Shoot to Win (12 page)

 

 

For a second, Jamie actually wondered if he was invisible to Hansard.

He'd been running up and down the touchline for the last twenty minutes and Hansard had still not so much as acknowledged him. This despite the fact that Kingfield had not even managed a shot on goal yet in the second half.

A line that Jamie had once heard in a movie rose into his brain.

“When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose,” he said to himself in a rugged voice. Maybe Hansard didn't want to acknowledge Jamie – but who said it was his choice?

Jamie sprinted up the touchline and stopped next to Hansard, putting his foot on the ball.

“Hey – Hilary. . .” he said, sharply and with confidence. He knew this was his last throw of the dice.

“
WHAT
did you call me?!” Hansard's face was divided into the perfect mixture of anger and surprise.

“You used to be a striker, yeah?”

“Yes I did, and don't you dare call me Hil—”

“So why are you such a
defensive
coach, then? Stick me on . . . even you know we've got to shoot to win.”

“I'll be the judge of that, Johns. . .”

But Jamie had already sprinted away down the line. He trapped the ball on his calf and flicked it over his head. He could almost feel Hansard's eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.

 

 

Just over seventy minutes had gone when Hilary Hansard finally gestured for Jamie Johnson to take off his tracksuit top.

“So you think you're special, then, do you, Johnson?” he said as Jamie stretched his hamstrings.

“I just try my best, sir.”

“Right, well, let's see how good your best is, then. Get on there.”

 

 

Jamie sprinted on to the pitch as fast as he could.

Being brought on was like being released from a prison of frustration. He'd been impotent on the sidelines. Helpless.

But now he was a part of this Cup Final. He could change things.

As Jamie took his position on the left wing, he saw Hansard come to the touchline, holding up four fingers.

“Kingfield!” he shouted. “Go to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack!”

Jamie smiled. This was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

 

For the first few minutes, the change in formation seemed to make little difference. The Kingfield defenders were still trying to hoof the ball long. They weren't making use of the width they had now. They weren't making use of Jamie.

Time was running out. They had to start keeping the ball and creating some chances.

“Oi!” shouted Jamie. “Let's get it wide, yeah? I'm free here!”

The next time the Kingfield left back, Steve Robinson, had the ball, Jamie came deep to collect it. As he ran, he could hear the Breswell defender following him. He was marking Jamie too closely.

In an instant, Jamie spun and exploded away in the other direction, back towards the Breswell goal.

“Yes!” he screamed as soon as he made his run in behind.

Steve Robinson had played with Jamie long enough to know what he wanted. He curled the ball down the line, bending it around the Breswell right back. It fell perfectly into Jamie's path.

Jamie collected the ball. He was away. He purred down the line like a brand new Ferrari. He overtook all the defenders in his path.

He put on the brakes just before he reached the byline and dinked over a perfect cross to the far post, where Ash was waiting to receive it. Ash bent back his right foot and unleashed a low, hard volley across the goalkeeper. It was past him. Jamie raised his hands to start celebrating.

And then he put them on his head. The ball had hit the inside of the post and rebounded straight back into the keeper's grateful hands.

Ash kicked the post in frustration. What did the frame of the goal have against Kingfield? What with Dillon's header in the first half too, this was the second time the woodwork had stopped them from scoring.

Jamie wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He had an awful feeling that maybe this wasn't Kingfield's day.

 

 

Jamie still felt dangerous; still felt as though he could change this game. But he was also aware of the clock's race to the final whistle.

There were now just four minutes left. Jamie wished Hansard had given him more time. What could he do in twenty minutes?

Jamie was stood on the left wing wishing the Breswell goalkeeper would hurry up and kick the ball. He had the ball in his hands and was waving his teammates upfield. Jamie watched as he bounced the ball once, then twice.

Jamie's mind drifted back to the conversation he and Mike had had about the Breswell keeper earlier. Mike's words rang in his head: “He never kicks the ball out; always throws it. . .”

It was at exactly that moment that, without warning, Jamie suddenly sprinted forward at top speed towards the Breswell goal. The keeper saw Jamie coming and tried to stop himself throwing the ball out, but it was too late; he'd already released it to the edge of the area.

“Man on! Man on!” the Breswell keeper shouted, desperately trying to warn his defender. The Breswell full-back looked around but all he saw was Jamie whizzing past him.

Jamie seared away from him, stealing possession of the ball. The keeper froze in his spot, as if he were a scared animal in front of a car. Then he quickly back-pedalled towards his line.

Jamie sensed his weakness, driving forward into the box.

He was aware of the shouts and screams from the crowd as he dribbled the ball towards the keeper but, deep down, from the very pit of his stomach, Jamie sensed a calmness spreading throughout his body. He felt the cool confidence of an expert doing what he did best.

As the goalkeeper tried to narrow the angle, Jamie was more peaceful than he had been all day. He was exactly where he wanted to be – in the middle of the action.

Jamie looked at the ball. For a moment, all he could see was a big mouse's face winking back at him. Then Jamie allowed his instincts take over. He let his feet do what had become natural to them and, as they spun around the ball in a mesmerizing whir of skill, he saw his step-over do its job.

The speed of Jamie's spellbinding movements had paralysed the Breswell keeper. He was no more than a statue as Jamie knocked the ball past him.

Now Jamie only had one more thing to do.

He smashed the ball into the back of the net!

 

 

As soon as he saw the ball go in, a thousand volts of electricity tore through Jamie's brain.

It sizzled. It soared with excitement. And release. All of his frustration at having been left out of the starting line-up burned away in his flames of ecstasy.

“Yes!” he shouted as he jumped into the air, punching his fist towards the sky. “Get in!!!”

His face was bright red. His blood was crackling hot with bliss.

Jamie could see Ollie and Ash closing in on him, wanting to celebrate the goal, but he turned and sped away from them. They couldn't catch him. No one could catch Jamie when he ran his fastest.

Jamie sprinted down the touchline. He was a tornado of released emotion.

When he got to the Kingfield dug-out, Jamie stared straight at Hansard with shimmering eyes of intensity.

He wanted Hilary Hansard to have a good look at the player who had just saved Kingfield from defeat. He wanted to him to know how wrong he'd been to keep him on the bench.

Then Jamie grabbed his shirt and kissed it as hard as he could.

“And, the scorer of the equalizing goal for Kingfield, after eighty-seven minutes,” said the announcer. “Number 13, Jamieee Johnson.”

“You're damn right it is,” said Jamie.