Man of the Match (15 page)

 

 

“I need you to stay on for the moment,” said Armstrong, putting his arm around Jamie as they watched Glenn Richardson being stretchered off the pitch. “I just need to work out what I'm going to do.”

Both Harry and Jamie tapped Glenn Richardson on the head as he was carried away down the tunnel to the waiting ambulance.

He was in so much pain he'd put a blanket over his face so people couldn't see his eyes. He didn't want them to see the tears.

Play had been stopped for seven minutes to allow him to be treated and stretchered from the field. There hadn't even been anyone near him when the injury had occurred. Richardson had simply caught his studs in the turf as he was turning. It had snapped his cruciate knee ligament: the worst injury in football.

 

In the break in play, both sets of players had gathered around the dugouts to talk to their managers and get some water on board. It was well past five p.m. now, but the temperature on the pitch was still soaring.

Jamie had so much to think about. So much pressure. He wandered away from the rest of the Hawkstone players in some kind of daze. He didn't really know where he was.

“Hey, Jamie! Jamie!” he heard people shouting from the crowd. They were familiar voices . . . and familiar faces. . .

It was the Seaport squad. All of them!

They must have all come to support him! And they were all wearing their Seaport Town strips. At least now it was warm enough to wear the short-sleeved shirts!

At the front of the group, someone was frantically trying to get his attention.

It was Dillon Simmonds.

“Oi!” he was shouting, loudly. “Oi! Come here!”

Jamie didn't know what to do. The last thing he needed now was Dillon Simmonds barking insults at him. He was obviously still wound up about Jamie offering him that penalty. But Robbie was there too, and he was also calling Jamie over.

As soon as Jamie got within arm's reach of the crowd, Dillon snaked out his hand and grabbed Jamie's wrist so tightly it practically crushed every single bone.

Before the stewards could intervene, he pulled Jamie towards him and aggressively stared him straight in the face.

“You've got a job to do, mate,” he snarled. “The reason you're out on that pitch and I'm in the stands is cos you've got the skill that I never had. Now if you don't start using it, I'm going to get pretty angry. Just play like you did at Seaport, will you? Go and do what you've got to do.”

As he took in Dillon's order, a slow realization began to wash over Jamie. And then a sudden lightning bolt of understanding flashed into his mind. . .

But he had to be quick. The referee was blowing his whistle. It was time to get the game back on.

 

All the Hawkstone players sprinted on to the pitch and back into their positions . . . all except Jamie, who had gone missing.

Then, finally, he reappeared. The last one back on the pitch. Still tucking his shirt into his shorts.

“Where's he been?” asked Harry Armstrong. “I can still take him off, you know, Archie . . . we've got one more sub.”

“Five minutes,” said Archie Fairclough. “Just give the boy five more minutes. . .”

Had Archie detected something different in the way Jamie was moving? Had he spotted that familiar glint of confidence returning to Jamie's eyes? Or was he just gambling?

Either way, Harry Armstrong nodded and said: “OK, Archie. Five more minutes.”

 

“Yes!” Jamie roared, as soon as play was back under way. “Play me in!”

Jamie galloped on to the ball and ran at Ashley Blake. Ran hard. But his brain was working even faster. Yes, he knew by now that Blake was as quick as he was on the outside. But there was something he hadn't tried yet. . .

Jamie swivelled, spinning his body around, while at the same time manipulating the ball with the sole of his boot. He did a double drag-back to get a yard ahead of Ashley Blake.

And now he cut inside on to his right foot. He was a little unsteady at first, but there was no time for hesitation. This was the right foot that he'd spent hours working on at Seaport. He had to trust it now . . . trust himself . . . trust his talent. . .

Jamie powered forward into the box. Blake was behind him. The two speed merchants sprinted after the ball, but Jamie's skill had given him a head start.

Jamie knew that this was the moment. He knew exactly what he had to do. He pulled his right foot back and smashed it into the ball, laces first. He followed all the way through, lifting his foot almost head-high after he'd struck the shot, to achieve the maximum power possible.

The effect was devastating. The ball seemed to have the force of ten rockets as it soared at supersonic speed through the air.

It was a goal from the millisecond it left Jamie's boot.

And it was an absolute beauty too. It fairly ripped into the back of the net!

If he'd thought about it, Jamie could have done the robot dance or slid on his knees towards the fans to celebrate. But as soon as he saw the ball go in, Jamie's mind went completely blank and his body came to a standstill.

All he could feel was relief. Hawkstone were back in it. They had lift-off!

 

 

 

Projected Premier League Table
(if scores stay the same)

“How did he do that, Raymond?” asked the TV presenter. “You know him better than us, having managed him this season. We see nothing from him for the whole game and then BANG! A moment of utter genius! Please, Raymond, explain to us the enigma that is Jamie Johnson!”

“That's easy, Gary. On the football pitch, most of us live in the present. James Johnson lives in the fut—”

“I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to interrupt you straight away there, Raymond, because we are getting some absolutely sensational news coming into us from the other game at the top of the table . . . there's been another goal up at Foxborough and the goal has gone . . . against Foxborough! That's right! Liverton have equalized! All of which means that this League title is now on a knife edge! One more goal for either Foxborough or Hawkstone and the Premier League is theirs!”

 

 

 

Projected Premier League Table
(if scores stay the same)

As the news reverberated around the Hawkstone ground, the noise reached almost unbearable levels. It seemed as though the old stadium might crumble under the weight of hope and expectation. It was being rocked to its foundations by the jumping sea of excitement inside.

The Hawkstone fans were trying to suck the goal into the back of the Brockburn net. One goal! That was all they needed.

But time was against them.

With three minutes left, Hawkstone won a corner.

“Everybody up!” Harry Armstrong shouted, leaping up from the dugout. “Everybody get in there! Including you, Eddie! Yes, you!”

Every single one of the Hawkstone players sprinted into the Brockburn penalty area, including Eddie Fishlock, the huge American keeper!

Harry Armstrong was gambling. Big time. He knew it was now or never.

In came the corner . . . the ball hanging in the air like a perfectly ripe apple just waiting to be plucked. Fishlock jumped high, getting a vital touch to flick the ball on to the far post.

Everyone in the ground looked on as Rigobert West leapt into the air. The Beast rose majestically. He strained all of his bulging neck muscles and bulleted in a header.

It hit the angle of the crossbar and post.

Then the ball bounced down on to the goal-line.

And there it remained . . . right on the line . . . right next to the goalpost . . . waiting. . .

The two quickest players on the pitch sped towards the ball. If the defender got there first, he'd clear the ball. If the striker won the race, it would be a certain goal.

The race was between Ashley Blake and Jamie Johnson. Whoever won would decide the game.

They both launched themselves at the ball.

And that was all that was in Jamie's mind. Perhaps, somewhere in his brain, he knew that if he got there first, he would also clatter into the goalpost. But if he did know it, he ignored it just the same.

The desire for glory overrode the fear of pain. Winning was all that mattered.

Jamie unleashed everything he had. Found his ultra-turbo gear. Tapped into his unbreakable spirit. . .

He got his foot to the ball first . . . and then smashed his head full pelt into the post.

He was knocked out instantly.

 

 

Jamie Johnson was not moving.

He was still.
Dead
still.

The referee knelt over his prone body and immediately called on the paramedics.

They sprinted over to Jamie and felt his neck and head.

The Hawkstone players all gathered around him.

Jamie had been brave. Unbelievably brave. But had he been reckless too? Had he sacrificed everything, including his career, just to get to that ball first? His body had been damaged before. It might not be able to withstand another serious injury.

In Jamie's semi-conscious mind, old pictures were reappearing: his mum crying after his dad had left them. Kicking a ball with his granddad for the first time. Dreaming of playing for Hawkstone United. . . And the advert that he'd done last year . . . what had the words been?
Some people say football is a matter of life and death. But I know it's far more important than that. . .

Jamie opened his eyes.

He saw his teammates. He saw the referee. But there was no noise.

“What's happening?” Jamie said, panicking. “I can't hear anything! I can't hear ANYthing!”

And then, like a dam breaking, the noise burst into Jamie's ears. The cheering, the screams, the joy!

It was the Hawkstone fans! All of them!

Celebrating a goal!

“Did it go in?!” Jamie screamed. “Did we do it?!”

He already knew the answer was yes.

 

 

 

Final Premier League Table

 

Hawkstone United are Premier League Champions for the first time in the club's history!

 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” screamed Jamie, as the final whistle went. He was tearing around the pitch, leaping in the air, hugging anyone he could lay his hands on. For a second, he even went to hug the referee too, but managed to stop himself at the very last moment. He'd learned his lesson on that front!

“And so, Raymond,” said the presenter. “Now we come to the verdict for your man of the match, please. . .”

“Yes indeed, Gary,” Raymond Porlock was saying way up in the commentary gantry, a big, wide grin stretched across his face. “The man of the match has to go to a young man called . . . Rigobert West. Only kidding! But I had you there, Gary my old mucker, didn't I? Come on, admit it! No, in all seriousness, of course the man of the match is Jamie Johnson . . . who else?”

 

Out on the pitch it was turning into the party of all parties! The Hawks fans were singing, “One Jamie Johnson, there's only one Jamie Johnson!”

It was the song they had first sung to him when he'd scored an overhead kick on the day he'd been Hawkstone's mascot. He had only been eleven years old that day, but his talent had still shone out like a beacon.

Hearing the Hawkstone fans sing his name electrified Jamie's body.

“I love football!” he shouted, jumping high into the air, punching his fist skyward.

By now, the other Hawkstone players were spraying champagne over themselves in the middle of the pitch.

But Jamie left them to it for a minute or two.

He headed over to the crowd. There was one last thing he had to do. . .

Jamie jogged over to the part of the ground where all the Seaport players were. They were celebrating as if
they
had just won the league. There was even a group of fans watching and cheering Stuart Cribbins as he did his robot dance!

Jamie took off his Hawkstone shirt and handed it over to Robbie Simmonds. He'd realized now who it was that Robbie so reminded him of. It had been nagging away at Jamie for weeks. And then suddenly, one morning, the answer had just popped into his head. Robbie reminded Jamie of himself.

“One day,” Jamie said to Robbie, handing over his number 11 shirt. “One day, you'll be wearing this shirt. I just know it.”

“Course I will, you pumpkin!” said Robbie, snatching the shirt. “As long as you keep coaching me!

“Hey!” Robbie continued, pointing to the blue-and-white-striped football top that Jamie still had on. “Why are you wearing that?!”

Jamie looked down at the short-sleeved Seaport Town shirt that he had hurriedly nicked off Stuart Cribbins at half-time and put on underneath his Hawkstone top . . . minutes before he'd scored the two most important goals of his life.

“Well, your brother told me to play like I did at Seaport . . . thought I'd take his advice,” smiled Jamie.

“Nice one, Dillon,” said Jamie, reaching out his hand.

Dillon Simmonds didn't say a word. Or crack a smile. He simply grabbed Jamie's hand and shook it. Hard.