Shoot to Win (4 page)

 

 

“What happened in your game, anyway?” Jamie asked Jack. He'd had enough of talking about his match and why he'd been substituted; it wasn't going to change anything.

“What do you think?” said Jack, throwing him the contagious grin that always made Jamie smile too. “Let's put it this way – you aren't the only one with a Cup Final to look forward to!”

As they walked home and Jack told Jamie how she'd saved a penalty to send the girls' team through, Jamie felt even closer to her than normal. She didn't seem to think any less of him because he'd been substituted. He could probably even score an own-goal in the Cup Final and know that she would still feel the same way about him.

Jamie put his arm around her shoulder. He liked doing that when they were out together. It made him feel proud.

“Can I stay at yours tonight?” he asked. “I can't be bothered to go back to mine. It doesn't even feel like home any more now. Not with
him
there.”

“I told you,” said Jack, lightly squeezing Jamie's hand. “My mum says you shouldn't stay over any more, now we're . . . older. We'll do something on the weekend, yeah? And anyway, what's wrong with your place? I thought you liked Jeremy.”

“I used to. . .”

 

 

Jamie put his key in the top lock and twisted it. He hoped the door wouldn't open, which would mean that no one was in. But it did. That meant that
he
was home.
He
being Jeremy.

Jeremy had moved in about three months ago. At first it had been all right; Jamie had liked seeing his mum happy. But now it was as if Jeremy thought he was in charge of the whole house. Whatever he said went.

The most annoying thing of all was the fact that he kept saying that Jamie wouldn't make it as a pro. He called it a “pipe dream” and said that sooner or later Jamie would have to grow up and think about getting a job in the “real world”.

Jamie wished he'd keep his opinions to himself. He didn't know anything about football and he wasn't even Jamie's dad. Why didn't he just stay out of it?

Jamie's legs were aching. Even though he'd only played half the match, he'd had to do the work of two players in that stupid wing-back role that Hansard had made him play.

He felt like slumping into the sofa and watching football on TV. Foxborough – the best team in the country – were playing tonight. The match started at eight. But, as he walked into the kitchen, Jamie could hear that Jeremy was already in the lounge watching his own programme.

This was supposed to be his home but Jamie couldn't even watch what he wanted on the TV.

Jamie grabbed an apple from the fridge – he had to get to the nice green crunchy ones before Jeremy did – and then he left the house. He didn't bother saying hello. He just wanted to get over to Mike's.

At least he could watch the football there. In peace.

 

 

“It doesn't work like that, JJ!” said Mike as they tucked into their toasted cheese sandwiches – Mike's speciality – in front of the football. “Just because Dillon's been spotted, it doesn't mean that you won't be.”

“And, anyway, you're a late developer, aren't you? You're only just starting to get your growth spurt.”

Jamie was glad Mike hadn't used the word “puberty”. Jamie hated that word. It sounded like a word a doctor would use.

But it was true – he
had
started to grow quite a lot over the last few months. His school trousers were now starting to get too short for him and he was practically the same height as Jack now, which made things easier.

His hair had started to change colour too, deepening from red to brown.

Jamie licked up a strand of melted cheese which had got stuck to his chin. He wondered how tall he was going to be when he was older. He couldn't remember how tall his dad was – it had been such a long time since he'd seen him, and his mum had thrown away practically all of the pictures of him.

What if his dad was really tall? Would that mean that Jamie would end up being really tall too?

He would love it if he ended up being bigger than Dillon! He imagined meeting Dillon again when they were both older and him going up and pushing Dillon in the chest. “What's the matter, Simmonds?” he'd say, as Dillon stared up at him trying to work out who this giant was. “Don't remember me? Does the name Jamie Johnson ring any bells?”

Then Jamie's tall story was interrupted by the commentator on the TV, who was going mad because the youngest player on the pitch had just scored on his debut for Foxborough. He was only seventeen.

Suddenly Jamie didn't feel hungry any more.

“See, Mike?” he said, as though everything was somehow Mike's fault. “This guy's only three years older than me and he's already making his debut – and scoring! I'm way behind. I've blown it!”

“What are you talking about, Jamie? You've got a Cup Final to come in less than a week. If you're ever going to turn it on, that's the game to do it in. If there were scouts there today, they'd be mad not to come back for the Final.”

Jamie licked the roof of his mouth. It was burnt. Mike did have a point, though. The Final – that could change everything.

“Maybe you're right,” Jamie said, going to get a glass of water from the tap. “But even if they are there, what's to say they're going to be impressed by me? I mean, I couldn't even beat a man with my step-over today. How can I be a professional winger if I can't do a proper step-over?”

Jamie looked at Mike, who was pushing his hand back through his greying hair. Jamie wondered what he was thinking.

“Remember when we went on holiday and you met that mouse with the huge ears?” said Mike, pointing to the photo of Jamie and the mouse on the wall.

“Yeah, course I do,” said Jamie. “That was my first proper trip away.” Stopping to look at the photo, he couldn't believe how big his front two teeth had been when he was younger. But they were OK now.

“That poor guy in the mouse suit. You kept going on about his big ears!” smiled Mike.

“I know I did,” said Jamie, barging his granddad's shoulder as he sat back down on the sofa. “But I'm not being funny, Mike – that was ages ago. I'm not a kid any more, you know. I'm serious, I need help with my step-overs, not talk about a mouse with big ears!”

“But who said the two aren't connected, eh, Jamie?” said Mike, a little mysteriously. He still had his eyes focused on the TV. Foxborough were playing some great football.

“What are you chatting about, Mike?”

“I'm saying that maybe that mouse and his ears can help you with your step-overs.”

Jamie was mystified.

“Look,” said Mike, turning down the volume on the TV. “Bring that pad over here.” He was pointing to the square stack of sticky notepaper he kept by the phone.

Jamie went and brought it over. It had lots of doodlings and telephone numbers on it. Mike had even been practising his signature on it!

“Right,” said Mike. “Take a fresh piece and draw me a picture of the mouse's head with his nice big ears.”

“Fine,” said Jamie.

He didn't have to think too hard. All he had to do was look at the photo on the wall. He did a quick sketch and handed it over to Mike.

 

 

“Not bad,” said Mike, laying the drawing on the table between them. “But maybe you're right. It was ages ago that we met him. Maybe he needs you to bring him up to date a bit. How about you give him a new crew cut? And, in return, he can help you with your step-overs.”

“He can what?” Mike's advice was normally spot-on, but Jamie wondered if he'd actually lost it this time. How could giving an imaginary haircut to a drawing of a mouse help Jamie with his step-overs?

“It's simple, JJ. If you step on his ear, shave his head and then knock him away, you'll be able to do your step-over.”

“Mike, what are you—”

“Trust me, Jamie. Just say it. You're going to step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away.”

“Fine, I'll step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away. Happy now?”

“Again,” said Mike.

“I'll step on his ear, shave his head and knock him away. And then I'll be able to do a step-over.”

“Good,” said Mike, taking the pen from Jamie's hand. “So what we're saying is, you're going to:

 

 

“Step on his ear with your left foot.

 

 

“Then shave his head with your right foot.

 

 

“And then knock him away with your left foot.”

“Get it?” said Mike, getting up from his seat.

“Sort of.”

“Remember, it's simple: step on his ear—”

“I know, shave his head and knock him away.”

“That's it,” said Mike, moving cushions and chairs out of the way to make some room. He got a ball from the cupboard under the stairs and put it down on the carpet.

“Are you ready to have a go?”

“But I don't—”

“Yes, you do, Jamie,” said Mike, smiling. It was as though he knew something Jamie didn't. “Your feet know exactly what to do.”

Jamie stood over the football and stared at it. He still couldn't see the connection between the ball and what they had just been talking about.

Then Mike did the funniest thing; he got a black felt-tip pen and drew two big eyes on the ball.

All of a sudden, Jamie could see it. The ball was the mouse's head!

 

Without thinking, Jamie put his left foot over the ball, where the ear would be, swished his right foot around the ball as close as he could to shave the head and then brought his left foot back to knock the ball away.

 

 

Step on his ear.