Man of the Match (11 page)

 

 

“There's something I need to say to you, Jamie,” said a solemn-looking Harry Armstrong.

Archie Fairclough had been outside the Hawkstone training ground, waiting for Jamie to arrive. He'd given Jamie a massive bear hug and then led him straight to see the manager.

Now Jamie was staring deep into Harry Armstrong's eyes. Normally Armstrong's sharp eyes reminded Jamie of a shark. They were predatory – as if he might bite off a lump of your flesh at any moment. But now his features appeared softer, gentler.

“I misjudged you, Jamie,” Armstrong admitted. “I misjudged the whole situation. I took the easy option. I believed what I wanted to believe, not what I should have believed. And for that, I am very sorry. Very sorry indeed. But I guess I'm learning just like the rest of us. And I hope you can accept my apology and play for me again.”

Jamie looked at Harry Armstrong and smiled. He felt as though a thousand tonnes of pressure had just been lifted from his shoulders. He felt like a Hawkstone player again.

“It's just good to be back,” smiled Jamie

“Good to have you here and, if you're happy, I'm going to put you straight back into the team on Saturday. I've watched the DVDs of your last few games at Seaport. Exactly what I was hoping for. You look like you're right back to your best.”

“Even better than before!” laughed Jamie. “Maybe it's like they say: everything happens for a reason.”

“Good,” said Harry. “Because right now I need you – this club needs you – more than it has ever done. And I still believe that we can win this league, by the way.”

“So do I, Harry,” said Jamie, the adrenaline beginning to pulse around his body like an electric current. “So do I. . .”

 

Saturday 3 April
Premier League Table

Jamie picked up the Hawkstone United shirt. He turned it around and traced his fingers down the material that made up his number. Number 11.

Then, very slowly, relishing every second, Jamie slipped the shirt over his head and on to his shoulders.

Almost without warning, a story that his granddad had read to him when he was younger edged its way into his consciousness. What was it called?
The Sword in the . . . Stone
, that was it – a story about how many men had attempted to remove a special, magical sword from a stone, but there was only one person who could do it, who was destined to do it, because the sword was rightfully his.

Jamie believed that the same principle applied to his Hawkstone United shirt. Many others could try to put it on. They could even wear it. But none of them would ever be able to fill it like Jamie Johnson.

The number 11 shirt of Hawkstone United would always be his. It was his destiny.

He pulled the shirt to his lips and kissed the badge.

He was ready.

Jamie had taken a little while to readjust to playing in the Premier League.

The pace, the skill level, the quality of the defending. He was just a fraction off. But not much.

It felt strange being back on the left wing, not using his right foot as much. It even felt slightly weird not having Dillon's big, bustling figure causing havoc in the opposition penalty area. He wasn't . . . surely not . . . Jamie wasn't actually missing Dillon Simmonds, was he? No. That was out of the question. It was like missing chicken pox. Not possible.

Jamie knew he was back where he belonged, though. Every time he touched the ball, the Hawkstone fans cheered loud and hard. He had even heard some of them shout, “Welcome back – we missed you!” to him during the warm-up.

Jamie could feel something special start to bubble in his blood . . . that sensation he got when his football power coursed through his veins. It told him that he was about to take control of a match.

As Glenn Richardson swivelled majestically in the centre circle, Jamie instinctively set off through the middle. He burst forward like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. If he and Glenn both timed the move right, Jamie's pace would destroy the offside trap.

Richardson spotted Jamie's run and laid a beautiful throughball into his path. The delivery was inch-perfect. Jamie didn't have to break his stride or even take a touch to control . . . he simply belted the ball as hard as he could towards the goal.

The contact was sweet and powerful. The ball flew forward, soaring through the air faster than the human eye could follow.

The ball had ripped into the back of the net before anyone on the pitch or in the stands could move.

 

And now Jamie turned and started running.

Running past his teammates . . . past the referee . . . all the way to the other end of the ground. He was going to celebrate with the Hawkstone United fans!

He slid on his knees right to the edge of the pitch. Then he got up and high fived every Hawkstone fan on the front row of seats. As he put his head in their sea of hands and they patted, hugged and kissed him, a torrent of emotions was being born, or perhaps reborn, within Jamie.

Excitement at being back. Yes – lots of it. Ecstasy at having scored a goal. Of course – by the barrel-load. But there was something else too. Something from deeper inside.

It was pride. Pride at pulling on the Hawkstone shirt once more. Pride at proving all the doubters wrong. And most of all, pride at being himself.

At being Jamie Johnson. Once more.

 

 

 

Premier League Table – 26 April
FIVE GAMES TO GO

 

 

Jamie was almost blinded by the flashbulbs as he walked into the press room and sat down at the table. There was a jug of water in front of him, and behind him was an advertising board with all of Hawkstone's sponsors. Apparently this press conference was going out all over the world.

Harry Armstrong had said that Jamie didn't have to do it – that the biggest priority was keeping his mind a hundred per cent focused on Sunday's game – but Jamie had said that he wanted to speak at the press conference. That he had some things he needed to say.

Jamie searched the room to see if he could find Jack. He could spot her instantly in any crowd – it was a kind of sixth sense he had about her. But she wasn't there today. . . At college, no doubt.

“So, Jamie,” began one of the journalists. “You and Hawkstone United are right up there and in with a shot of winning the Premier League. I bet you didn't imagine this scenario a few months ago when you were down on loan at Seaport.”

Jamie smiled.

“No, I suppose you're right,” he said. “And I have to admit that, in the beginning, it was difficult down there . . . but I learned a lot and made some good friends too. I'll be as nervous as anything tonight when I watch them on TV. If they can get into the play-offs, it'll be fantastic for the club.”

“What do you think about Mattheus Bertorelli being arrested, Jamie?” asked another journalist. “And can you comment on the rumours that you two had a big bust-up?”

“Er, Jamie does not have to answer that question,” said Mark Buttersworth, Hawkstone's media officer. “The Bertorelli case is currently in the hands of the police, so—”

“No, Mark, it's OK,” said Jamie, gently. “There is something I want to say about this. It's important to me. I grew up a couple of miles away from here . . . still live in the same house now . . . and I used to walk to this ground with my granddad, who also used to play for Hawkstone, by the way. Football is what I live for. And the way I see it, I just think it's important that we all do whatever we can to protect this game . . . because it's the best game in the world. . .”

After Jamie had finished speaking, there was a second or two of silence, and then all the journalists began writing furiously in their notepads.

“And by the way,” Jamie said with a knowing smile. “Whoever the
anonymous source
was who prevented this thing from happening deserves a serious thank-you – from all of us.”

 

Jamie was just getting his phone out to call Jack to see if she'd heard what he'd said when a fat man pushed his way past all the other journalists and poked a voice recorder right under his Jamie's chin.

“Barry Digmore,” said the man. “From the
Mercury
. Give me a couple of words about the big game tomorrow,” he ordered.

Jamie stared at Barry Digmore. His face was as red as a strawberry and he had blue veins poking out from the side of his nose. His tie was decorated with a variety of crusty stains, and he had a hundred specks of white saliva resting on his rubbery bottom lip.

So you're the one who prints my dad's lies
, Jamie thought to himself as he glared at Barry Digmore.
You're the one who judges me. And now you want me to speak to you . . . you want “a couple of words” from me?!

“Yeah, sure you can have a couple of words,” said Jamie, drawing himself up to his full height so he could look down at Digmore's fat, filthy plate of a face.

“Barry Digmore's a LOSER!”

There were a few gasps from the other journalists who were huddled around Jamie. But Jamie didn't care. He'd waited a long time for this moment.

“OK, that's probably enough,” said Mark Buttersworth, sweeping his arm protectively around Jamie. “You need to stop now.”

Then Mark turned and smiled apologetically to Digmore, saying, “Jamie's under a lot of pressure. Sunday's such a big game. . .”

“No!” said Jamie, freeing himself from Mark's arm. “I'm not stressed at all! I know exactly what I'm saying.”

As Mark and Jamie exited the room, Jamie could see out of the corner of his eye that all the other journalists were now laughing at Digmore, mocking him. He could see the anger and embarrassment leaping out from Digmore's oily face.

And although one half of Jamie's brain was worried that he might have gone too far, the other half was shouting:
Serves you right, Barry Digmore! How does it feel to get a taste of your own medicine?