The Kick Off (3 page)

 

 

 

Just sitting there watching Danny Miller and Co. do their thing wasn't going to improve Jamie's game though.

He knew he had to concentrate on himself, not the Firsts. Somehow, he needed to make his sessions more exciting – like theirs.

So he started to commentate on himself while he practised. It made it seem so much more real.

Each day he picked a different footballer and imagined he was them when he played. He tried to take on their characteristics and dribble and shoot like they did.

Sometimes he pretended he was one of the Hawks players and other times he imagined himself as one of the big international stars. Thinking he was the best helped to make Jamie play better. It was as if their skills were being pumped into his body.

On this particular day, Jamie had decided he was going to pretend to be someone a little closer to home. He was looking forward to it.

“
Here's Danny Miller 
. . .
he's picked this one up well inside his own half
,” Jamie started, putting on his commentator's voice as he powered down the pitch, the ball at his feet.

“
He's going through the gears now 
. . .
he's got real pace this boy 
. . .
the defenders can't stay with him
. . .”

So taken in was he by his own imagination, that Jamie was beginning to shout louder and louder the closer he got to the goal. He felt like he was playing in a real game and he was the star of the show.

“
Oh, a beautiful trick by Miller on the edge of the box now 
. . .
he's made himself a yard of space. What's he going to do now?

“
Is Miller going to have a crack?
. . .
He is, you know!
. . .
GOOOOAAAAAAAAL!
”

Jamie lingered over the word “goal” like the Brazilian commentators. He even thought he heard fans cheering his goal. He was just about to give them a wave when he realized . . . they
were
real claps.

And they were coming from behind him.

Jamie closed his eyes and listened as the claps started to turn into laughter – at first quiet, then roaring howls of derision.

Jamie turned around to see all of the First Eleven boys on the next pitch collapsing in stitches. They must have seen the whole thing.

“DANNY MILLER GOOOOAAAAAAAAL,” they repeated, mimicking him.

Jamie was almost sick on the spot.

“You better watch out, Danny,” shouted one of the biggest of them, “I think he's got his eye on you!”

 

Jamie didn't know what was more embarrassing, this or the trials the other day. At least one day he might have the chance to put the penalty miss right.

But this! What could he do about this?

The whole of the First Eleven now thought he was some kind of sad weirdo with a crush on Danny Miller. They could easily go back and tell everyone at Kingfield or, worse still, Marsden. He could add that to the ever-growing list of reasons why he'd never pick Jamie for the A's.

Time was running out for Jamie. One month. That's all he had left. How was he going to transform his game in one month? And when were people going to stop laughing at him?

 

 

 

Jamie could hear Mike's knee clicking as they climbed the stairs.

He had been on crutches for six months after his injury. These days, players can come back from knee ligament injuries as good as new. But for Mike, his career was over before it had even begun.

Jamie had told Mike that he wasn't getting anywhere. That he needed help. Something to get his confidence back and make him into the player he knew he could be.

Mike had said he had something which might help.

They went into Mike's bedroom. Mike was still breathing heavily from walking up the stairs. Because his knee was hurting more and more these days, he didn't get much exercise.

There were still pictures of him and Jamie's nan on the window sill. It made Jamie really sad to think of Mike living on his own now after being married for so many years. Jamie's nan had died a couple of years ago. Now Jamie only had his granddad. He had not had any contact with any of his dad's family since his dad had left.

Jamie wondered whether Mike cooked dinner for himself every night. Did he ever cry like he had done that day at the funeral?

Mike opened a wooden cupboard and stretched up to the top. He pulled down an old leather scrapbook.

He blew off the dust and ran his hand over the cover a couple of times. For a few seconds, he stared silently at the book. Then he looked at Jamie.

“I want to tell you about a man named Kenny Wilcox,” he said.

 

“I must have been about fifteen and I was playing football outside in my street – just like I did everyday – when a man who was taking his dog out for a walk stopped to watch us play for a while. Not for long. But long enough.”

Mike had a distant look in his eye as he told Jamie the story, like he was going back to his childhood as he spoke.

“The man walked his dog around the block but when he came back he asked if he could speak to me for a second. He told me he was a coach at Hawkstone and asked me if I wanted to come down for a trial the next week.”

“Wow! That must have been amazing!” said Jamie, shaking his head. He'd heard lots about Mike's career before but not about how he'd first got spotted. “The greatest day of your life, right? How much did you sign for again?”

“Slow down, JJ – we haven't even got to the trial yet! Anyway, that day was the first day I met Kenny. A great man. The best football coach I ever knew.”

“How well did you play in the trial, Mike? You must have nailed it for them to sign you up.”

“Just the opposite, actually. My problem in those days was I was big –
too
big for my age, really. I was strong and good in the air, but not too clever on the ground.

“The strikers that I was up against at the trial were the worst type for me, all small and quick. I just couldn't get near them.

“After the trial, I didn't wait to hear who they were offering contracts to. I just left. I was gutted because I knew I hadn't done enough. I suppose that's how you felt the other day, wasn't it, JJ? It feels like you haven't done yourself justice, doesn't it?”

Jamie nodded. Well, at least Mike had shown that it was possible to bounce back from a disastrous trial. Jamie imagined how good Mike must have been when he was younger. In all the photos he had seen of Mike in the Hawks kit he'd looked so strong. Like a giant that could win any tackle he went in for.

“What do you think would have happened if you hadn't had your injury, Mike? How good were you going to be?” Jamie heard himself ask.

Mike's eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting that question. He took a deep breath and blew the air out of his mouth before he answered.

“Who knows, Jamie? It wasn't meant to be for me. That's what I've always told myself. And, anyway, I'm happy with what I've got.”

“Yeah, but you could have been a millionaire instead of a. . .”

Jamie stopped himself. There was nothing wrong with being an electrician and Mike was still working part-time, doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood. He knew it had come out wrong though.

“Anyway,” said Mike. “Where was I?”

“You were upset after you played rubbish in the trial – just like me!” said Jamie, relieved to get back to the story.

“
Badly
, yes, I played badly. And when I got home I went straight to my room. I just lay on my bed, beating myself up about how I'd blown my chance. Then my mum, your great nan, came into my bedroom.

“‘Do you know a man called Kenny Wilcox?' she asked me. I remember she had a strange smile on her face.

“‘Of course I know who Kenny Wilcox is,' I said.

“‘Well, he'd like to see you, Mike. He's downstairs.'

“I came down to find Kenny sitting on our couch with a glass of brandy in one hand and a slice of cake in the other. Apparently, he'd knocked on every door in the street to find out where I lived.

“He got up and shook my hand and, when we sat down, he asked me where I'd got to after the trial. Before I could answer, he told me that he thought I had the potential to be a professional footballer.”

“For real?” said Jamie. “Even after you'd had a bad game in the trial! He must have seriously rated you.”

Mike nodded.

“He said I still had work to do on my game before they could take things further, though. He told me that I had to improve my pace on the turn and that my touch and distribution needed to be better too. He said that he could help me to do that.

“He told me that to help the Youth Team players at Hawkstone, he'd devised a set of exercises to improve every aspect of a footballer's game. He told me to practise the ones specifically designed to develop pace and passing and then come back and see him in a few months. He gave me his book of drills and then he left.”

“How long before you went back, then? And what did your mates say when you told them that you were going to sign for Hawkstone?” asked Jamie. “They must have been well jealous!”

“I didn't tell anyone about it. I didn't want to put any more pressure on myself. I just practised and practised – every day. I hardly saw my mates, to be honest. I just kept working on those exercises and thinking about what Kenny had said. Even when I'd had enough, I'd just carry on and carry on. That was how much I wanted it.

“After two months I was so much more quick and nimble on my feet and my first touch had come on a bundle too. I went back to see Kenny and he got me to join in with a Youth Team session straight away. After twenty minutes, he hauled me into his office and I signed schoolboy terms there and then.

“A couple of weeks later, I brought Kenny's book back to him and thanked him for lending it to me. He took it off me, scribbled something in it and then handed it back to me. He told me that at the end of the season the club was restructuring its youth system and that he would be leaving. . . It turned out I was one of the last players that he ever signed.

“So he told me to hold on to it and pass it on to someone else who needed it.

“Football's changed in lots of ways since my day,” said Mike. “But pace and skill will always win you matches.”

He tapped the old book with his knuckles and put it on Jamie's lap.

“I think Kenny would have approved,” he said.

 

 

 

The book smelled precious. Through the smell, Jamie felt he was somehow connecting with all the other boys that had read it in the past.

He wondered if any of Hawkstone's great players had used the book when they were trying to break through.

Every page was crammed with diagrams and drills. They were all immaculately handwritten. All of Kenny's knowledge of the game was here before Jamie, written on these pages. It was as if he had Kenny as his personal coach.

On the inside of the cover there was an inscription. It read:

 

To Mike,

Success is about desire.

The only limits are the ones you place on yourself.

Kenny Wilcox

 

Jamie smiled. He thumbed through the pages, looking at all the different drills. He shook his head as he thought about all the work that must have gone into it. It was too much for him though. He couldn't just lie there in bed and read about the drills; he had to get out on the pitch and
do
them.

Jamie's feet started to tingle. His body was beginning to rev itself up.

He bounced to the floor and did thirty-three press-ups in three sets of eleven. He liked doing sets of eleven because he could think of the Number Eleven shirt while he did each set. He wanted that Kingfield School Number Eleven shirt so badly.

He pushed the air hard out of his mouth each time he lifted himself off the carpet. He made himself angry by thinking about how Dillon Simmonds had wound him up during the trials and how much he wanted to teach him a lesson next term.

He let his chest and arms have all of the angry strength that was meant for Dillon.

After he'd done the last press-up, Jamie stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. He raised his arms up into the air like he'd just won a boxing match. His chest was heaving. He flexed his pecs. They looked good.

So what if some people saw him as a skinny ginger kid? So what if he still didn't have any hair under his arms?

This morning Jamie felt strong. He flexed his biceps and felt his golf ball muscles. Anyone that doubted him didn't know how much strength he had inside him.

 

Jamie carefully packed the book into his bag and flew down the stairs. He couldn't wait to get down to Sunningdale. Couldn't wait to get started on Kenny's drills.

As he put his hand on the door knob to leave, the post dropped through the letter box. Jamie bent down to pick it up. It wasn't like anyone ever wrote to him, but for some reason he always found the post arriving exciting.

Among the pizza fliers, minicab cards and bills, Jamie immediately noticed a brown envelope poking out menacingly from the middle of the pile.
Kingfield School – Rise to the Challenge
said the red lettering on the postmark.

His school report. This was not good news. He'd promised his mum that changing schools wouldn't affect his marks, but after the term he'd had, he knew that this report wasn't going to be a cracker.

He had to think quickly.

He decided to take it up to his room and keep it there until he'd worked out how to play things. Maybe he could take the worst pages out. It was his first report from Kingfield so his mum wouldn't know how long it should be. . .

“What have you got there, Jamie?” his mum called as he started up the stairs. “That wouldn't happen to be your report, would it? It's due around now.”

Sprung.

“Err . . . I'm not sure . . . yeah . . . I think it might be actually,” said Jamie, trying to sound surprised. He wasn't a great actor.

“I was just . . . erm . . . going to sort of have a look in my room . . . see what it said and everything.”

“Oh, were you? Well, how about I make a cup of tea and we have a look at it together?”