Shoot to Win (13 page)

 

 

As the players from both sides collapsed on to the ground, Jamie looked around.

He still felt strong. He'd only been on the pitch for twenty minutes. He had more energy left than any other player.

He didn't even need a break before the start of extra-time; he wanted to get going right now.

Jamie squeezed his lips together and ground his teeth. A snarling, warrior-like determination was racing through his veins.

The football pitch was his territory. Now he was playing, no one could get in his way.

 

“Get your breath back,” said Hansard, who was walking in a circle around his exhausted players. “Get some air back into your lungs.”

A few of the Kingfield boys had cramp. They had run enough to win two matches and yet had only managed to draw one. They had given everything they'd got, just as Hansard had asked.

Dillon was examining his thumb, which was swollen and purple with bruising.

“Look at them,” said Hansard, pointing to the Breswell team, who were in a huddle around their coach. “They're scared!”

Jamie poured some water into his dry mouth. He could feel the icy liquid snaking its way down his throat and into his belly.

If the Breswell players
were
scared, it was probably him they were scared of. It had been obvious that Jamie was way quicker than any of them. After he'd scored, one of them had shouted, “Where's he come from?!” and he'd heard them decide to put two men on him.

They could put as many men as they wanted on him. It didn't mean they would be able to stop him.

“. . .so now we can go back to 5 – 3 – 2,” Jamie heard Hansard say. “Hit them on the counter-attack.”

Jamie spat the water out of his mouth. What? Hansard was reversing to 5 – 3 – 2? But 4 – 4 – 2 was what had just got them back into the game! Why was he changing it now?

“Keep it tight and give nothing away,” concluded Hansard. “And if it goes to penalties, so be it. We'll win.”

 

Jamie had his hands on his hips as he waited for the ref to start extra time. He'd had twenty minutes playing as a winger. And in that time he'd scored a goal and hauled Kingfield back into the game.

So what did Hansard do? Go back to 5 – 3 – 2 and make Jamie play as wing back.

He'd obviously never heard of the phrase “attack is the best form of defence”.

 

 

Hansard's plan
was
working in one way: with Kingfield playing more defensively, Breswell were finding it difficult to create chances.

In fact, with only a couple of minutes of the game left and neither side having come anywhere close to scoring in extra time, Jamie realized that perhaps this was precisely Hansard's plan . . . Hansard
wanted
it to go to penalties. That would be perfect for him – winning the Interschool Cup for Kingfield in exactly the same way that he had done the last time. It would prove his tactics still worked.

As he saw Dillon pile in with a hefty challenge on the smallest Breswell striker, Jamie's mind turned towards the penalties. Would Hansard ask for volunteers or would he just tell the players who were taking them?

“That's it!” Dillon's dad shouted from the touchline, clapping his son's challenge, which had resulted in a corner to Breswell. “Break his legs next time!”

The little Breswell striker sprang up from the ground. He was visibly angry, not just with the tackle but also at what Dillon's dad had said. He started to march over to have an argument with Dillon's dad, who was clearly enjoying the fact that he'd upset an important player from the opposition.

“Hey, Max!” the Breswell coach shouted to his fuming striker. “Forget it! You know how to give your answers.”

The striker nodded gravely and turned to make his way into the box for the corner.

Jamie took up his position on the far post. He wondered which end they would take the penalties at.

“Everybody mark up!” Dillon shouted. He took the little Breswell striker that he'd just tackled.

Although Breswell had more skill, Kingfield had won practically every header the whole game. Now they just had to win one more and everything would go down to penalties.

It was probably because Kingfield had such a height advantage that the Breswell corner taker decided to fire in the corner low. He only hit it at about waist height.

As it fizzed towards the near post, there didn't seem to be any danger . . . until the Breswell striker that Dillon was marking made an electric burst to get to the front post.

Once he'd got there, he leapt into the air, spinning his body around in mid-flight. He looked as if he was doing a karate move, twisting his body to unleash a powerful kick. His strike diverted the ball backwards, towards the Kingfield goal.

Most of the Kingfield players were still taking in the technique that had been required for the little striker to karate kick the ball in mid-air when they suddenly realized that his shot was actually right on target.

“No!” pleaded Dillon.

“Clear it!” roared Hansard.

But it was too late. It was already in.

 

 

The Breswell players were in a bundled mass of celebration by the corner flag. One after another of their players piled on top.

“Max!” they were shouting. “You've scored the winner!”

Dillon slammed the ball back into Kingfield's net.

“Whose man was he?” he shouted. Everyone knew he was Dillon's man.

“Take the centre quickly!” Hansard yelled, pointing to his stopwatch. “Back to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack!
Attack!
”

Hearing Hansard say they should start attacking now – with one minute left – made Jamie's mouth let out a sound.

He wasn't sure whether it was a laugh or a cry.

 

 

There was barely time for Kingfield to kick off and punt the ball up towards Ashish Khan before the ref blew his final whistle.

It was over. The dream had ended.

 

 

All around the pitch, the Kingfield players dropped to the ground.

Ollie had his arms around his legs and was rocking slowly backwards and forwards as if he were in a trance.

Ash was lying flat on his back with his hand covering his eyes.

Jamie sat on the grass and put his head in his hands. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. This wasn't the story he'd written in his head. He was supposed to come on and change the game and lead Kingfield to win the Cup. Maybe even score the winning penalty in the shoot-out. He was supposed to be the hero. Not a loser.

“That was your fault!” Dillon's dad shouted at his son, storming on to the pitch. “He was your man!”

He cuffed the back of Dillon's head.

“Go and get changed, you idiot!”

Jamie shook his head. He wondered if sometimes it was better to have no dad at all than a dad like that.

 

“You did well, Jamie,” said Mike. “I'm very proud of you.”

Jamie smiled. He knew that, whatever happened, Mike would always be on his side.

“But we lost,” said Jamie, looking on in envy as the Breswell players made their way up the podium to lift the Cup. “Isn't that the only thing that counts?”

“Eh, you won just by getting on that pitch today,” Mike smiled.

Jamie looked over to see Hilary Hansard sloping away towards the dressing rooms. He seemed older now, smaller somehow than he had before the game.

“So where does this leave you and Hansard?” asked Jamie.

“Oh, that's over,” said Mike, putting his arm around his grandson. “It was over the minute you came on and scored your goal.”