perfume nestle in his nostrils.
He looked up to see Diana Budd, the Scotland Team press officer, smiling sweetly at him.
“Are you OK, Jamie?” she asked, nodding sympathetically at the newspaper.
“Yeah,” said Jamie. “I’m fine. Just another lesson I’ve learned the hard way.”
“Good… Listen, I know you’ve done a lot of interviews, but are you OK to do one for me tomorrow afternoon, to preview the quarter-final against South Korea?”
“Sure,” said Jamie. “No probs.” He liked Diana. She knew loads about football because her dad had been a brilliant international striker for Scotland – one of Mike’s favourite players. And, besides, Jamie liked her perfume.
“Thanks! We’ll do it at the seating area, by the pool,” she said, before adding as if it were just an afterthought: “Oh, Jack Marshall’s doing the interview, by the way, and it’s live – hope that’s OK.”
“What’s the problem?” said Jamie, looking at Robbie Simmonds’ disappointed face. “That’s it; I swear that’s Rodinaldo’s shirt! Look, if you don’t want it, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of others who will!”
There were just two days before the quarter-final with South Korea and, keen to avoid a repeat of Jamie and Duncan’s late-night swim before the last game, Sir Brian Robertson had organized a top stand-up comedian to come into the hotel and do a gig for the squad to keep their minds off the game. It was good stuff – really funny – so Jamie had waited until the break to pop out and meet Robbie in reception to hand over the shirt.
But instead of being overwhelmed with gratitude, Robbie seemed unimpressed. Disappointed, even.
“Nah, it’s cool, I’ll have it and I appreciate it and all that – must be worth loads on eBay,” he said, grabbing the shirt from Jamie’s hands. “It’s just that I’m over Rodinaldo now. He’s yesterday’s man.”
“Really?” said Jamie. “So who’s today’s, then?”
“Derrrr!” laughed Robbie. “I’m looking at him!”
Jamie’s eyes widened. He was just taking in all the implications of what Robbie was saying when he suddenly heard the wailing sound of sirens roaring up the path outside the hotel.
An ambulance screeched to a halt and two paramedics leapt out and sprinted into the hotel.
They ran straight into the room where the Scotland squad were listening to the comedian.
Jamie burst into the room. A crowd of anxious faces gathered around the paramedics, who were treating someone on the floor.
Jamie had a sick feeling. As soon as he’d seen the ambulance his body had gone freezing cold and his mind had immediately replayed what had happened to Mike. Jamie had only just started to get close to Sir Brian Robertson… He just hoped this wasn’t
what he thought it was.
“When did he collapse?” the paramedics were asking.
“He was fine, everything was cool – we were just listening to the comedy and he was laughing like everyone else,” Tommy, the kit man, was explaining to the paramedics, his face ashen with concern. “And then as soon as there was a break, he just fell off his chair in agony. Just slumped to the floor, kind of thing. Is he going to be OK?”
Jamie moved forward. He had to see who was on the floor. He felt sure he already knew.
“Suspected appendicitis!” one of the paramedics shouted to his colleague, who nodded in agreement.
Jamie looked down and was shocked to see that it was not Sir Brian Robertson, but Allie Stone who was writhing in agony on the floor. The paramedics were feeling the side of his stomach and Jamie had never seen anyone so obviously in such excruciating pain. His mum had told him stories about patients whose appendix had burst on their way to the hospital; he knew how dangerous it could be. Even life-threatening.
“OK, we’re bringing him in,” the paramedic shouted into a walkie-talkie. “Tell A&E we’ll be there in five minutes. We’ll need the anaesthetist ready on arrival.”
They delicately rolled Allie Stone – who was almost in tears with the pain – on to his side and began to lift him on to the stretcher.
But the moment they clasped their hands around his waist, a quite thunderous noise emitted from Allie’s rear end. It must have lasted for about ten seconds, but it was impossible to tell exactly how long. Time seemed to stand still as the deep sound continued to fill the room while everyone just looked at one another, mystified, trying to work out what on earth was going on.
The instant the noise stopped, Allie Stone suddenly leapt back to his feet, looking like a new man.
“Oooh,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “Better out than in! Right, let’s get on with this gig!”
The two paramedics, without saying another word, simply packed up their equipment and started to make their way out of the room and back to the ambulance.
“Contact A&E,” one of them said into her walkie-talkie as they left the hotel. “Tell them to stand down the emergency situation from this end. Just a severe case of trapped wind.”
“Anyone seen my pants?” said Allie Stone in the hotel changing room. The players had all gone for a swim in the outdoor pool to keep their muscles loose ahead of the match against South Korea and now Allie Stone was wandering around naked, looking in everyone’s bags.
“Get away, you tube, or I’ll knock your block off!” shouted Duncan Farrell. “Why do you think I’d nick your pants anyway? They’ll only be full of skid marks.”
“All right, Faz,” laughed Allie. “Come on then, you lot – own up. Who’s got my pants?”
Jamie chuckled as he went outside to do his interview. These guys didn’t feel like teammates any more. They felt like brothers.
Jack was already waiting a few yards away by the pool. She was wearing jeans and a tight white top, which was shimmering in the afternoon sun.
“Hi, Jamie,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and reaching out her hand to shake his. “Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem,” said Jamie, sitting down.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaken Jack’s hand.
“So how’s the knee holding up, Jamie?” asked Jack, once the cameras were rolling.
“Yeah, it’s fine, thanks,” Jamie lied. He didn’t want Jack the journalist or Jack the friend to know what he was doing to his body to still be playing in this tournament. He was hardly training in between games now. Once the injections wore off sometimes the pain was almost unbearable.
“Good … because we heard rumours that there was an ambulance called to the hotel last night?”
“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear – just a load of hot air,” said Jamie, laughing inside at his own joke.
“And what about Sir Brian Robertson? They’re starting to call him The Miracle Man in the press for what he’s achieving with this team. What do you make of him?”
“I think the press are right!” beamed Jamie. “His football brain is amazing. It’s like a kind of cross between a computer and a camera. He doesn’t miss a thing.”
“So would you say that he has become something of a father figure to you?”
Jamie paused for a second. He rubbed his ringless finger, feeling his pulse quicken as it always did whenever the words “dad” or “father” were mentioned. And then, as he thought about his answer, a sense of calm washed over him.
“Yes,” he smiled, realizing perhaps for the first time why he liked playing for Robertson so much. “I guess he is. He knows how to handle me, anyway.”
“So, with Sir Brian in charge, and now a very winnable game against South Korea in the quarters, is there a feeling in the dressing room that you can go all the way to the final?”
“Why not?” responded Jamie. “We believe we can win. We are a tight unit and we’re full of belief. And I’ve got to say that this is by far the most serious and dedicated group of professionals I’ve ever played with—”
“Anyone seen my pants?!” A loud and familiar voice suddenly said.
Jamie, Jack and the TV camera all turned around to focus on Allie Stone standing by the pool, completely naked, with only his hands to protect his modesty. Not that he was embarrassed. Not one bit.
“Oops!” he smiled. “Not interrupting, am I?”
“Stonefish! We’re doing an interview! It’s live!” Jamie said through tightly clenched teeth. He was beginning to see Stonefish’s naked body a little more often than he liked!
“Oops!” Stonefish repeated before giving a big thumbs up straight to the camera. “Hiya, Mum! Hiya, Gran! OK, well, let me know if any of you see my pants!”
And with that, he turned and left, revealing his big, podgy bum to the nation for good measure.
“Erm, sorry about that,” mumbled Jamie, trying to regain his composure. “And, on behalf of the squad, can I just apologize to everyone at home… No one wants to see that … erm… What were we talking about?”
“I think you were just saying that this was the most serious and dedicated group of professionals you’d ever played with!” answered Jack, trying to hold in her laughter.
“Oh, right, yeah…” said Jamie, realizing that Allie Stone’s bum had kind of put pay to that claim.
Now they were both laughing. Just like the good old days when they’d been kids at school. Finally, it took Jack to get the interview back on track.
“OK, last question, Jamie: how would you say you’ve adapted your game to suit the international stage? Are you doing anything different now you’re playing at the World Cup?”
Jamie shook his head.
“I’m just doing what I love,” he smiled. “I still try and play the same way that I did when I was a kid having a kick around with my best friend back home in Sunningdale Park.”
Jamie looked closely at Jack for a reaction. You could never tell with her. She had a great poker face and her dark skin colour meant she didn’t go red. But Jamie could have sworn he saw her blush.
“Sorry about Allie Stone,” said Jamie after the end of the interview. “You got more than you bargained for there, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, well, as a journalist I’m always trying to get to the naked truth.”
Jack laughed and so did Jamie. It was great to see her smile again. Maybe his luck was about to change.
“OK, then. Thanks, Jamie,” said Jack, reaching out her hand again to say goodbye.
But Jamie didn’t want to shake her hand. And he didn’t want her to leave either.
“Listen, Jack,” he said, reaching forward to touch her lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t you chill here for a bit and we can—”
But the moment Jamie made contact with her, Jack
seemed to turn to ice. Her smile froze into a frown.
“Oh, sorry to hear about you and that girl breaking up,” she said, taking a little step back with each word that came out of her mouth. “She seemed like a really nice girl.”
“What?!” growled Jamie, furious that Loretta Martin was coming between him and Jack again. “I was never with that stupid gold-digger! I don’t even know her! I knew you wouldn’t believe me!”
“OK, Jamie, calm down,” said Jack, putting her sunglasses back on. “Wow – I guess you must have really liked her.”
And then Jack walked away from Jamie without looking back once.
“And if you’ve just joined us, don’t worry, you haven’t missed a great deal. There have been precious few clear-cut chances, with the game yet to really spring to life.
“For the first time in the entire tournament, Scotland have been cast as clear favourites in this game, and yet that role does not seem to suit them.
“And you have to say that Jamie Johnson, the jewel in their team who stood out like a shining star in the last round against Brazil, today looks like the invisible man.”
Jamie stood looking at the two South Korean players surrounding him. He’d not been double-marked like this since he’d been at school. Both players had followed his every step since the kick-off. They were like robots. He felt sure that if he left the pitch right now and went to the toilet, they would both follow him there too!
Although it had hardly been uplifting to hear all the doubts and scorn with which the press and fans had greeted him and his team at the beginning of the tournament, it had at least meant that there was no pressure.
But now, after they had beaten Brazil and Jamie had supposedly proven that he was better than Rodinaldo, the pressure was right on him. And the weight of expectation was a heavy burden to carry.