by Dan Freedman
Jamie flew into Harrington territory at his very top speed. He was a leopard, chasing down his prey – the Harrington full-back.
The defender was standing on the edge of his area, waiting. He had been left alone – exposed and unprotected by his teammates. He was defenceless.
It was almost possible to detect a glint of a smile on Jamie’s face as he powered towards his cowering opponent.
Jamie was completely in control. Of the ball. Of his body. Of the situation…
He nudged the ball forward – slowly, softly, almost teasing the defender’s brain with the possibility of making a challenge. But the defender wouldn’t bite, he wouldn’t go for it; he just kept backing away further and further towards his own goal.
Jamie knew that, to get past him, he was going to have to beat him.
Fine, Jamie thought to himself. If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you can have it. And with that, Jamie unleashed his skills.
His left foot swept the ball outwards and then back inside so swiftly that the defender would’ve had to watch the move in ultra slow motion to even be able to work out where the ball was, never mind intercept it!
It wasn’t until Jamie was long gone that the Harrington full-back realized that Jamie had beaten him on the inside with – what else? The snake.
Now Jamie bore down on the goal. He was just ten yards out.
The keeper scurried off his line to shut down the angles. He hunched down and put his gloved hands up as though Jamie were threatening him with a weapon.
Jamie pulled his left foot as far back as he could. It seemed clear he was going to blast the ball into the back of the net.
The keeper steadied himself, ready for a missile of a shot.
So he was shocked when Jamie slipped his left foot under the ball and, with simple grace, craftily chipped it high above him.
The goalkeeper raised his hands into the air and arched his body backwards, but both he and Jamie knew there was no point. He was never going to save that ball. It had been chipped too perfectly for the goalkeeper to get anywhere near it.
The ball bounced once and, even before it had hit the net, Jamie already had his arms outstretched, awaiting the rush of his teammates to celebrate the strike.
As they engulfed him, Jamie stood tall and, with a broad smile, pointed a finger of gratitude back towards the applauding Steve Brooker in the dugout.
It was an individual goal. It combined pace, skill and football intelligence.
It had Jamie Johnson written all over it.
As they jogged back to the centre circle, Jamie heard the stadium announcer call out his name. The Foxborough crowd gave a big cheer. Jamie kissed his clenched fist and raised it up to the sky.
“Oi!” shouted Steve Brooker from the touchline.
His players were still giving each other high fives as Harrington were about to restart the game. Steve Brooker was fuming. How many times had he told them that you are at your most vulnerable just after you’ve scored? There is always pride before the fall.
“This game’s not over yet!” he yelled, hurling his bottle of water down to the ground.
His boys turned and nodded. They understood that it wasn’t the Foxborough way to ever let up. They had to keep going until the very end. And there were more goals for them in this match – if they wanted them.
For the next ten minutes, Foxborough played keep ball. Their possession was suffocating any Harrington hopes of a comeback. Soon, the Harrington players started to chase with less vigour. Their movements became slower as they gradually gave in to Foxborough’s stranglehold on the game.
The Foxborough fans began to openly celebrate their team’s superiority. The shouts of “Olé!” went up as the Foxborough defenders taunted the Harrington strikers by passing the ball along the width of their back line.
But this was all too easy for Jamie. Boring, even.
He cantered in from the wing to the centre of the pitch and practically tackled his own central midfielder to take possession of the ball. Then he began to dribble with it.
In and out of the tackles he glided, powering past players, hurdling over legs, springing through gaps and dodging beyond desperate lunges. His talent was there for all to see.
He had the whole crowd on their feet. They knew they were witnessing something special and now Jamie was ready to give them exactly what they wanted. He was going to bend one into the top corner.
He’d set his body and was just swinging his leg around towards the ball when he was violently shoulder-barged to the ground by the Harrington centre-half.
The referee blew his whistle immediately. It was such a clear penalty that even the defender didn’t bother to dispute it. His only aim had been to take Jamie down.
Jamie clawed the ball to his chest and sprang back on to his feet like a boxer trying to prove that a punch hadn’t hurt him. Scoring the penalty would be the perfect way for him to take his revenge.
Jamie put the ball on the spot and took three steps back. Still go for the top corner, he told himself. Never change your mind when you’re about to take a p—
Then Jamie felt the pain of two fingers jabbing their way into his ribs.
It was Bolt.
“Let me take it, man,” he appealed.
“Leave it, Bolt,” said Jamie. “I won it. It’s my—”
“You’ve already scored tonight! I haven’t. Come on, man; I’m a striker, I need my goal…”
Jamie looked Bolt in the eye. He could see the hunger that made him the player he was. He was so desperate to score. So determined to get his name on the scoresheet.
Jamie let him have it.
Although neither Jamie nor Bolt were aware of it, something very unusual was happening as Bolt stepped up to take that penalty: while everyone else in the ground had their eyes on the ball as it scorched into the roof of the net, two people – two very important people – weren’t even looking at the action.
They were looking at the winger whose run had just won the penalty.
Way up in the stands, the Foxborough Assistant Manager, Tommy Taylor, had leaned across to his boss, Brian Robertson, and whispered something in his ear. Some sort of question, or suggestion…
Brian Robertson seemed to think for a second, taking in what Tommy Taylor had said. Then, slowly at first, he nodded his head. He had made a judgement.
Foxborough win the Youth Cup Final
The Foxborough players went up on to the podium and, one by one, they shook hands with a man that Jamie didn’t recognize – he assumed it was one of the sponsors – and collected their medals. Then, to a huge cheer, Robbie Walters, the Foxborough captain, lifted the trophy.
Loud music blared around the stadium and fireworks were let off behind the Foxborough players’ heads. When Robbie passed the trophy down the line, each one of the Foxborough players kissed it and lifted it into the air.
To Jamie, it seemed that more camera flashbulbs went off for him than had been the case for the other players. Or perhaps he was just more aware of the flashes when they were focused on him.
As they got down from the podium, the players saw the end of Steve Brooker’s TV interview. He was talking to Esther Vaughan. She was a reporter on TV and she also did adverts for hair shampoo. Jamie had a poster of her on his wall.
“Of course I’m proud,” Steve was saying to Esther. “But it’s not about me, it’s about this young team. They all played for each other and they got exactly what they deserved tonight.”
“Thanks very much,” Esther said to Steve after the interview had finished. “I really appreciate that. If we can just have a few words with Jamie, then that’s us done.”
Jamie’s head twitched. He was sure he had heard right. He was sure they wanted to interview him. Esther Vaughan wanted to interview him!
“Sorry, lo
ve,” said Steve. “No academy players do TV interviews. Orders from the top. Mr Robertson is very strict about young players getting overexposed to the media. Out of my hands, I’m afraid, love.”
As Steve Brooker walked away, Esther’s features changed. Her soft, attractive smile dissolved into a cold, stern stare.
“He’s the man of the match, Steve,” she called. “It’s part of the contract and you know it. We don’t pay all this money to have zero access.”
Steve turned around and put his hands on his hips. It was the same position he took up when he was thinking about making a substitution.
“Two minutes,” he said. “And nothing clever! Otherwise I’ll be the one who gets it in the neck from Mr Robertson.”
“Deal,” she agreed.
Steve looked around. Jamie quickly knelt down and pretended to be doing up his laces.
“Jamie!” Steve shouted.
Jamie pretended not to hear.
“Jamie!”
“Me?” Jamie asked, innocently.
“The TV people want to do a quick interview with you,” said Steve, putting his arm around Jamie. “I know you haven’t started your media training yet but I think it’ll be good experience for you. You OK with that?”
“Yeah, whatever you say, boss,” said Jamie.
“OK, Esther,” said Steve, bringing Jamie over to the reporter. “Here he is. Remember, two minutes.”
At first Esther Vaughan just ignored Jamie. She was listening to someone talking in her ear and looking at herself in a small mirror that she held in her hand.
Jamie was looking at her too. She had the most beautiful reddish-brown hair he had probably ever seen. He wondered if there was some unwritten law that said you had to be seriously attractive to work in TV.
Then Esther’s face suddenly came alive and she shone her eyes on Jamie.
“Hi there, Jamie,” she said, shaking his hand.
Jamie felt embarrassed that his hands were all hot and sweaty. Hers were cool and clean.
“All right,” he said, discreetly trying to spike up his hair before the interview. The sweat on his hands could act as a makeshift type of gel.
“I’m just going to ask you a couple of questions about the game,” she smiled. “Nothing too tricky.”
“That’s cool.” Jamie laughed. He was feeling more confident now.
“OK,” said Esther. “They’re coming to us in two…” Then she put one finger up and pointed to the cameraman, who turned on a set of lights. They were so bright they almost blinded Jamie.
“Thanks, Gary. Yes, I’m here with the star of tonight’s show, Jamie Johnson.”
Jamie tried to raise a smile but suddenly all he could think about was the fact that he was live on TV. Anyone could be watching. People could be laughing at him. Was the camera going in so close on his face that everyone could see his spots? What if he swore? He mustn’t sw—
“—what do you think about that, Jamie?”
Jamie hadn’t heard a word of what she’d just said!
“Sorry … could you say that again, please?” he mumbled. He sounded like an idiot!
“Some of the journalists here were saying that that was one of the most promising individual performances they had ever seen from a player in a Youth Cup Final. What do you think about that?”
Jamie’s mind had gone completely blank. His mouth was so dry he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get any words out even if he did know what to say – which he didn’t. Playing against the world’s best defender would be easier than this interview.
He tried to calm himself down. He’d seen loads of footballers doing interviews. He could just try and copy the way they usually spoke.
“Well … obviously it’s nice to get praise … and what have you … but tonight is not about me, it’s about Foxborough … and the team … I thought everyone did brilliant.”
“Quite. But that was some solo goal you scored. Talk us through that one, Jamie.”
“Well, I managed to beat my man and then I had a shot and, luckily enough for me, it went in. I was just happy to see it go in, really.”
Esther was still nodding as though she was expecting Jamie to say something else. But he had nothing else to say!
“Great … and what does it mean for you to play for Foxborough now, because a little birdie tells me that you are actually a Hawkstone United fan?”
Jamie went bright red. How did she know? He hadn’t even told any of his teammates!
“Well … kind of … Mike … my granddad used to play for them and he took me there when I was really … like … young, so I sort of supported them when I was younger and that … but now I’m Foxborough all the way and I’m really happy to be here. This is definitely the biggest club in the country.”
“So there’s no truth in rumours linking you with the big European clubs, then? Because you’re not old enough to actually sign a professional contract with Foxborough yet, are you? So, when the time comes, theoretically, you could still join any other club.”
Suddenly Jamie became aware of Steve Brooker’s presence beside him. Steve was staring angrily at Esther, drawing his finger across his throat, demanding that she finish the interview immediately.
“Erm … well, I just play football,” Jamie stammered. “I leave all the other stuff to my dad. But I’m really happy here. The only way I’d leave Foxborough is if they didn’t want me any more.”
“Well, I don’t think there’s much chance of that!” Esther said, laughing. “OK, back to you, Gary, and I guess it’s a case of Jamie Johnson – remember that name!”
Jamie wiped the sweat from his forehead. That had definitely been the toughest part of the whole evening. Now he knew why Foxborough gave their players media training!
“Thanks, Jamie,” said Esther, giving him an extra-special smile as the cameraman started packing up all the electrical gear. “Good luck for the rest of the season. See you again sometime.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Jamie over his shoulder as he headed back to the dressing room.
Nice line, he congratulated himself. How come he was suddenly able to talk again as soon as the camera wasn’t pointed at him?
Back in the changing room, Jamie had a quick shower, did his hair and got changed. When he turned on his phone, he had two missed calls and three texts.
The texts were from his mum, his dad and one from Jack. His girlfriend.
Jamie selected Jack’s number and was just about to press call when he received a large slap on his back.
“Come on, TV star, let’s go,” shouted Bolt. “The night is young.”
As the doors at the back of the Foxborough stadium were unlocked to let the players out, the Three Amigos were greeted by a massive cheer. Jamie heard his name being called as a barrage of camera flashes went off.
From his side, a river of youngsters nudged and elbowed their way in front of him.
“Can I have your autograph, please, Jamie?” they clamoured, jostling for position, while shoving their notepads under his nose.
Jamie’s mind flowed back to when he was at school, dreaming of becoming a professional footballer, practising his signature on the back of his exercise books. His teachers had gone mad when they had caught him. None of them believed he would ever make it as a famous footballer.
“Sure,” Jamie said to the autograph hunters. “Have you got a pen?”
“Well done, my friends!” Hassan beamed as the boys got into the car. He was a driver for Foxborough and his job was to take the three boys to and from all training sessions and home matches.
There was no doubt that the boys had got lucky. Not only was Hassan a cool guy – he talked to them about girls all the time – but he also had the best car out of any of the drivers.
“When you are famous, I tell all my friends back
home that I know you! That I drive you!” smiled Hassan.
The boys laughed and gave Hassan high fives.
“Now, I take you home?” he asked.
“No home tonight,” said Xabi. “Tonight is fiesta!”
“Are you sure?” said Hassan. “Is OK with the boss?”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Jamie reassured him. “He said we can go out ‘cos we won. Take us into town, please, Hassan!”
“OK,” he said. “Here we go!”
Hassan revved his engine and put his foot down.
Once they got into town, it took only a few minutes for Xabi to be surrounded by a group of girls. There must have been ten of them. They all wanted to feel his six-pack.
Xabi and girls seemed to go together like thunder and lightning – one was never far behind the other.
Jamie shook his head. It was a gift. Xabi had it and Jamie didn’t.
“Jamie, come here,” Xabi smiled, beckoning Jamie over.
Jamie was just about to go over, when his phone rang. It was Jack. He’d already had two missed calls from her earlier that evening, which was strange; she normally just left one missed call and then waited for Jamie to call her back…
“Jamie!” Xabi demanded again. “These girls want to meet you!”
Jamie looked at his phone again. Then he turned it to silent.
The next morning, the Three Amigos woke up in the same way as they did every day – to the sound of the radio in the kitchen, as Mrs Luscombe cooked up their breakfast.
Mrs Luscombe had been doing this job for Foxborough – housing and feeding their young players who did not have family in the local area – for the last twenty years.
The Butcher, Bolt and Jamie were Mrs Luscombe’s current “tenants” and today she was cooking them an extra-special breakfast to congratulate them on their big win last night.
“Come on, you two!” Jamie said, banging on the bathroom doors. There were two bathrooms but, no matter what time Jamie got out of bed, he somehow always seemed to lose the morning race.