Man of the Match (2 page)

 

 

That weekend, Jamie Johnson and Jack Marshall were sitting in Sunningdale Park talking about football. It was the same as always. They had been coming here together for ten years, since they were kids at school, causing mischief together.

They were still just as close as they had ever been. Jamie didn't trust many people. He'd been let down too many times in the past, so now he didn't let many people get close to him.

Since Jamie's grandfather, Mike, had died, Jack was probably the only person in the whole world that Jamie properly opened up to. She was the one he would talk to if he had a problem or needed help.

He knew that he could trust her. He knew that Jack would never let him down.

“Come on, JJ,” Jack teased. “Give me some juicy Premier League gossip, then! What's the transfer news?”

Although Jack was studying for her A levels at college, she already knew that she wanted to be a football journalist. “That way, I'll get to go to all the best football for free!” she'd explained to Jamie. And, never one to hang around, she'd immediately got herself a part-time job working at the local newspaper.

“No way!” laughed Jamie. “I can't just tell you secrets and stuff!”

“Course you can! One bit of gossip from inside the Hawkstone dressing room; that's all I need,” she said, her big brown eyes fixed on Jamie. “Go on! Tell me! Which players don't like each other? There must be some that hate each other's guts!

“Come on, Jamie!” she teased, tickling him now, in his weak spot, just below the ribs. “If I can get a good story, then the paper will give me a full-time job after my A levels! And that'll mean I can write loads of articles saying what a wicked footballer you are! See? Everyone's a winner!”

“Get off!” said Jamie, trying to stop Jack's tickling.

“All sounds great, Jack, except for the fact that . . . I can't tell you anything. I tell you, then it goes in the paper . . . and on the radio . . . and on the TV . . . and on the Internet . . . and then the whole world knows! What happens in the dressing room stays in the dressing room. That's what everyone says. It's like some golden rule in football. If I start blabbing, telling secrets and stuff, everyone'll hate me.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” said Jack, kicking the grass underneath the bench. “Wouldn't want to put you in a difficult position. And don't worry, I'll get my story in the end. You know what I'm like when I put my mind to something.”

“Yeah, I know that all right,” smiled Jamie, thinking back to the countless arguments he'd lost to Jack over the years. You could see it in her eyes: a sparkle . . . a fight. Jack was a winner. Perhaps that was why Jamie liked her.

Looking at her, Jamie reckoned that Jack was one of those people who could have been anything they wanted in life. She was good enough to be a top goalkeeper and pretty enough to be a catwalk model.

On the other hand, Jamie knew that
he'd
only ever had one option for what he could be – a footballer. So it was lucky that he just happened to be one of the best footballers in the country.

“Cheers for understanding it from my side,” said Jamie. “I know that I'm lucky to have you as my—”

“Oh no!” Jack snapped, before Jamie could finish. “You're not going to start getting mushy on me, are you? Don't even go there! You're an idiot sometimes, Jamie Johnson!

“And anyway,” she said, suddenly getting up off the bench and running out of the park, “if you want some of that chicken that my mum made for you, you better get your skates on – otherwise I'm having it all!”

Jamie leapt on to his feet and into a turbo-charged sprint. That was his favourite dinner!

 

 

KICK-OFF 3 P.M. TODAY

It was the morning of the top of the table match against Foxborough.

Not only were Foxborough the clear favourites for the Premier League – having only narrowly missed out last season – they were also Jamie's former club; the club that had rejected him when he'd got injured.

There was no team in the world that Jamie wanted to put one over on more than Foxborough.

Of course Foxborough knew by now that they had made a catastrophic mistake in releasing Jamie. Right now, he was the hottest property in football. But that didn't stop him wanting to show Foxborough what they were missing every time he stepped out on to the field against them.

Jamie Johnson seemed to be the name on everyone's lips at the moment. There were even massive posters of him plastered all over the local area.

Jamie had been paid handsomely to sign up to be the new face of a big sportswear company – he'd had the photo shoot last week. He'd practised his smile in front of the mirror for ages before the shoot but then, when he'd got there, they had asked him to scowl at the camera instead of smile.

They had told him to suck in his cheeks and look as “mean and moody” as he could. Now, as Jamie arrived at the Hawkstone stadium for the biggest match of the season so far, he could see why.

Outside the ground there was a giant poster of Jamie, staring straight down the camera, holding a gleaming new pair of boots in his hands.

Below were the words:

 

 

The cheer when Jamie got out of the car at the Hawkstone stadium was as loud as that which greeted any goal. The Hawkstone fans loved Jamie more than any other player. Because he'd grown up and gone to school in the area, most of the fans either knew him or pretended they did.

And they loved the fact that he hadn't moved either; he still lived in the same house on the same estate that he'd grown up in. Even though he'd soon have enough money to buy a massive pad on the other side of town, Jamie had agreed to stay at home with his mum and his stepdad, Jeremy, and put his money into a special account that he could only access when he was twenty-one.

He'd seen with his injury last year how quickly the whole Premier League dream could evaporate. Besides, this way he still got all his washing and ironing done!

Jamie signed as many autographs as he could but, after ten minutes, he went into the players' entrance to get ready for the game. He knew that even if he stayed outside signing for the next two days, he
still
wouldn't get them all done.

As soon as Jamie walked into the dressing room, he picked up the newspaper and scanned the back pages. Perhaps he should never have picked up the paper. Perhaps he should have just gone straight on to the pitch and started warming up.

But Jamie always read the newspaper before the game. It was as much a part of his pre-match ritual as putting on his boots.

But when he saw that day's headline, he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

 

The match had kicked off twenty minutes ago. One of the biggest matches of the whole season. A face-off between the top two clubs in the league. And all Jamie could think about was that stupid article in the newspaper.

It just continued to swirl around his mind. He tried to stop it. Tried to calm the hurt and anger inside him, but it was too strong. It was consuming him.

Just a pack of lies! None of what he said is true! I never abandoned him. He's the one who abandoned me!

And if I ever get my hands on that Barry Digmore, I'll—

CRUNCH!!

Jamie had held on to the ball too long. Instead of picking a quick pass or motoring down the wing, he'd dallied in possession, giving the Foxborough centre-half – a hairy brute of a man – just enough time to nail Jamie with a bone-crunching tackle.

Jamie lay on the ground for a second or two, half-heartedly appealing for a free-kick, but the referee had already waved play on. Jamie slowly picked himself up off the turf. He was a million miles off the pace.

 

 

Glenn Richardson, Hawkstone's ultra-skilful playmaker, had used his trickery on the edge of the area to win Hawkstone a free-kick. It was perfectly positioned, twenty yards from goal, just to the right of centre. A great chance for Hawkstone to fire the opening goal.

Jamie had already scored two sumptuous free-kicks from this spot this season. One of them – which had smashed against the underside of the crossbar, hit the ground and then bounced back up into the roof of the net – had even won goal of the month in August. Millions of people had voted for it. Jamie kept the trophy above his bed at home. Sometimes he kissed it before he went to sleep!

Jamie gathered in a huddle with three other Hawkstone players to discuss what they were going to do with the set-piece. They covered their mouths so that the defenders couldn't hear what they were planning.

But Jamie's mind was drifting elsewhere. . .

It was going back to all the nights that Jamie had spent wishing, hoping that his dad would come back home, that they could all be just like a normal family again.

And when his dad
had
got back in touch last year, Jamie had been the happiest person in the world. His dad had even helped him to sign for Foxborough. Everything had been perfect. Until Jamie got injured.

Injured so badly that Foxborough said they had to let him go. Injured so badly it looked as though he would never play football again. . . And was Jamie's dad there for him when Jamie really needed him? Did his dad say everything was going to be OK and that he would be right behind Jamie, no matter what?

No. His dad had disappeared. Again. He'd just left Jamie lying there in the hospital bed. He didn't even bother calling to see if Jamie was going to be al—

“What do you think, Jamie?” Glenn Richardson was asking him. He was speaking out of the side of his mouth like a ventriloquist.

“Er . . . yeah, mate. . .” said Jamie, vacantly.

There was no way he could tell them that he had missed the entire conversation about what they were going to do.

So it came as a something of a relief to Jamie when Glenn Richardson himself took three steps back, deliberately marking out his run up to take the free-kick.

Good
, Jamie thought.
They've decided to let Glenn take it. I don't feel like taking this one anyway
.

Jamie watched Richardson sprint up to the ball.
Go around the wall! There's a gap to the side of the wall!
Jamie urged his teammate.

Glenn Richardson arched his body and drew his foot back and then . . . he dragged the ball backwards . . . towards Jamie. . .

That was it! The plan wasn't for Richardson to take on the shot, it was for him to fake the shot, fool the keeper and for Jamie to have a go from a different angle.

Now all eyes were on him as he raced towards the ball. He had to get there before the defenders, who had already broken out from the wall to charge down the shot.

Jamie got there first. Just.

He swiped his boot at the ball with all the power in his body.

But no accuracy. He didn't even look at the ball properly as he unleashed his strike.

He was in such a rush to get in his shot that he had forgotten completely about his free-kick technique –
keep your head over the ball, keep your body compact . . . and above all . . . keep your composure. . .

Jamie knew the words off by heart. His granddad, Mike, had drummed them into him since the day he'd first kicked a ball.

But Jamie wasn't in touch with his either his body or his mind. His foot slashed wildly at the ball.

The contact was awful. His toe only poked the side of the ball, sending it not curling handsomely towards the top corner but spinning crazily along the ground . . . to the touchline.

In the end, Jamie's shot went out for a throw-in to Foxborough. A throw-in! He hadn't even managed to get the ball to go as far as the goal! How pathetic! Jamie could not have been more disgusted with himself.

As the fans of both sides jeered his effort, Jamie put his head in his hands and, for a moment, dropped to his knees.

If he could, he would have dug a hole in the ground and disappeared.

 

 

 

Premier League Table – 17 October