Shoot to Win (11 page)

 

 

Jamie stared at his own thumb, rubbing it softly against his finger. Then he raised his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was trying to look for his dad in the stands but he couldn't see him.

Jamie's mum
was
there, though, and she thought he was looking for her. She started jumping up and down and waving back to Jamie. She even blew him a kiss. So embarrassing.

“Look at that!” said Mike, elbowing Jamie in the ribs. “Breswell's right back has just swapped positions with their central midfielder – that's what you call total football!”

Jamie nodded but he wasn't scared of them. Even though Breswell were by far the best team Kingfield had come up against, he still felt sure that he could cause them problems with his pace.

“Eh, and I'll tell you something else,” said Mike, nodding towards the Breswell goal. “Their keeper – have you noticed anything about him?”

“No, why?” said Jamie.

“He never kicks the ball out; always throws it to one of the full-backs. That's because they're trying to keep it on the deck.”

The Breswell keeper had the ball in his hands. Jamie studied his movements. He watched the keeper bounce the ball once on the ground and then again, waving the outfield players forward as though he were going to kick it.

But Mike was right – he didn't kick it. Instead, he quickly bowled the ball out to the right full-back, who had dropped deep to collect it. It must have been something that they'd worked on in training.

Jamie wondered how long he would have taken to notice that tactic if Mike hadn't pointed it out.

And, more importantly, he wondered whether Hansard had spotted it at all.

 

 

After Dillon's chance from the corner, Breswell re-established their grip on the game.

“Get in their faces!” roared Hansard. “They don't like it up ‘em!”

Ollie responded by putting in a really hard tackle, going straight through the back of his opponent.

It was too hard a tackle for the referee, though, who blew for a free-kick straight away.

Without taking time to stop the ball, the Breswell centre-half drove a pass into his striker's feet, instantly making a run upfield to support him.

“Rolling ball! Rolling ball!” Hansard protested as Breswell streamed forward. “The ball was rolling!”

“Play on,” shouted the referee, stretching his arms out in front of him. “Play on!”

The Breswell striker fended off Dillon long enough to be able to control the ball with his first touch and then lay the ball back with his second.

He was laying it back for the centre-half, who had played the ball into him in the first pace. That centre-half had sprinted the whole way up the pitch, and now he came on to the ball at full pace.

He looked as though he was going to wallop the ball as hard as he could but, right at the last minute, he changed the shape of his body. Instead of smashing his foot
through
the ball, he slipped his boot
under
it instead. He was going for the chip.

Everyone had expected him to go for the pile-driver, including Calum Fogarty, the Kingfield goalkeeper, who had come off his line. Now Calum was caught in no-man's-land, only able to look on helplessly as the shot curved and arced above him towards the goal.

The ball glided gloriously, almost softly, through the air, and, for that second, there was complete silence as all the players on the pitch and all the supporters in the stands watched it follow its seemingly pre-programmed path.

Then the swish and ripple of the net broke the silence as the ball found the top corner.

The Breswell supporters started jumping up and down, celebrating; they were going crazy!

They unfurled a big banner, which read: “Breswell – it's like watching Brazil!”

Meanwhile, Hansard was chasing the referee up the touchline.

“That was a rolling ball, ref!” he shouted. “Bring the play back!”

“I gave the attacking team the advantage,” said the referee. “The goal stands.”

 

 

 

“Get your top off and start doing your warm-ups, JJ,” said Mike, squeezing Jamie's shoulder. It's half-time in a minute, he's got to bring you on. “The game's crying out for a player like you.”

Jamie smiled.

“Here, hold this,” he said, giving Mike his tracksuit top.

He sprinted as fast as he could down the line past Hansard. He was as quick as any of the Breswell players. And as skilful.

He just had to be given the chance to show it.

 

 

“What's the matter with you lot?” Hansard demanded as the Kingfield boys trudged back into the dressing room at half-time. “You're giving them way too much respect.”

Jamie looked at his teammates. They were all staring at the ground as Hansard strode menacingly around them.

Jamie just kept quiet and looked eager. He was sure Hansard was going to make the change.

“We're 1 – 0 down and we're going to do something about this situation,” said Hansard.

Jamie stood up and started doing his stretches. He started to feel that tingle of excitement, that buzz that nothing else in the world gave him.

“We're going to try harder,” said Hansard. “You're the ones that have got us into this mess and now you're gonna get us out of it.”

Jamie sat back down.

“You may think you're good players because you've managed to get to a Cup Final. Well, I'll tell you something: good players – real players – are the ones that show themselves when things aren't going well.”

“Football's easy when you're winning. But we're not winning now. We're on course to lose this Cup Final so, what I want to know is, what are you lot going to do about it?”

 

 

“No luck?” asked Mike as Jamie walked back towards him with his head bowed. “He must just be giving them five more minutes. Keep yourself loose, though – he could bring you on at any time.”

“Mike,” said Jamie. “Give it up, yeah? He's not gonna put me on. He hates my guts. He hates
our
guts.”

Mike looked sad.

“I'm sorry, JJ,” he said. “I really am. You don't deserve this.”

Jamie could see Mike's face redden with anger as he caught sight of Hansard coming out for the second half.

There were two birds circling in the air above Hansard. Jamie prayed that they might splat their droppings all over his bald head.

“I'm going to have a word with him,” said Mike, kicking over an empty water bottle. “Maybe old Hilary needs a little shock to help him change his mind.”

“No point, Mike,” argued Jamie, pulling him back. “If you get involved, it won't change anything. It'll just make it worse.”

Mike shook his head.

“He's a small, petty man. What's the point of having a sub if you're not going to use them?”

“Depends who the sub is, doesn't it?” said Jamie. “I s'pose for him, putting me on would be like admitting he was wrong.”

“And he's certainly not going to do it with me here,” said Mike. “I'm going to the back of the stands where he can't see me.”

Mike started to walk away. Then he turned and looked at his grandson.

“And, Jamie, if you do get on that pitch, you show him just how wrong he's been.”