Shoot to Win (2 page)

 

 

Jamie's mouth hung open. Hansard couldn't just take him off! Not Jamie. And not in a match this big.

He was committing football suicide!

“Sir, I was just giving my opinion, I thought. . .”

“And what's so special about your opinion, Johnson? Do you think you're better than everyone else?”

“No, sir, I just. . .”

“How do you spell team, Johnson?”

“Erm . . . T, E, A, M, sir.”

“Exactly. There is no
I
in team, Johnson – and you can think about that during the second half,” he said, turning his back on Jamie.

“Exactly,” Dillon Simmonds parroted, smiling sarcastically at Jamie.

“Now,” said Hansard. “Has anybody else got any comments to make about my tactics?”

 

As the ref blew his whistle to get the second half under way, Jamie was torn in hundreds of different directions. Part of him wanted Kingfield to lose really badly so everyone could see what a fool Hansard had been to sub him. But, then again, Jamie knew that the only way he was going to play in the Cup Final was if Kingfield went on to win without him.

He couldn't bear the thought of just being an onlooker when he should have been out there playing. He thought about walking off to go and see how Jack was doing. She was in goal for Kingfield's girls' team, who were playing their own Cup Semi-Final at the other end of the fields.

At least he would be appreciated there; she would love it if he went over to support her.

But then Jamie thought about how bad it looked when professional players who had been substituted just disappeared down the tunnel instead of staying to support their team. It seemed as if they didn't care about the game, only about themselves.

Jamie didn't want people to think that about him. He
did
care. He cared more than anyone.

In the end, Jamie poked his foot into the black plastic bag by the side of the pitch and dragged out one of the footballs they had used for the warm-up. He rolled the ball between his feet as he made his way around the pitch to where his granddad, Mike, was standing.

As far back as Jamie could remember, Mike had watched every single game that Jamie had ever played. He loved talking about football and always got into conversations with some of the other boys' dads. Today, though, Jamie didn't recognize the two smartly dressed men that Mike was talking to.

When he saw Jamie coming, Mike said goodbye to the other men and walked towards his grandson.

“How come you're off, JJ? Did you pick up a knock?” Mike asked. Jamie could tell he was worried. His forehead was rumpled across the middle. That only happened when he was concerned.

“Nope,” said Jamie. He kept his eyes fixed on the ball as he rolled it back and forth under the sole of his boot; he was embarrassed. Mike had been such a good player that he had probably never been subbed in his whole career. It made Jamie being hauled off at half-time seem even worse.

“What? So he hooked you, did he?”

Jamie nodded.

He and Mike turned to see what was happening in the match. They let their disappointed silence fill the air as they watched Dillon Simmonds jump highest to make a headed clearance.

The ball skipped out of play and sped straight at Mike. But he didn't move. Or even alter his stance. He just let the ball bounce up on to his thigh before softly volleying it with his instep perfectly into the path of the Oak Hall winger who had come across to take the throw.

The Oak Hall player looked at Mike for a second to make sure that what he thought he'd seen had actually happened. Had this old man just produced the best bit of skill anyone had seen the whole afternoon?

Of course he had. What the Oak Hall player didn't know was that forty years ago, this “old man” was a professional player with Hawkstone United and was rated as one of the best teenagers in the whole country. His knee injuries may have forced him to retire before he was twenty but, even now, Mike Johnson still had the touch of a professional. And everyone had just seen it.

For a second, as he looked at Mike, Jamie felt a swell of pride. But it was soon drowned by a wave of doubt rising up within him.

Now the same dark questions that always haunted him gathered once again around his mind: was it too late for him? Was his dream of following in Mike's footsteps and becoming a professional footballer only a stupid fantasy? Was he going to be a . . . failure?

 

 

As an Oak Hall player did a neat back-heel, drawing applause from the crowd, Jamie's frustration began to accelerate into anger. He should still be out there; he should be the one that people were clapping for.

If Kingfield ended up losing this Semi-Final and Jamie missed his chance to prove himself on the big stage, he would never forgive Hansard.

“All I said was that we should try and keep the ball instead of hoofing it the whole time!” Jamie said to Mike, half-explaining, half-apologizing for being substituted.

“Hmmm,” Mike responded, taking in Jamie's words like a detective slowly putting together the clues of a crime. All the time, his eyes were flickering from side to side, tracking the action on the pitch.

“What?” Jamie snapped. “What's wrong with that? You think he's right to sub me? For that?! That's a load of. . .”

“I haven't said anything, JJ! You know I'll never agree with anyone who subs you . . .”

Jamie smiled. He knew Mike would always be on his side.

“. . . but I also know from my own experience that no coach likes having his tactics questioned in front of the rest of the team. It sounds to me like he wanted to make an example of you so everyone knows who's boss.”

“Yeah, but Mr Marsden never had to do
that
! And we still knew he was the boss.”

Jamie wished Mr Marsden was still coaching the team. He always encouraged Jamie; and when he called Jamie his “secret weapon” and his “pocket rocket”, it used to make Jamie play even better.

After one of Mr Marsden's pep talks, Jamie felt he could terrorize any defence. Even if they put two men on him, he just took it as a compliment and tried to beat both of them!

It had been a disaster when it came out that Mr Marsden and Ollie Walsh's mum had been having an affair. At first Marsden had tried to carry on as normal but when the other mums – who were probably just jealous – went to see the head teacher, Mr Patten, about it, the gossiping started to sweep through the school like a plague.

It was in his team-talk just before Kingfield's first tie in this Interschool Cup run that Mr Marsden had told the boys that he was moving schools.

“It's not that I want to,” he'd said. “It's just that, with the way things are here, I don't think I can do my job properly any more. I'm sorry, guys; you're one of the best teams that I've ever worked with. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you go on and win this cup.”

The last thing he'd said to them in that team-talk was: “You don't need tactics from me today – just go out there and enjoy yourselves.”

When he'd finished talking, all the boys started clapping.

That day, Kingfield won their match 5 – 2. It could have been ten. Jamie scored two goals. The second was a beautiful left-footed volley from just outside the area. It was the type of strike that the TV pundits would have called a contender for Goal of the Season.

When it went in, Jamie dashed straight over to celebrate with Mr Marsden.

“That one's for you, sir,” he'd said.

Mr Marsden left the school the next day. The boys were told that a Mr Hansard – who had been the Kingfield football coach before Mr Marsden joined – would be returning to take over.

The day that Mr Hansard walked back into Kingfield School was the day that everything changed for Jamie. But not for the better.

 

 

Jamie and Mike continued to watch the game from the sidelines. It was a tight match; still no goals and only fifteen minutes left.

Both teams seemed content to keep clearing the ball as far as they could up the pitch – happy just to make sure their goal was not under threat. Hardly anyone was taking the time to control the ball.

Hansard was prowling up and down the touchline, continuously cupping his hands around his mouth to bellow instructions at his players.

“Grind it out!” he yelled. “Win your battles!”

The vein in his temple throbbed with each shouted order.

Every time Hansard shouted, Mike just shook his head.

“What's he talking about?” he said, looking at Jamie. “This is football, not war. Whatever happened to skill?”

“Yeah, but he's not interested in skill, is he?” said Jamie. “He wouldn't have taken me off otherwise.”

Mike snorted through his nose. “Well, if this is Plan A,” he said, “I'd hate to see Plan B.”

At that moment, Hansard turned around and stared, first at Jamie and then at Mike. It was almost as if he'd heard their entire conversation. Jamie could see the anger burning in Hansard's eyes.

At first, Jamie thought that Hansard was annoyed with him again, but then he noticed that it was Mike he seemed to be preoccupied with. Mike and Hansard were glaring at each other like two boxers trying to stare each other out before a fight.

For a couple of seconds, time seemed to stand still. Jamie wasn't sure what was going on; all he knew was that he had never seen this look in his granddad's eye before.

Then Hansard turned away to hurl another command at his team.

“What's his problem?” Jamie whispered to Mike, who had still not taken his eyes off Hansard.

“He's forgotten how to enjoy football.”