Shoot to Win (9 page)

 

 

“I just don't understand it,” said Jamie. He was practically in tears. “He knows how much I want to play in this final; he knows what it means to me.”

“Perhaps,” said Mike with a sigh, “that's exactly why he
is
doing it.”

Jamie had gone over to see Mike after school. The rest of the day had been terrible. When Dillon had seen the team sheet he'd laughed so loudly that the whole school had wanted to know what was so funny. “Oh yeah, Johnson's gonna be a professional!” he'd shouted sarcastically. “That's must be why he's not even good enough to make it into the school team!”

“But why?” said Jamie, slamming his hand against the wall. He turned to look at Mike. “What have I ever done to him?”

“Maybe it's not what
you've
done to him,” Mike said softly.

“Well, who then?”

“I think that, even after all these years. . .” Mike paused and pursed his lips. “Hilary is still bearing a grudge—”

“Hilary?!” said Jamie. He was stunned. “How do
you
know his name's Hilary?”

“Sit down, Jamie,” said Mike. “I think it's about time you knew the truth.”

 

“It was when I was playing for Hawkstone,” said Mike, casting his eyes towards the mantelpiece where he kept all his old trophies and photographs. “I was eighteen and captain of the reserves – just on the fringes of the first team.”

“One day the coaches brought over this young lad – a striker, sixteen years old – to play in our training session. It was a trial; a chance for him to show what he could do.”

“And he was good, very good. He was big, he had presence and, from the first time he touched the ball, you could see he had skill too. All in all, a serious prospect.”

Mike rested his head against the sofa and let his mind wander back into the past.

“Anyway, as the centre-half, it was my job to mark him, which I did. I didn't go easy on him, though; I marked him in exactly the same way that I would have marked any striker. When the first tackle came, I wanted to make sure I won it.”

“Sure enough, after about ten minutes, this young lad went on a run. He was beating defenders all over the place; it looked like he was going to go all the way. But, just as he approached me, he overran the ball a little. That was my chance. I steamed in for the tackle. We both did. It was a 50/50 and neither of us held back.”

“I did hear a crack but I was too focused on winning the ball to take it in. It was only when I turned around after the ball had gone and saw the lad lying on the ground, completely motionless, that I realized what the crack had been.”

“The lad had broken his leg in three places,” Mike said, grimacing as though he himself were in pain.”

“Obviously I was upset. I never went into any tackle trying to hurt a player, so I went up to say sorry as he was being stretchered off. The lad ignored my hand, though, and I'll never forget the look he gave me. His eyes were the angriest eyes I'd ever seen.”

“That was it. His trial was over after ten minutes. I heard that he started playing again about a year later, but apparently he was never the same player – he'd lost that yard of pace. That extra bit of speed. We never saw him down at Hawkstone again, anyway.

“He never forgave me for making that challenge, though. He thought that my tackle ruined his chance of making it as a footballer. I suspect he's held it against me ever since.”

“You know where this is going, don't you, Jamie?” said Mike, his voice weighed down by regret. “That lad's name was . . .”

Jamie's stomach turned. He said the words before Mike: “. . . Hilary Hansard.”

 

 

Jamie turned off his alarm and got up.

He had a strange feeling. One he'd never experienced before. It seemed to be an echo of excitement, a shadow of expectation. But not the real thing.

It was the day of the Cup Final. But Jamie wasn't playing.

Slowly and methodically, he put on his clothes. As he did up the buttons on his shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror. He could see now that he was starting to look like his dad.

He was just about to eat his cereal when he saw the note on the kitchen table:

 

Good luck today, Jamie!

Guess what? We're both coming to watch you!

We've got something important we want to discuss with you.

All our love,

Mum and Jeremy

 

Jamie scrunched up the note and volleyed it into the bin. Of all the games they could have chosen to come and watch, they'd picked this one – the one where he was a sub! Typical.

And if the “important” news was that his dad was back, well, Jamie already knew that anyway.

 

 

Jamie looked at the other boys as they waited for Hansard to begin his break-time team-talk.

They were all bristling with energy and excitement. Every one of them was probably imagining scoring the winner in the Cup Final.

Jamie went over to stand by himself in the corner. He looked at his feet. Normally, on the day of a game, he couldn't keep them still. Today, though, they were lifeless. Hansard had killed them.

“OK,” Hansard opened. “Here's the team. It's the same one that finished the Semi-Final.”

The boys' eyes turned to the whiteboard. There were eleven counters on there, placed in a 5 – 3 – 2 formation. No counter for Jamie.

 

 

“This team was good enough to win the Semi-Final and it will be good enough to win the Final,” Hansard stated, glaring at each one of his players. His words sounded like a threat.

“It will be a battle out there, so we need to play as a unit. Defend together. Attack together. Fight together. That way, we'll win together – won't we?”

“Yes, Mr Hansard,” the boys responded, a little hesitantly.

“WON'T WE?” he barked.

“YES, MR HANSARD!” they repeated, shouting confidently now.

“Good. The coach leaves at 12:40. If anyone's not on it, tough – it leaves without them. Cup Final or not.”

The boys raced out of Hansard's office. Jamie, loping slowly behind, was the last one out. He wondered if anyone else had realized that Hansard had completely ignored him for the entire meeting.

Jamie had no more doubts in his mind; he was sure. Today wasn't just about the Cup Final for Hansard. It was also going to be his revenge for that tackle that had broken his leg all those years ago.

 

 

“No way!” said Jack, squeezing Jamie's hand. “If you do that, he wins.”

They were having lunch – the school had allowed the boys' and girls' football teams to go in early so they could eat two hours before the matches started – and Jamie had just told her his plan. He was going to miss the team coach. On purpose.

“But there's no point, Jack,” Jamie explained. “He's never going to put me on. He wants to take away my chance because he reckons Mike took his. That's what this whole thing is about.”

“But if you don't get on the coach, you'll never know. You'll always wonder what would have happened,” said Jack.

“It's all right for you,” Jamie responded. “You're captain of
your
side. You know you're going to play the whole game.”

“Look,” said Jack. “When it comes down to it, you've got two options: you can either be a quitter or a fighter.”

She got up, put her sports bag over her shoulder and gave Jamie a light kiss on the cheek as she whispered into his ear: “I think I know which one Jamie Johnson is.”

 

 

Jamie sat next to Ollie on the coach as they headed for Phoenix Park.

Jack was right. There was no way he was giving up. He would never give up.

“This is big-time!” Ollie was saying, fiddling with the netting that was on the back of the seat in front of him. He was practically manic with anticipation. “I mean, if they put us in the paper just for reaching the Final, what are they going to do if we win it?”

It was one of those questions that wasn't looking for a response.

“I reckon they'll have us on TV!” Ollie said, answering himself. “They'll interview all of us!”

“Maybe we'll have an open-top bus ride with the cup so everyone can come and see us,” said Jamie, allowing himself to get into Ollie's frenzied state of mind.

“It's possible, innit?” said Ollie slapping the back of his right hand against the palm of his left hand. “I'm telling you, this is big-time!”

But neither of them realized just how big-time it really was until the coach pulled into Phoenix Park.

All the boys stopped talking as the stadium reared up in front of them. Their mouths gawped as they took in their surroundings.

“Yes! Come on,” said Ollie, clenching his fist as tight as he could.

Jamie touched Ollie's fist with his own.

“Bring it on!” they said together. “BRING IT ON!”

And, just for a second, Jamie almost forgot that he wasn't playing.