Golden Goal

by Dan Freedman

  “Johnson has only just started playing again, but player-manager Harry Armstrong clearly believes he has nothing to lose today, so he’s put Johnson in from the start!

  “Buckle up, people. This could be a classic… It’s Foxborough versus Hawkstone … and it’s live!”

  Jamie put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He waved to his mum, Jeremy and Jack. They were in with the rest of the Hawks fans. He was so glad they had made the journey. He had a good feeling about today.

  As the referee put the whistle to his mouth, Harry Armstrong turned around to look at his troops one last time.

  Now was the moment for any final instructions. Any last words of inspiration. But Harry didn’t say a word. It had all been said.

  They knew what they had to do.

  As the whistle went to get the game under way, the noise from both sets of fans made it seem like there were a million people crammed into The Lair. The stadium was practically vibrating!

  And the players responded to the atmosphere. This was more like a battle between warring gladiators than a game of football.

  One particular confrontation on the halfway line between the two hard men, Dave Lewington and Harry Armstrong, was so colossal that they almost burst the ball as they went in for the tackle!

  Even the referee was playing his part. Apart from one early booking – Rick Morgan for a deliberate handball – he seemed prepared to allow most things to go.

  The intensity was unbelievable. Neither team were prepared to give any ground. How could they? There was too much at stake.

  There was nothing between the two sides until, on eighteen minutes, Glenn Richardson decided it was time to interrupt the warfare with a moment of artistry. He produced one of the finest pieces of skill ever witnessed in the Premier League…

  He collected the ball from a throw-in, controlling it on his thigh with his back to goal. Then, as the ball dropped, he turned and struck a full-blooded volley high into the air. At first, no one in the ground was quite sure what he was attempting; they simply saw the ball fly up into the afternoon sky.

  But as the ball arced and began its descent, and the Foxborough keeper suddenly turned and scampered back towards his goal, people began to see what Glenn Richardson’s football vision had shown him a few seconds before: that he could take on a shot from the halfway line!

  Time stood still as the Foxborough keeper desperately raced back to try and tip the ball over. He just managed to get a hand to it. But it wasn’t enough. He could only palm the ball further into the goal.

  It was in! Hawkstone had scored! They were on course!

  Every single Hawkstone player mobbed Glenn Richardson. Jamie was so excited he even kissed Glenn’s boot!

  “What a goal!” screamed Jamie. “You the man!”

  Now the Hawks were flying. Their confidence was soaring. And on their next attack, it was time for Jamie to get in on the act.

  As the ball came to him, his feet felt springy and powerful. He was completely in control of his body. This was his destiny. The time had come.

  He took on Rick Morgan for pace and shot past him like a brand-new Ferrari overtaking a clapped-out old banger. Morgan only just managed to get back in time to block the cross and concede a corner.

  Jamie bounced over to take the set piece. He had energy and confidence coursing through his veins. He had football power in his core. He was back and he knew it.

  He raised his hands in the air to clap the Hawks fans behind the goal. They were all shouting his name.

  And there above them, in one of the posh executive boxes, smiling down eerily, was a face that Jamie thought he would never see again.

  It was his dad.

  “Go on, Jamie! Use your skills! Whip it in!” shouted the Hawks fans, as Jamie prepared to take the corner. “Put it in the mixer!”

  But Jamie felt sick. He felt weak. His legs were about to give way. He couldn’t believe that, after all this time, his dad would just show up. Today of all days. Hadn’t he done enough damage?

  Jamie stepped towards the ball. He tried to curl it into the middle but his boot struck the corner flag and he fell flat on his face. It must have been the worst corner in the history of football.

  “Oh dear, that’s not what Jamie Johnson would have intended,” said the TV commentator, up in the gantry. “After such a positive start, perhaps nerves are beginning to get the better of the young man.”

  The rest of the first half, Jamie was a pale imitation of a footballer. A pale imitation of himself.

  He just couldn’t focus on the game. When his teammates had the ball and looked up for someone to pass to, Jamie didn’t call for it. He wasn’t making any runs either.

  His sharpness… His hunger… It was gone.

  All he seemed to be able to think about was his dad. He hated the fact that he was here, looking down at Jamie.

  Where had he been when Jamie needed him?

  As the half-time whistle blew, Jamie sprinted off the pitch before anyone else. He could hear the Hawks fans barracking him as he went.

  “Get him off, Harry!”

  “He’s too young, Armstrong, make the change!”

  “We have to defend our lead, Harry – we can’t afford to play a kid now!”

  And Jamie couldn’t blame them. He would have shouted the same.

  He sensed there was only one way out of this situation.

  “What the hell’s going on?!” Harry Armstrong roared at Jamie as soon as they got into the dressing room. “You start like a house on fire and then, for the last ten minutes, you can hardly kick the ball? It’s like you don’t even want to be out there. What’s the problem?!”

  “I’ll explain later, boss,” said Jamie, standing up and walking towards the dressing-room door. “But right now I’ve got to go and do something.”

  “What are you talking about?!” raged Harry. “You can sit down like the rest of the lads and listen to what I’ve got to say.”

  “Seriously, boss. I can’t. This is just something I have to do.”

  “If you walk out that door, Jamie, I’m subbing you. That’s it.”

  “I promise, boss, I’ll explain everything. Just give me five minutes.”

  Jamie didn’t wait to hear the response. He left the Hawkstone dressing room.

  Once he’d explained to the policeman where he wanted to go to, it was only a matter of seconds before Jamie found himself in the Foxborough boardroom, which fell into a confused silence as the young winger, still dressed in his Hawkstone strip, entered the room.

  Everyone turned to look at Jamie, but he was staring at just one person.

  “Jamie!” said his dad, putting down his glass of wine and walking over to greet his son. Jamie could now see the falseness of the smile that had fooled him for so long.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Jamie. He made no attempt to keep his voice down.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing here?” smiled his dad, trying to usher Jamie into a corner so he wouldn’t cause a scene in front of everyone else in the boardroom.

  “I’m here for you, Jamie, like always. Oh, and by the way, I’ve had a word with the Foxborough chairman and they’re very interested in—”

  “Where have you been for the last year, then?” snarled Jamie. He hadn’t moved. He was standing right in the centre of the room.

  “When you thought I wasn’t worth anything to you, you just dropped me. Like I was a piece of rubbish. Well, I’m not rubbish! And I’m not stupid, either.”

  “Of course you’re not, Jamie. Look, I’m sorry, I just had other business stuff,” said Jamie’s dad, trying to put his arm around Jamie’s shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” shouted Jamie. Now the whole room had turned to stare at them.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’
re not my dad, and I never want to speak to you again. You’re nothing to me.”

  As he said the words, Jamie felt a burden lift from his chest. He felt relieved.

  “Fine,” said Ian Reacher, and suddenly the smoothness in his voice was replaced by dark venom. His true colours were coming through. “But remember, Jamie, you wouldn’t be anything without me. I’m the one who got you here.”

  “Wrong,” said Jamie. “You’re the one that left me.”

  As Jamie walked out of the boardroom, he saw the Foxborough chairman speak to two of the security guards. The guards approached Ian Reacher and asked him to leave.

  “All right!” Reacher snapped. “I’m going! Get your hands off me!”

  Jamie ran back to the changing room as fast as he could, but the players were already out on the pitch.

  As Jamie sprinted down the tunnel, his heart sank. He was too late. He could see the fourth official was holding up the board. There was going to be a substitution.

  “Welcome back to The Lair, where we can bring you news of a big half-time substitution. This should shake things up a bit… But it’s not the change we were expecting … Jamie Johnson is still on for Hawkstone…

  “In fact, it’s Foxborough who have made the change. They have brought on their prolific young centre forward Antony Asamoah…”

  “You better have a good excuse, Jamie,” said Harry Armstrong as Jamie dashed out on to the pitch to join the rest of the Hawkstone team.

  “I’ll explain everything to you later, gaffer,” Jamie insisted. “I promise you.”

  “Forget about that,” said Armstrong. “Just do your talking on the pitch.”

  Then the second half kicked off.

  Bolt’s height and pace made an instant impact on the game. The Hawkstone defence had to drop far deeper because they were scared of him running in behind.

  But what was even worse was that Jamie could tell instantly that Bolt was on fire. He was on a mission.

  As Hawkstone were preparing to defend a free-kick on the edge of their area, Jamie ran back into his own half and shouted to his teammates: “Oi! Watch him, yeah?” pointing to his old room-mate. “He’s dangerous.”

  Almost as soon as Jamie had uttered those words, Dave Lewington stepped up and floated in a beautiful free-kick to the far post. It bounced once before Bolt, as brave a lion, dived in where boots were flying to get in a header. It was a bullet of an effort. And it was Foxborough’s equalizer.

  “No!” Jamie yelled, kicking out at the advertising board by the side of the pitch. He’d warned them about Bolt!

  From that moment, the Foxborough fans couldn’t stop singing.

  “Champions! Champions! Champions!” they cried, roaring with pride.

  They knew a draw was good enough for them to retain the league and they were confident they would get it.

  And while the Foxborough fans were cheering and lifting up replica trophies in the stands, on the pitch, their players simply kept the ball. It was all they needed to do.

  Every time the ball went out of play for a goal kick, the Foxborough keeper took what seemed like an age to retrieve it, carefully place it down, take a deep run back and then launch it into the air. Everyone could see he was running down the clock, but there was nothing the Hawkstone players could do about it.

  It was during one of these breaks in play that Harry Armstrong sprinted up to Jamie.

  “Jamie, I want to make a change,” he said to his young winger.

  “No, boss, please don’t sub me! I can still do something, I can feel it!” Jamie pleaded.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” said Harry, lowering his voice so the Foxborough players couldn’t hear what he was saying. “I want you to come in off the wing, play in the hole behind the strikers. And just stay up there, don’t worry about coming back.”

  “Sure,” smiled Jamie. He liked playing in that position. “But who’s going to do my defending?”

  “You’re looking at him,” said Harry. “I just want you to stay central and get yourself involved in this game. We need you on the ball.”

  “OK, boss … if you’re sure?”

  “Eh, Jamie,” said Harry, throwing his hands up in the air as he jogged back into position. “What’ve we got to lose?!”

  Jamie looked up at the massive clock behind the Foxborough goal. There were now only six minutes left. Six minutes to save Hawkstone United.

  Jamie knew, everyone knew, that if they went down, Hawkstone would go bust. They had too many debts to survive outside of the Premier League. It was simple: relegation would kill Hawkstone.

  Jamie couldn’t let that happen. Not to the Hawks. They were his club. Always would be.

  He had to do something.

  “Yes,” Jamie yelled as soon as he found a yard of space. Harry Armstrong laid the ball into his feet. “Turn!” he shouted, to tell Jamie there was no one behind him.

  Jamie spun and accelerated towards the Foxborough goal. He weaved past two challenges, pushing the ball on to his favoured left foot. Now Rick Morgan surged across to try and stop him.

  One of Jamie’s step-overs was enough to take him past Morgan. He was close now, close to the Foxborough goal. The ground had fallen silent; everyone was waiting to see what Jamie Johnson would do next.

  The clock seemed to stop as Jamie looked up. He saw that the keeper was off his line. He was going to try the chip … but he was taking too long … Morgan had caught him up now … Morgan was lunging at him now…

  Before Jamie could get his shot away, Morgan had flown into him from behind, ferociously mowing him down.

  He trapped both of Jamie’s legs under his heavy frame in the challenge.

  Jamie crumpled to the ground.

  He could see Rick Morgan spitting as he stood up and looked at Jamie, bearing his fangs.

  For a second, Jamie thought he was going to be OK.

  And then the pain came.

  Jamie’s body gasped for air. He felt as though he was drowning in a sea of agony. He held his hand out in the air. He needed the medics. He felt his left leg. It was trembling… But was it broken?

  On the Hawkstone bench, Archie Fairclough put his head in his hands. This was his worst fear.

  In the stands, Jamie’s mum clutched Jeremy’s hand. She was pinching it so tightly her knuckles were going blue.

  Next to her, Jack Marshall closed her eyes. Her body shivered as she breathed in desperately. Jamie’s pain was hurting her too.

  “You OK, son?” said the referee, leaning over Jamie’s prone body on the ground. “Do you need a stretcher?”

  Jamie couldn’t talk. The pain had paralysed him. He could only cover his eyes with his hand to hide the hurt.

  Jamie had never felt torture like this before. It ripped up through his leg like a hundred daggers all stabbing him at the same time.

  He wanted to cry, die, or whatever it took to make the pain go away.

  He saw his teammates’ anguished faces huddle above him as he fell deeper and deeper into the ground. They were talking to him but he couldn’t hear them.

  Somewhere in the back of his brain, a word was ricocheting around Jamie’s senses: irreversible … irreversible … irreversible…

  “Where is it, Jamie?” asked the Hawkstone physio, rushing to get his painkilling spray out of his bag. “Tell me where it hurts.”

  But Jamie couldn’t speak.

  Almost as if to protect himself from the pain he was in, Jamie’s mind had left the stadium and gone to a different place...

  He was a little kid again, back at Mike’s house, sitting on the couch, showing Mike all the grazes and cuts on his knees from where the other boys had fouled him.

  They’d always fouled him. It was the only way they could stop him.

  Mike was putting a plaster over his wo
unds and scuffing up Jamie’s hair with the palm of his hand…

  Back on the pitch, the referee was calling Rick Morgan over to him.

  “You’ve had your last chance,” he told Morgan. “You knew what you were doing.”

  He was reaching for his pocket now…

  And then, suddenly, a massive roar erupted from the Hawkstone end of the ground. The Hawkstone fans had leapt to their feet. They were cheering now, punching the air.

  Because they had seen Jamie Johnson slowly haul himself to his feet!

  As he stood up, the first thing that Jamie saw was the referee reaching for his red card to send Rick Morgan off.

  “No! Don’t do that!” appealed Jamie, limping towards the referee.

  “What? Are you OK?” said the startled ref, looking Jamie up and down.

  “Yeah, no problem,” smiled Jamie.

  Inside he was still in agony, but he didn’t want anyone to know. Least of all Rick Morgan.

  “Look, I’m sure Rick didn’t mean it, ref,” said Jamie. “I’m fine. Let him stay on. Let’s play eleven versus eleven.”

  It was difficult to see who was more confused, Rick Morgan or the referee. They both looked at Jamie as though he’d just come back from the dead. And neither of them could work out why he was trying to save his direct opponent from being sent off…

  In the end, the referee simply shook his head and said, “All right, Rick. But this is your last chance!”

  Then he put his card away.

  “How’s the leg?” Harry Armstrong shouted across to Jamie.

  The Hawkstone player-manager looked nervous. If anything happened to Jamie, he’d never forgive himself.

  Even though his leg was still throbbing and sore, Jamie smiled back at his manager.

  He was smiling because as the pain started to ease with each passing second, Jamie knew that something huge had just happened.

  Little did he know it, but Rick Morgan had just done Jamie the biggest favour of his life: he’d given Jamie the tackle that he’d needed to prove, once and for all, that he was over his injury.