Man of the Match (7 page)

 

 

Although it only been four weeks, Jamie felt as though he hadn't played football for years. Decades, even.

Despite the fact that his ban would soon be over, Raymond Porlock had said that he still had no intention of picking Jamie for Seaport Town. He didn't think Jamie was “mentally ready” to come back yet.

Above everything else, Jamie missed the buzz. Nothing on earth felt as good as playing football.

To stay fit, Jamie had been going for long runs by himself every day.

He sprinted up and down the streets around his house, each day setting himself new targets to keep pushing himself to the limit.

Sometimes, like today, he even went down to the main road so that he could run on the pavement and race against the cars.

Jamie was sprinting as fast as he could, trying to keep pace with an old Mercedes, when he suddenly stopped. Something had caught his eye.

He'd seen a massive poster on the street. It was of Mattheus Bertorelli, posing, advertising a very expensive brand of sunglasses.

Just seeing Bertorelli's smarmy, smug, cheating face had sent a spear of pain and anger through Jamie. Burning with frustration, he started to tear down the poster there and then. He wanted to get rid of it.

Soon, as he ripped away at the paper, the poster hidden underneath began to become visible.

When he saw it, Jamie froze. Shocked.

The poster buried underneath was the one for Nemesis football boots. As worn by Jamie Johnson.

Jamie stared at his own image.

The image of Jamie Johnson – yesterday's hero.

 

Jamie felt like going home and had just taken a shortcut through the estate when –
WHACK!
– he was smashed in the face by something hard and wet.

He looked down to see possibly the ugliest old tennis ball that he had ever come across. The ball was completely bald, shorn of all the green fur that had once covered it. Now it simply looked like a bouncy brown plastic potato!

Jamie picked it up and was just about to send it skyward with a huge volley when a voice called out to him.

“Oi! Mate! That's my ball! Chuck it back here, will ya!”

Jamie looked around to see a kid, probably no more than ten years old, scampering towards him.

Jamie smiled as the boy got nearer.

“You looking for this?” said Jamie, holding the ball just too high for the boy to reach.

“Oi! Give it back!” barked the boy, desperately trying to jump high enough to snatch it back out of Jamie's hand.

The boy was really tiny. Only came up to Jamie's hip. His tracksuit bottoms were frayed at the knee and at the heel, and even though it was freezing, he was just wearing a small T-shirt, which looked as if it had never been washed. The kid also had a shaved head and gleaming little stud earrings in both his ears.

“OK!” announced the kid, finally giving up on trying to get the ball out of Jamie's hands. “I'll play you for the ball, then! I'll smash you!”

“You want to play me?” smiled Jamie. He liked this kid. He reminded him of someone. “And you think you'll smash me?”

“You best believe it,” said the kid. “I'm gonna teach you a lesson!”

 

 

 

It was the first to five and Jamie let the kid have the first four goals.

He's a good kid
, Jamie thought to himself.
A bit cocky, maybe . . . but he definitely reminds me of someone. Anyway, now it's time to show him who's boss. . .

And with that, Jamie instantly turned on the skill, pulling three goals back straight away.

Then, at 3-4 down, Jamie produced a wicked double drag-back to equalize with a goal that even shut the kid up for a couple of seconds.

“Whoa!” said the kid, in awe. “Double drag-back! That's the best skill ever! You've got to teach me how to do that!”

“Maybe some other time,” said Jamie. “We're in the middle of a game here. Four-four. Next goal wins!”

Jamie wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never mind that he was playing against a kid in the street with an old tennis ball; it felt great just to be playing football again. It had been over a month since he'd played. He'd pulled it back and was going to win, but it hadn't been easy. He'd had to put some effort into it.

Now the kid was dribbling slowly out of his goal, but as Jamie advanced to tackle him, the kid's eyes suddenly widened. His face transformed into a picture of surprise.

“What the. . .” said the kid, pointing behind Jamie.

Jamie turned around quickly to see what it was. But he couldn't see anything. There was nothing there.

“What were you—” Jamie started to ask, but it was too late. The kid was already gone. He'd sprinted forward while Jamie was looking the other way and now he was an inch away from the cardboard box. Jamie had been done by the oldest trick in the book!

“Yes!” shouted the kid, slotting the ball home. “I win! I told you I would beat you!”

“Well done,” smiled Jamie. Inside he was fuming, but he put on a brave face and offered his hand. “What's your name?”

But just as their hands were about to meet, the kid snatched his hand away and put his thumb on his forehead, wiggling his fingers!

“Beat you again,” he shouted. “My name's Robbie.”

“I'll have to keep an eye on you, Robbie. I'm Jamie.”

It was then that they both heard a familiar voice echo their way from the end of the street.

“RRRROOOBBBBIIIIEEE!” shouted Dillon Simmonds angrily. “Where have you been? I've cooked your dinner – get back home now!”

Jamie and Dillon stared at each other down the street. They hadn't spoken since Jamie had been sent off for pushing the ref when he'd meant to shove Dillon.

“All right! Keep your hair on, fatso!” Robbie shouted and started to sprint towards Dillon.

“Show me the drag-back another time, loser,” he shouted over his shoulder to Jamie. “Gotta go before psycho face gets angry!”

“Hey, Robbie!” Jamie called after the little street footballer. “Haven't you forgotten something?”

And with that he hurled the old tennis ball as fast as he could at Robbie Simmonds. He wanted to see how Robbie reacted.

The ball was going about forty miles an hour, but Robbie didn't get out of the way. Instead, he moved towards the ball, chested it up into the air and controlled it on his forehead, before letting it drop down into his open hand.

Well, what do you know?
Jamie thought to himself.
Not only does Dillon Simmonds have a younger brother, but the kid's got talent. Serious talent.

 

 

That night Jamie fell into a deep, deep sleep. He was revisiting the same moment that he often dreamt about.

It was the time when he'd been a mascot for Hawkstone United when he was eleven years old. That had been the best day of his life. Jamie had done the most amazing overhead kick in front of a full Hawkstone United crowd!

It had been that day – that moment – that had given Jamie the confidence to believe, perhaps for the first time, that he really could make it as a professional footballer. . .

Except tonight the dream was different. In it, instead of being himself, this time Jamie was a member of the crowd, watching on from the stands.

He was out of his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the pitch. He saw the young mascot flick the ball up and then leap into the air to execute the most perfectly beautiful overhead kick that you could hope to see. The ball flew into the back of the net, as though it was somehow desperate to get there.

The supporters in the stands instinctively rose to their feet and clapped, all of them asking the exact same questions: “Who is that boy? What's his name? He's going to be some player. . .”

And then Jamie saw the boy turn to each corner of the ground and drink in their applause.

But in tonight's dream, when the boy turned around, when he finally revealed his face, it was not Jamie's eleven-year-old features that he saw. Instead it was those of the little kid he had met today, Robbie.

In the dream, it was now Robbie who was lost in the joy of scoring a goal, bouncing around in ecstasy shouting the words, “I love football! I love football!” exactly as Jamie had done that day.

Jamie woke up with a jolt. It was a jolt of both fear and realization.

Fear that he might be letting his football career slip through his fingers.

And realization of exactly what had been missing from his game for the last few months. What it was that he had lost.

It was his love for football.

 

 

 

“I'm not interested, James,” said Raymond Porlock before Jamie had even begun his speech.

“I know your ban's finished. But that doesn't make any difference to me. I do what's best for this football club. And at the moment, that does not include picking you. End of story.”

Jamie nodded. “I know,” he said. “And you're right, Mr Porlock. Like you said: the team comes first. There's just a few things I think I need to say. Need to get them off my chest. It'll only take a couple of minutes . . . will you just hear me out?”

Porlock took off his glasses and rested them on his desk. “Go on, then,” he said and, with a wave of his hand, motioned for Jamie to continue.

For a second Jamie shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. He felt as though he were in a school play and he'd forgotten his lines. When he'd walked into Porlock's office he'd known exactly what he'd wanted to say, but now his mind had gone blank. He couldn't access a single word.

“Well, come on, then!” ordered Porlock. “Stop prancing around like you're in Riverdance and get on with it!”

“Well. . . What it is, Mr Porlock,” started Jamie. “The last few days I've been, like, asking myself what I would be doing if I wasn't a footballer. Maybe I'd be working in a sports shop, maybe I'd be a PE teacher, I don't know, maybe I'd be a bin man. . . But my point is, whatever else I could do, nothing would be as good as being a footballer . . . and that's not cos of the money, or being famous. It's because I love it.”

Jamie tried to remember the last time he had actually scored in a match. It had been too long. Way too long.

“Playing football – it's the only thing I can do, Mr Porlock. The only thing I want to do. So let me play for Seaport Town again. Please . . . I'll play anywhere you want me – in goal, I don't care – just let me play football again. Let me show you what I can really do.”

Raymond Porlock rested his elbows on his desk, linked his hands together and put his chin on his knuckles.

Then he let out a deep, long sigh.

“Would the real James Johnson please stand up?” he said.

“What?” Jamie frowned. “I don't under—”

“I think, if I'm not mistaken, that a real professional footballer has just walked into my office,” said Raymond Porlock with a huge smile.

“Welcome back, James. Welcome back.”