Shoot to Win (8 page)

 

 

Jamie couldn't believe it. He hadn't seen his dad for nine years and now, here they were, having dinner together.

His dad had asked him if he wanted to “grab a quick bite and have a chat”. At first Jamie hadn't been sure, but then he'd thought to himself: what if he disappears again? I have to take this chance.

Now they were in the cafe together and Jamie was staring at his dad, who was eating his sandwich. Part of Jamie wished he could just come out with it and ask his dad what he'd been doing for the last nine years and why he'd left in the first place, but he didn't want to ruin things – his dad was in a really good mood and Jamie was so excited to see him. He wanted to reach across the table and pinch him just to check that he was really there.

“So, I see your mum's got a new man,” his dad said as he took a bite of his sandwich. “How's everything at home?”

“OK, I guess,” said Jamie. It seemed so strange and yet so normal to be talking to his dad about stuff like this. “I s'pose the only problem is that I love football and I want to be a professional – but Mum and Jeremy just don't . . . get it.”

“Tell me about it,” said his dad, squeezing some tomato ketchup on to his plate. “When I was your age, I was in a band with my mates. We were pretty good, could've done something maybe, but all my dad said was: ‘Give it up, get a proper job.'”

“That's exactly what's happening to me!” said Jamie. It was so good to talk to someone who actually understood what he was going through. He wondered what else he and his dad had in common.

“By the way,” said Jamie. “I'm playing in a massive game on Thursday. It's the Interschool Cup Final . . . you should come and watch!”

Jamie wondered whether he'd said too much. He'd only just met his dad again. Was it too early to ask him to come along to a game?

“Oh, I know,” his dad said. “I read all about the Cup Final in the newspaper . . . I want to know more about your football; what position do you play?”

“Left wing,” said Jamie brightly. “I'm the quickest runner in the whole school.”

“Really?” Jamie's dad's eyes were sparkling with interest. “A left-winger . . . with natural pace,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” said Jamie, happy that his dad seemed to care. He was so different to Jeremy. “Scouts came to watch our last game, but the coach—”

“And you're absolutely serious about wanting to be a professional?” his dad said, interrupting Jamie. “You know it's not just about talent; it's about dedication too. You have to really want it.”

“All I know is that I want it more than anything else in the world.”

“Well then,” his dad smiled. “Maybe I can help you.”

 

Jamie practically bounced out of the cafe. He was so happy.

His dad had said that he knew lots of people in football – people who made things happen in the game – and that he'd see what he could do; see if he could help Jamie to get a deal with a club.

Jamie couldn't believe it. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

“Thank you so much,” he'd said. “This is the best thing that's ever happened to me.” He couldn't wait to tell everyone – especially Dillon!

“Don't thank me yet – nothing's actually happened,” his dad had said. “Look, you concentrate on your football, leave the rest to me. We'll talk after the Cup Final.”

Jamie surfed home on a wave of joy. A huge current of hope coursed through his veins.

Not only had his dad finally come back into his life but he was also going to help make Jamie's dream of becoming a professional footballer into a reality.

At last, Jamie thought to himself, everything seemed to be falling into place.

And just in time, too – in three days, he would be playing in the biggest match of his life.

 

 

Jamie sprinted out on to the pitch and leapt high into the air.

He had that warm feeling of confidence inside him; he knew he was going to play well.

As he passed the ball with Ollie to warm up, his touch felt secure. Jamie's foot and the ball – they were made to be together.

It had been the same all his life: no matter what was happening, what kind of worries he had, they all seemed to dissolve away the minute he stepped on to a football pitch. When Jamie had the ball at his feet, he was free.

*

“Go on!” Jamie shouted to Ollie, who was on his side in the training match. “Pass it and go for the one-two!”

Ollie looked up and played the ball out to Jamie on the wing before bursting through the middle of the defence to collect the return. Jamie knew he had to get the ball back to Ollie quickly – otherwise he'd be caught offside – but, in the corner of his eye, he was aware of Dillon Simmonds rampaging towards him to make the interception.

Jamie's football brain clicked into gear. There was only one way to get the ball past Dillon in time to play in Ollie for the return; he struck the ball right through Dillon's open legs with enough power to perfectly place it into the path of Ollie's run.

Dillon's head twisted around to follow the ball. He could only watch as Ollie rounded the keeper to score. It had been the perfect one-two with a nutmeg on Dillon thrown in for good measure!

“Beautiful pass, J!” shouted Ollie as they did a high five. Jamie and Ollie would be a difficult duo for the opposition to cope with in the Cup Final.

 

For the whole training session, Jamie played the role of wing back without a hint of a complaint.

Despite the fact that he felt as if he could go around any defender today, Jamie didn't do one dribble during the whole session. He just tracked back, marked his man, and struck the ball into the channels when he got possession.

He played it simple – played it Hansard style.

He even resisted the temptation to bring out his most prized new possession – the step-over. He'd save that one for the Final!

It worked, though; after Jamie had cleared a long ball upfield and then run the length of the pitch to try and get up with the attack, Hansard had clapped and shouted: “That's it! Good play. Keep it simple!”

 

“OK,” said Hansard blowing his whistle to bring the practice game to an end. Jamie's team had won 2 – 0. “Gather in,” he said.

“Now, the team we're playing on Thursday – Breswell – are a good side; they wouldn't have made it to the Cup Final otherwise. So, if there's one thing that we can be almost sure of, it's that it'll be a tight game. We should be prepared for it to go right down to the wire. Preparation is the key to success and I want us to be prepared for anything.”

And, with that, Hansard made every single player line up and take a penalty. He even made the other boys boo and try to put them off as they went up to take their kicks so it seemed like a real penalty shoot-out.

Jamie remembered the article he'd found on the 'net and how Hansard's old Kingfield team had won the Interschool Cup with a penalty shoot-out. He knew Hansard would be watching everyone's penalty like a hawk, judging them. He knew he had to score.

When it was his turn to take one, Jamie switched off his ears to the shouts and taunts. He only used his eyes.

He stared at the ball and then stared really hard at the bottom left-hand corner of goal. He kept his eyes fixed there just long enough for the keeper to follow his line of vision. Then Jamie stepped forward and swept the ball high into the top right-hand corner of the goal. The keeper dived completely the wrong way. Jamie's plan had worked perfectly.

 

Even after training had finished, Jamie still had miles of running left in his tank. With two days to go until the Final, his fitness was hitting its peak. His body was perfectly prepared.

Jamie galloped over to collect the furthest ball behind the goal. He flicked it into the air. He wanted to see if he could juggle it all the way back to the halfway line, where Hansard was collecting the kit.

He'd just done a back-heel high into the air and was about to control it on his thigh when Dillon snatched the ball away.

“You think you're good now just cos you do one flukey nutmeg?” he said, pushing Jamie in the chest. “Well, you ain't. You can't do it in the
real
games. That's the reason you're never gonna be a proper player.”

Jamie just smiled and kept on walking.

“That's what you think!” he said over his shoulder. He couldn't wait to see the smug smile crumble from Dillon's face when he heard that Jamie's dad had sorted out a deal for him with a professional club.

“What's that supposed to mean?” said Dillon, chucking the ball at Jamie. He missed.

“Let's just say that you might not be the only one turning pro. . .”

 

 

Jamie was just on his way to the notice board to check what time the team coach was leaving tomorrow when he saw Ollie coming the other way.

Ollie was shaking his head. He looked somewhere between mystified and upset.

“Whassup, bruv?” asked Jamie. He was concerned – Ollie was their best midfielder – they needed him in good spirits for the game.

“That's bad, bruv. I don't get it,” said Ollie, sucking his teeth. He put his arm around Jamie's shoulder as if he were consoling Jamie for some reason.

“Get what?” said Jamie, his body starting to fidget uncomfortably. He was aware that something bad was happening; he just couldn't work out what it was.

“Why he's put you as sub, J – we need you on from the start. . .”

And that was how Jamie found out. That was how he learned that, after everything – all his preparation, the days he had spent looking forward to it, and how well he had played in training yesterday – he was still only a substitute for the Cup Final.

This was the game that Jamie had hoped might change the entire course of his life and now, all of a sudden, he wasn't even playing in it.

 

“Yes, what is it, Johnson?” said Hansard, looking impatiently at his watch. He could barely bring himself to talk to Jamie.

When Jamie had heard the news he'd felt like kicking down the door to the staffroom and grabbing Hansard by the throat. He needed to know once and for all what was going on; why Hansard was singling him out . . . why Hansard seemed to want to hurt him.

Jamie had managed to stay calm enough to catch Mr Gilles on his way into the staffroom and ask him if Mr Hansard was in there. Now, here they were, standing face to face.

“I just wanted to know why, sir,” said Jamie. He searched in Hansard's eyes for an answer.

“Why? Why what?” He was teasing Jamie now, taunting him almost.

“Why you've . . . left me out, sir . . . I don't get it, sir. . .”

“I'm sorry, Johnson – do you think you're so special that you're different to everyone else?”

“No, sir, but it's the Cup Final – I have to—”

“What you
have
to do, Johnson, is accept that I am in charge of this football team and I am not changing a winning side for you or for anyone else.”

“Sir!”

But before Jamie could argue, Hansard had gone.

As the staffroom door closed, Jamie sensed that his last chance of becoming a professional footballer might have just been slammed shut in his face.