Shoot to Win (5 page)

 

Shave his head.

 

 

Knock him away. As he did it, he just knew; it was the perfect step-over.

“That's it!” said Mike. “And explode away when you go!”

“I can do this!” said Jamie, dragging the ball back into position to do another one.

“Of course you can,” said Mike. “Now keep doing it; practise it until it becomes natural to your whole body.”

Jamie did one after another, each time repeating under his breath: “Step, shave and knock … step, shave and knock.”

 

 

After a while, his feet seemed to work by themselves. They knew how to do a real step-over.

“Looking good,” said Mike, going to make himself a cup of tea. “Reckon you'll use it in the Cup Final?”

“Might just do that!” said Jamie, proudly. Then he swapped over to work the trick on his other foot.

 

 

 

Before Assembly, there was a big crowd of people standing around Dillon. It was as if he'd already made his debut for Hawkstone.

Jamie sat down and tried to read the sports pages of his paper. He wanted to work out how many points Hawkstone were behind Foxborough in the league table. It was impossible, though. All Jamie could hear was Dillon's voice.

“Yeah, I'll have an agent soon,” he was saying. “They'll sort out the contract and everything – I'll just turn up and play.”

“Wow, that's so cool!” said a group of girls who had joined the crowd. They were pushing one another to get closer to Dillon. “How much money are you going to earn?”

“A lot. And the best bit about it is that it's the stupid fans like him who'll be paying my wages!”

Jamie didn't have to look up to know that Dillon was pointing at him. He could feel his forehead burning as he sensed everyone's eyes on him.

“Poor old Johnson,” Dillon continued. “Sooner or later he's got to accept the fact that he just ain't gonna be a player. That's it, mate – you read about the professionals. You're never gonna be one.”

Jamie ignored him and turned the page of the newspaper. It was best not to get involved; whenever he and Dillon had a fight, it was always Jamie who ended up coming off worse.

“You'll go to watch Hawkstone with your
granddaddy
and you'll be cheering me on when I score a goal. You'll probably even tell people you know me!”

The group around Dillon were starting to laugh. Even the girls. Jamie tried to force a smile to make it look as though he didn't care what Dillon said. He knew one thing, though: he would never cheer anything that Dillon did. Ever.

“I mean the only person that actually likes him is Jack – and she's way too fit to be going out with a minger like him! I might have her myself, actually. Footballers can get any girl they want. And she needs a real man, not a—”

That was too much.

“Yeah?” said Jamie, putting his paper down and snarling fiercely at Dillon. “And why would any girl be interested in someone with big, fat spots all over their face?”

“Oooooh!” the group around Dillon said in unison. They cleared a space between Jamie and Dillon. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they started chanting.

“No girl would come anywhere near you,” Jamie carried on, getting up from his chair now. “I've seen you pick your nose and eat it! And your breath stinks!”

“That's cos I've been kissing your mum,” Dillon laughed. “And she's—”

Without even realizing it, Jamie had launched himself at Dillon. His head was swarming with anger.

“Come on, then. Let's see what you've got,” Dillon taunted.

But as Jamie rushed towards Dillon, he felt his legs tangle beneath him and he fell over.

Dillon had tripped him up and now, as Jamie lay prone on the floor, all he could see above him was Dillon's ugly face snorting with laughter.

“When will you learn?” he sneered. “You're a skinny little runt and you shouldn't mess with people that are stronger than you.”

Dillon's words stabbed Jamie's brain. Anger and embarrassment spread through him; everyone had seen what had happened.

Then Dillon turned to the group that had been watching the whole time. He pointed at Jamie and said: “No wonder he'll never be a footballer! He can't even stand up!”

 

 

“Believe it or not, some of you are going to have to think about your careers soon,” said Miss Claunt, writing JOBS & QUALIFICATIONS in big letters on the whiteboard.

Jamie was drawing the moves to his step-over on the back of his exercise book. He'd promised himself that he would visualize the skill every day between now and the Cup Final. He wrote the words “step, shave and knock” as neatly as he could above his sketches.

Ollie Walsh, who sat in front of Jamie, must have sensed that he was thinking about football. While Miss Claunt was talking, Ollie turned his back to her and said to Jamie: “We gotta get the paper today – see if our picture's in there!”

“Ollie,” Miss Claunt said calmly. “Can you turn around, please?”

Ollie raised his eyebrows to Jamie and just completely ignored her. He seemed to have this spell over her that allowed him to do whatever he wanted.

“Can you imagine what it's gonna be like playing at Phoenix Park!” Ollie continued, as if they were having a chat on a football pitch, not in the middle of the lesson. “It gonna be—”

“Ollie!” said Miss Claunt, now raising her voice. “I asked you to TURN AROUND!”

Then Ollie did something that was either very clever or very naughty. Probably both.

He stood up, looked at Miss Claunt straight in the eye, turned around in an entire circle and sat back down again, still keeping his back to her, facing Jamie.

Jamie was laughing and so was the rest of the class.

“What?” said Ollie, the picture of innocence. “She asked me to turn around! That's what I did.”

“OK – very clever, Ollie. Can you turn
this
way, please,” said Miss Claunt. Jamie could see that she was almost smiling. He was surprised that she wasn't more angry. Then again, this was Ollie. She never got angry with Ollie.

“Thank you, Ollie,” she said, pulling her fringe to the side of her reddening forehead as Ollie finally turned to face her. “So sorry to interrupt your conversation.”

“No problem, miss.”

“Now, since you're in such a talkative mood today, Ollie, perhaps you'll be kind enough to share with us the career that
you
would like to have when you're older?”

“Sure, miss. I'm going to be a federal agent.”

“And do you even know what that means?”

“Yeah, it means you get to wear a badge, be on TV and pull loads of girls. That's my kinda job!”

Everyone started laughing but Miss Claunt carried on, still trying to make her point.

“I'm sure you would make an excellent federal agent, Ollie – you've certainly got the self-confidence – but you know you'd need top marks in all your exams to be accepted into the intelligence services. . .”

Jamie drew a football on his book. Then he started to sketch in the mouse's eyes and ears.

“. . .about you, Jamie?”

Jamie looked up blankly. He hadn't been listening.

“I asked you what career you're interested in, Jamie.”

Jamie should have just said doctor or dentist but, before he'd allowed himself a second to think about it, he'd already blurted it out: “Footballer, miss. I'm going to be a footballer.”

The class started laughing again and Claunt marched over to Jamie.

“Show me your exercise book,” she demanded.

“Why, miss? I—”

“Let me see it!”

Jamie handed it over.

“Not that side! The other side! The one you've been scribbling over all lesson. . . And what's this?” she shouted, holding the book up so the whole class could see Jamie's step-over sketches.

“It's a . . . football skill, miss . . . I just had it in my head . . . I was still listen—”

“Right – that's it!” said Claunt. “I'm not having people sitting here drawing cartoons in my lesson. I've had enough. Get out!”

“Ah, sorry, miss,” said Jamie. “But it's the truth! I
am
going to be a footballer!”

Again the class started laughing, which only made Claunt angrier. Now there was no way she was going to accept his apology.

“I don't care what you think you're going to be!” she screamed. “You can tell the head teacher when you explain to him why you've been sent out! Now get out!”