by Dan Freedman
Brian Robertson had gone absolutely apoplectic: chucking tea cups across the dressing room, shouting in his players’ faces; at one point he’d even thrown the whole fruit basket at Duncan Farrell, accusing him of not trying hard enough.
It was a truly frightening few minutes and Robertson was making his point abundantly clear to his team. This performance was unacceptable.
It was only as the buzzer went in the dressing room to signal that the second half was about to start that he finally calmed down.
“OK, so what are we going to do?” asked Brian Robertson, his face still flushed with anger. “You tell me.”
Silence. No one said a word. They didn’t dare.
“Come on, you lot are supposed to be international footballers, yet we’ve just played a half of some of the worst football I’ve ever seen. So, come on, tell me, what’s the problem?”
Still no one was prepared to break ranks and give his opinion. The only noise was the persistent thud of Duncan Farrell smacking the side of his own head against the dressing room wall.
Finally, the skipper, Cameron McManus, stood up.
“We’ve not had this type of game before, boss,” he said. “Normally, we’re the ones defending. But this lot are just sitting behind the ball. When we’ve got the ball, we look up and every single one of our players is marked. Jamie’s got two men on him the whole time. We can’t play through ’em, boss.”
“Of course you can’t play through them,” said Robertson. “It’s impossible. So what do you do instead? You play around them.”
Jamie could sense Robertson’s fury turning to animation as he marched towards the tactics board in the corner of the dressing room.
“Look,” he said. “Remember when you were at school, playing in the playground? You’d have a defender in front of you, so you’d flick the ball against the wall, go around the player and then collect the ball again on the other side?”
The dressing room nodded their heads as one. They’d all used that trick at school.
“Well, that’s what we do now. Just use a teammate as the wall, like this…”
He drew a diagram on the board.
“The wall pass, push and go, quick one two … whatever you want to call it. That’s the way to break down their team. Keep it simple, keep it first time and keep it quick. They won’t be able to stay with you. OK?”
Again the dressing room agreed.
“And Jamie, yes you’ve got two men on you, but you know what? That’s fine. In fact, it’s good. See if you can make it three. When you get the ball, pause for a second, tease them, draw them in. You’ll be like a magnet to the markers and then, when you’re surrounded, switch the ball quickly – if Jamie’s got two or three men on him, that’s great. It means there’ll be space for us somewhere else. So use it!”
The team stood up. They had a plan. And when it came from Sir Brian Robertson, it usually had a good chance of succeeding.
Jamie joined in the joyous celebration, leaping on Duncan Farrell’s back, dragging the big striker down to the ground as if he were felling a giant oak.
Jamie was fully aware that he had not touched the ball once during the whole glorious move that had led to the goal. But he couldn’t care less. He knew that he had still done his bit. By staying away from the ball and keeping the attention of the defenders with him, he had played his part.
At the time of the goal, it had appeared that Scotland might just cruise into the semi-finals. Robertson’s men had started enjoying themselves – spraying the ball freely around the pitch while, in the stands, the Tartan Army were getting ready to celebrate.
But just minutes later a sickening clash of heads between Cameron McManus and the South Korean striker brought Scotland crashing back down to earth.
The clash of heads was so loud that it sounded as though McManus might have even crushed his skull in the collision.
And when he stood up, his teammates could see the full extent of the damage that had been done.
Blood was pouring from a gash in his forehead as if from a tap, and his right eye was already swelling up like a boxer that has taken a pummelling for twelve rounds.
The doctor and physio immediately came on to the pitch and led McManus away down the tunnel. His shirt was now stained a dark claret colour. Jamie wondered how his captain could have any blood left inside his body, such was the volume of the liquid pumping out from the wound.
Which made it all the more surprising when, only four minutes later, McManus re-emerged from the tunnel, his head swathed with bandages, impatiently gesturing to the ref to let him come back on the pitch.
Word quickly went round that the medics had found a way of temporarily gluing McManus’s wound together after he’d flatly dismissed the possibility of his coming off. Being substituted was never an option for him. He was captain of his country. They would have to cut off his leg before he stopped playing for Scotland.
They’d bandaged him up to play out this match, but the wound was so bad that after this he’d need to head straight to the hospital and have about twenty stitches. He’d have a huge scar for the rest of his life and there was little doubt that he’d be out of the semi-final if Scotland got through.
It was a personal tragedy for the skipper but, if anything, that knowledge seemed to just inspire McManus to greater heights.
He seemed to work harder, and become yet more focused on getting Scotland over the line.
In those last ten minutes, he became a man mountain. Stopping every attack with a definitive display of defensive determination. Even when the moment came for him to win a header, he didn’t shirk it, despite the fact that the ball smashed into the very place where, under the bandages, his head was little more than a gaping hole.
When the final whistle went, McManus collapsed. He’d been playing through the pain barrier. He’d just wanted to get Scotland through before he allowed his body to give in.
As his teammates went to surround and congratulate McManus, Jamie understood there were different ways of leading a team. Some players talked, some players shouted. And others led by example. McManus was one of the latter.
He’d put the team first.
Now that’s a proper captain, Jamie thought to himself as McManus raised his battered body from the floor to lead his players around the pitch to applaud the Tartan Army for their unswerving support. And he didn’t even have to say a word.
Quarter-Final Results
Semi-Finals
“Of course I’m sure,” said Sir Brian Robertson. “It’s the right time for you.”
Robertson had a way of talking that made Jamie feel that even if he went out on to the pitch by himself to take on the best team in the world, he would still be able to give them a good old thrashing. He gave Jamie the belief that he could do absolutely anything.
But this. This was something else. It had taken Jamie completely by surprise.
He stood up and started pacing around the room, rubbing his finger where his ring should have been.
“But I’ve never been captain of any team,” Jamie said, panicking at the prospect. “People always said I didn’t shout enough on the pitch or that you can’t be a captain if you’re a wing—”
“Well, I don’t care what other people have said,” stated Robertson. “I’ve been a manager for nearly forty years, so I think I know what I’m doing by now. It’s only for one game, Jamie. McManus will be ready for the next one.”
“But boss, I’m only eighteen; there are players in this squad in their thirties. How can I captain them? How do you know they’ll respect me?”
“Trust me, Jamie. I can see it in their eyes. When they can see you on the pitch on their side, they believe. You give them that belief. It’s time for the next stage in your career, Jamie. It’s time for you to become a leader.”
Robertson pau
sed, weighing up his final decision.
“Just answer me one question, Jamie. Do you want to do it? Do you want to captain your country?”
Jamie nodded and said three words. “I’m dying to.”
Jamie smiled. He was definitely right to have texted her the news. He could tell from her email that if he’d done it over the phone, she would have burst into floods of tears. He liked making her proud, though, and he hoped that she could remember everything he had achieved when he eventually plucked up the courage to tell her that he had lost the ring. He knew that she would probably be even more upset than him.
Ever since he’d lost it, Jamie’s mind had been haunted by the memory of the day his mum had given it to him. It had been soon after Mike had died.
“Dad wanted you to have this,” she had told Jamie, handing him the gold band. “He always said that you had more pride in your little finger than any man he ever met. He wanted you to wear this ring with pride, and to pass it on to your own son.”
How could he tell his mum that he’d lost it? What would he say? The words just wouldn’t come out of his mouth. And the worst part was that everything he was achieving at this World Cup was tainted for him by the fact that he’d lost it.
Jamie took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he read the email once more before logging out. He knew that there were some lines in there that would cheer him up.
Overhead foul? The onside rule? Cat-trick?!
Where did she get this stuff from? Honestly! Was she taking the mickey?! After all these years, and both a dad and a son who were obsessed with the game, she still didn’t know any of the football lingo? Right, Jamie thought to himself, time to sort this out.
Jamie’s phone rang, which was annoying as he was actually really enjoying writing his football dictionary. Not only would it finally be the answer to his mum always making the most embarrassing comments at football matches (“Kick it hard, Jamie! Really kick it right into the goal!”) but it was also a fun way to relax ahead of the Argentina game. He let the phone ring out but then it started up again almost immediately.
Jamie put down his pen and picked up his phone.
It was Jack. Again. This was the fourth time she’d called since yesterday. Even though he was desperate to tell her that he’d been made captain for the semi-final, he wasn’t interested in talking to her if it meant another verbal battle.
Having another row with Jack right now, so close to such a titanic match, was the last thing he needed. He’d get all tongue-tied and his words wouldn’t come out properly and he’d forget all the stuff that he wanted to say. It was always the same with her.
He’d been thinking about Jack a lot over the last couple of days – even more than usual – and he’d realized why the argument they’d had after the interview by the pool had upset him so much. It wasn’t the fact that she’d teased him for being dumped. It wasn’t even the fact that she didn’t want him to touch her. It was that she’d actually believed that he was interested in another girl.
Jack was supposed to be the clever one out of the two of them. So how was it that, after all this time, she still hadn’t managed to work out the fact that, for Jamie, there were no other girls?
He took a final look at her name flashing up on his phone and then put it on silent.
“Yes, we’ve lost McManus, but Jamie’s the perfect man to take on the captaincy for this game,” said Sir Brian Robertson, while ten different translators spun his words into different languages for the journalists who had assembled from around the world.
“Leadership is not about age, it’s about respect, and believe you me, my lads respect Jamie.
“Speaking of respect, I also think it’s really important that Ricardo Barron has been appointed referee for this match. This game needs a strong official, someone who is clear in his own mind and takes no rubbish and Barron is certainly that man. For me, he’s the best referee in the world and he’ll be one of the most important people on that pitch tomorrow night.”
“People are making Argentina favourites for the game. Brian, do you agree with that?” asked a reporter.
“Couldn’t care less. The only thing that is important is my players. If they believe in themselves as much as I believe in them, then there’s nothing we can’t achieve. If we’ve proved anything so far, it’s that we have nothing to fear.”
“And Jamie, it looks like Bertorelli is going to be named captain for Argentina,” said another journalist with a smile. “Can you tell us if you’ve forgiven him for the foul in the group game? People called it the tackle from hell.”
Jamie threw a toxic look at the journalist. He knew that in life you were supposed to forgive and forget, but what Bertorelli had done to him – taunting him while he lay stricken in agony on the ground – there was no way he could forgive anyone for that. As he thought back to that day, he could feel his anger rise and multiply inside him. So, no, of course he hadn’t forgiven Bertorelli for the tackle. It was the complete opposite; Jamie wanted revenge. And he wanted it badly.
“I’m not answering that question,” he said, finally. “I don’t want to get involved.”
Jamie heard his phone vibrate on his bedside table. It was two o’clock in the morning but he was still wide awake. He had so much nervous energy that he felt as if he could go out right now and run a marathon – if his knee was up to it.
They had said in the press conference that they expected a worldwide TV audience of seven hundred million people for tomorrow’s game. Jamie didn’t even know how many zeros that was.
He picked up his phone and rolled on to his back. There was a text waiting for him.
Jamie read the words again. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. Jack was wrong.
She was good at the mushy stuff.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Old Trafford for a game which has all the ingredients of an epic drama. Two teams, evenly matched, tantalizingly only one game away from the World Cup Final.
“Two years ago, Jamie Johnson was told his football career was over. Tonight, remarkably, he leads his team out at the World Cup as one of the most talented teenagers around the globe. Football fans are looking forward to seeing the galloping magician play today. And such has been his impact on this tournament that they are hoping, if not expecting, to see something very special from the young man. And there he is, at the front of the tunnel, ready to lead out his team for a match that is going to be watched the world over.
“And if you haven’t heard the news, there has been a very late change of officials. Ricardo Barron, acknowledged as the best referee in the world, unfortunately went down late last night with a severe dose of food poisoning. He is to be replaced by the man who was due to be the Fourth Official, Giovanni Fattifachi. We understand that Sir Brian Robertson is deeply unhappy about this late change, but there is no suggestion of foul play.
“But back to the football, and let’s show you those all-important team line-ups again…
“And now the two captains meet in the centre circle to toss the coin. And there’s no other way to say this – although they are both great players, they have made no secret of the animosity between them.
“So the moment of truth now… And Bertorelli stretches out his hand and – oh that is surprising! This time it’s Johnson who refuses to shake! Now this must go back to the tackle the Argentinian made during the group match between these two sides, which almost put Johnson out of the World Cup.
“And look at Johnson’s face – just look at that – the real anger on his face! He does not like Bertorelli one bit. That’s certainly going to be one to keep an eye on.
“Well, it looks like we’re already off and running and a ball has not even been kicked yet! Stay with us because you won’t want to miss this one. And it’s all here … LIVE!”
As the match kicked off, Jamie opened his nostrils and drew in a
lungful of air. He had never felt so alive.
As captain of his country, he’d led his team in singing the national anthem, belting out every word of “Flower of Scotland” with all the pride in his heart and now, with the Tartan Army in their full, majestic voice, he was ready to do anything – whatever it took – to win this game for them.
Argentina – or, to be precise, their goalkeeper – soon felt the full force of Duncan Farrell. As he leapt to contest a trademark Jamie Johnson centre, Farrell bashed Diego Ortega out of his way, sending him crashing into his own net, before the big striker headed home.
Scotland and Farrell had landed the first blow, and maybe in the Premier League the strike might have been allowed to stand, but the ear-piercing shriek of the referee’s whistle clearly indicated that he’d disallowed the goal.
And that was just the start.
Perhaps Giovanni Fattifachi was being sponsored for every blow of his whistle. He couldn’t resist it; even the slightest infringement resulted in that high-pitched peep. Peep! Peep! Peep! With his arm stretched dramatically above his head and an overly serious expression on his face. It was as though he imagined he was being marked for the quality, volume and artistic merit of each blow of his whistle. Was he scared that if he didn’t blow it every five seconds it would stop working? Did he think he was the star of the show? Certainly he appeared to have no interest in letting the game flow.
Fussy? The man probably picked the seeds off his strawberries.
Fattifachi, a very thin, wiry, hairy man, was blowing up every time a Scotland player went in for a tackle and yet he was missing all the dirty little tricks that the Argentinians were pulling. An honest tackle from a Scotland player was called a foul and treated like a heinous crime, yet the shirt-pulling, ankle taps and, worse still, the stray elbows of the Argentinians were all allowed to go unpunished.