Man of the Match (8 page)

 

As the game kicked off, Jamie's heart began to pound with excitement. He could feel his spirit awaken and his legs and feet come alive in a way that they had not done in months.

He was ready to play.

And the first time he received the ball, he knew exactly what to do. He pushed the ball in front of him and rocketed forward, soaring down the line. He could feel the wind battering his ears. He seemed to be running so fast he might take off.

Two, then three players came across and tried to stop him in any way they could. A flying lunge, a pull of the shirt, a rugby tackle, even. But nothing was going to stop Jamie Johnson today. Nothing in the world.

Jamie got to the byline on the right-hand touchline and without thinking, he wrapped his right foot around the ball to curl a glorious centre into the box. It was as sweet a cross as any he had ever made with his left foot.

With pace and whip and curl, the ball arrowed to the far post, where Dillon Simmonds launched himself powerfully, bravely into the air and nodded the ball down and into the net.

It was an awesome goal.

Seaport Town were ahead after four minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

Jamie looked to the dugout to see Raymond Porlock, dressed as ever in his bright green jumper, wheeling down the line with his arms outstretched. He was running towards the Seaport Town fans, leaning from side to side as he went. He was doing the aeroplane celebration!

The Seaport players split into two groups, half of them gathering around Dillon to congratulate him on his strike, half of them patting Jamie on the back. They were fully aware that not many players in football could run down the line and put in a cross like that.

But the celebrations didn't last for too long. Quickly the Seaport players jogged back to the centre circle. There was a hunger in the air. An appetite for more goals.

As they jogged past each other and prepared for the restart, Jamie Johnson and Dillon Simmonds made eye contact with each other.

“Good ball,” snarled Dillon without a hint of joy. It looked as though it physically hurt him to say the words.

“Nice finish,” spat Jamie.

He wanted to wash his mouth out as soon as he'd said it.

Right from the kick-off, the Seaport Town players charged forward. They were a unit, working as one. They ran, chased and harried, forcing an error from their opponents.

Finally, a midfielder attempted to pass the ball back to his central defender, but his contact with the ball was too weak.

The ball was there for the taking.

Jamie raced in from the wing and took possession. Then he stopped and pretended he was about to back-heel the ball behind him. But as soon as he saw the defender falling for his trick, Jamie knocked the ball forward instead and scampered after it.

He swiftly outpaced two markers and then, on the edge of the area, he nutmegged the final defender!

He was so happy to be back playing he could actually feel himself smiling as he powered forward now, one on one with the keeper.

He knew he could beat this keeper in any way he wanted: a volley, a curler, a side-foot into the corner . . . he even had time to set himself up for an overhead.

But he just wanted to get the ball into the back of the net as quickly as possible.

He looked down at the ball and, with his left foot, simply lashed it home. He wellied it, stonked it, absolutely hammered it! And the ball thundered right into the top corner!

Jamie couldn't contain his adrenaline.

“Boom!” he roared. “Pick that one out!”

Jamie was making up for lost time.

It may have been 2-0 to Seaport, but Jamie Johnson was only just getting started. . .

 

Seaport Town went on to win the game 9-2! It was the biggest away league win in their history!

At the end of the game, as they walked off the pitch, the Seaport players couldn't help but laugh.

Their left-winger, Stuart Cribbins, the club joker, was doing the robot dance as his teammates got in a circle around him and clapped his moves!

“That's it, Stu!” they shouted, egging him on. “Throw us some shapes!”

Meanwhile, Raymond Porlock had jumped into the crowd and was now singing with the rest of the fans: “
Ten goals! We only wanted ten goals . . . we only wanted ten goals . . . we only wanted ten goals. . . Ten goals. . .
”

 

 

 

“Phenomenal, James!” said Raymond Porlock, as soon as they got into the dressing room after the game. “You were quicker than three leopards driving a Ferrari! No! Make that four!”

“Cheers, Mr Porlock!” said Jamie, laughing. “Feels great to be back.”

“Who needs Bertorelli when you've got James Johnson, eh?” gloated Porlock.

But as soon as he heard that cheat's name, Jamie's smile instantly vanished. Just thinking about him made Jamie feel like puking on the spot.

 

“So you want to tell me what's up?” asked Raymond Porlock a little while later, as he sat down next to Jamie on the coach back to Seaport.

The rest of the team were having a laugh and playing cards in the back three rows, but Jamie was sitting by himself, near the front, looking aimlessly out of the window.

“Nothing's up,” said Jamie, avoiding eye contact with Porlock. He was tracing a raindrop with his finger as it slid down the outside of the window. “I'm fine.”

“Do me a favour, son. You play sensationally. I mean really sensationally. World class. You're as happy as Larry and then I mention Mattheus Bertorelli's name and suddenly you close up, go into your shell and don't say a word to anyone. . . Look, you're doing it again!”

Jamie knew the red fury in his cheeks was giving him away. He couldn't help it. Knowing what Bertorelli was planning – and that the game that he was going to get himself sent off in couldn't be too far away now – made Jamie feel like punching a hole right through the side of the bus.

“I just don't like being compared to Bertor. . .” Jamie stopped and clenched his jaw tight. He couldn't say his name. “I don't like being compared to
him,
OK? I'm nothing like him. Nothing like him at all.”

“OK, Jamie,” Porlock said. “I've got that. So do you want to level with me, then? Tell me what it is you've got against the guy?”

A bit of Jamie did want to talk about it, wanted to get it out in the open. But he also knew that if he did, he'd never play for Hawkstone again. And that was something he couldn't risk.

“I just . . . don't want to talk about it right now, Mr Porlock,” he said. “OK?”

“
Don't
want to or
can't
?” asked Porlock, searching Jamie's eyes for clues. But Jamie remained silent long enough for his manager to realize that the conversation wasn't going any further.

“Fair enough,” said Porlock, tapping Jamie's shoulder as he stood up. “But remember, whenever you're ready to talk . . . I'm here.”

 

 

 

“Robbie?!” Jamie shouted. “What are you doing chucking stones at my window? You're gonna break it!”

“Come for you to teach me the double drag-backs, like you said!”

“Fine,” said Jamie. “Wait there. I'll be down in a sec.”

As Jamie put on his tracksuit bottoms, he realized that he was quite looking forward to this. It had taken him weeks to perfect the double drag-back himself when he was younger.

He was keen to see how long it took Robbie.

“Cos you're right-footed, I'll show you it with the right foot,” said Jamie, demonstrating with Robbie's old tennis ball.

“Right. So you're dribbling towards the defender, yeah? Then. . .”

 

 

1
   As you approach the defender . . .

 

2
   . . . turn your body away from him, dragging the ball back with your right foot.

 

3
  Keep turning, stepping over the ball and switching feet to drag the ball back with your left foot this time.

 

4
  Now finish the turn and your second drag-back at the same time. . .

 

 

5
  And you'll be facing

the way you were

originally running.

 

6
   But now you've got the defender behind you and the ball in front of you. . .

 

 

 

7
   So you're ready to accelerate away!

 

 

“That's wicked!” said Robbie “Sick!”

“Exactly!” smiled Jamie. “OK, your turn now. You'll probably muck it up the first time, but don't worry, I did too. It's normal. The main thing is to drag the ball back twice and get the full turn in.”

“OK,” said Robbie. “You mean like this?”

And with that, Robbie sprinted forward and produced the double drag-back perfectly. First time!

“Yeah,” laughed Jamie in amazement. He couldn't work out whether he was more surprised or impressed. “Yeah, exactly like that!”

Jamie and Robbie practised together for about an hour until Robbie suddenly looked at his watch and said: “Gotta go in a minute. Old fatty chops will have my dinner ready.”

“What's all this with Dillon and the cooking?” Jamie asked. “Does he want to be one of those TV chefs or something?”

“It's him or no one, innit?” said Robbie. “Just me and fat face now.”

“What do you mean just you and him? What about your dad?” Jamie remembered seeing Dillon's dad once. Scary bloke.

“Nah, he died last year,” said Robbie without any emotion.

“Oh,” said Jamie. “Sorry. I didn't know. What about your mum?”

Robbie looked down at his shoes. They were a grubby pair of old scuffed-up football trainers.

“She's gone to live with some other bloke,” he murmured. “Like I said, it's just me and fat face.”

As Jamie looked at Robbie, for the first time he saw through all the big talk to the little boy that he still was.

“But you two are all right for money and everything, yeah?” Jamie asked, looking at the tattered state of Robbie's clothes.

“Kind of. He's not on much at Seaport, but he says that he's got it in his contract that if he scores twenty goals this season, then he gets a bonus. That's why it's good you've started setting up loads of goals!”

Jamie thought about his recent games for Seaport and smiled. Since he'd come back, he'd been playing right wing and he'd done brilliantly.

Porlock had made Jamie and Dillon both stay back together after training to practise. They had both complained bitterly at the prospect of having to spend more time together, but Porlock had insisted.

“I don't care if you don't like each other, couldn't give two hoots,” he'd said. “But I want you to know each other's games inside out.”

So every day, the two old enemies stayed behind for an hour's extra training. They didn't say a single word to each other. Jamie simply whipped in cross after cross with his ever-improving right foot, while Dillon banged them home from all angles.

It had paid off handsomely too. He and Dillon had scored ten goals between them in the last three games. Seaport had raced up the division and Jamie's form had almost returned to its top level.

“So he's on goal bonuses, is he?” said Jamie, suddenly thinking back to how keen Dillon had been to take the free-kick that had led to Jamie being sent off for pushing the ref.

It had also given Jamie an idea of how he might be able to do his new mate Robbie a little favour.