Shoot to Win Read online

  *

  “Go on!” Jamie shouted to Ollie, who was on his side in the training match. “Pass it and go for the one-two!”

  Ollie looked up and played the ball out to Jamie on the wing before bursting through the middle of the defence to collect the return. Jamie knew he had to get the ball back to Ollie quickly – otherwise he’d be caught offside – but, in the corner of his eye, he was aware of Dillon Simmonds rampaging towards him to make the interception.

  Jamie’s football brain clicked into gear. There was only one way to get the ball past Dillon in time to play in Ollie for the return; he struck the ball right through Dillon’s open legs with enough power to perfectly place it into the path of Ollie’s run.

  Dillon’s head twisted around to follow the ball. He could only watch as Ollie rounded the keeper to score. It had been the perfect one-two with a nutmeg on Dillon thrown in for good measure!

  “Beautiful pass, J!” shouted Ollie as they did a high five. Jamie and Ollie would be a difficult duo for the opposition to cope with in the Cup Final.

  For the whole training session, Jamie played the role of wing back without a hint of a complaint.

  Despite the fact that he felt as if he could go around any defender today, Jamie didn’t do one dribble during the whole session. He just tracked back, marked his man, and struck the ball into the channels when he got possession.

  He played it simple – played it Hansard style.

  He even resisted the temptation to bring out his most prized new possession – the step-over. He’d save that one for the Final!

  It worked, though; after Jamie had cleared a long ball upfield and then run the length of the pitch to try and get up with the attack, Hansard had clapped and shouted: “That’s it! Good play. Keep it simple!”

  “OK,” said Hansard blowing his whistle to bring the practice game to an end. Jamie’s team had won 2 – 0. “Gather in,” he said.

  “Now, the team we’re playing on Thursday – Breswell – are a good side; they wouldn’t have made it to the Cup Final otherwise. So, if there’s one thing that we can be almost sure of, it’s that it’ll be a tight game. We should be prepared for it to go right down to the wire. Preparation is the key to success and I want us to be prepared for anything.”

  And, with that, Hansard made every single player line up and take a penalty. He even made the other boys boo and try to put them off as they went up to take their kicks so it seemed like a real penalty shoot-out.

  Jamie remembered the article he’d found on the ’net and how Hansard’s old Kingfield team had won the Interschool Cup with a penalty shoot-out. He knew Hansard would be watching everyone’s penalty like a hawk, judging them. He knew he had to score.

  When it was his turn to take one, Jamie switched off his ears to the shouts and taunts. He only used his eyes.

  He stared at the ball and then stared really hard at the bottom left-hand corner of goal. He kept his eyes fixed there just long enough for the keeper to follow his line of vision. Then Jamie stepped forward and swept the ball high into the top right-hand corner of the goal. The keeper dived completely the wrong way. Jamie’s plan had worked perfectly.

  Even after training had finished, Jamie still had miles of running left in his tank. With two days to go until the Final, his fitness was hitting its peak. His body was perfectly prepared.

  Jamie galloped over to collect the furthest ball behind the goal. He flicked it into the air. He wanted to see if he could juggle it all the way back to the halfway line, where Hansard was collecting the kit.

  He’d just done a back-heel high into the air and was about to control it on his thigh when Dillon snatched the ball away.

  “You think you’re good now just cos you do one flukey nutmeg?” he said, pushing Jamie in the chest. “Well, you ain’t. You can’t do it in the real games. That’s the reason you’re never gonna be a proper player.”

  Jamie just smiled and kept on walking.

  “That’s what you think!” he said over his shoulder. He couldn’t wait to see the smug smile crumble from Dillon’s face when he heard that Jamie’s dad had sorted out a deal for him with a professional club.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Dillon, chucking the ball at Jamie. He missed.

  “Let’s just say that you might not be the only one turning pro. . .”

  Jamie was just on his way to the notice board to check what time the team coach was leaving tomorrow when he saw Ollie coming the other way.

  Ollie was shaking his head. He looked somewhere between mystified and upset.

  “Whassup, bruv?” asked Jamie. He was concerned – Ollie was their best midfielder – they needed him in good spirits for the game.

  “That’s bad, bruv. I don’t get it,” said Ollie, sucking his teeth. He put his arm around Jamie’s shoulder as if he were consoling Jamie for some reason.

  “Get what?” said Jamie, his body starting to fidget uncomfortably. He was aware that something bad was happening; he just couldn’t work out what it was.

  “Why he’s put you as sub, J – we need you on from the start. . .”

  And that was how Jamie found out. That was how he learned that, after everything – all his preparation, the days he had spent looking forward to it, and how well he had played in training yesterday – he was still only a substitute for the Cup Final.

  This was the game that Jamie had hoped might change the entire course of his life and now, all of a sudden, he wasn’t even playing in it.

  “Yes, what is it, Johnson?” said Hansard, looking impatiently at his watch. He could barely bring himself to talk to Jamie.

  When Jamie had heard the news he’d felt like kicking down the door to the staffroom and grabbing Hansard by the throat. He needed to know once and for all what was going on; why Hansard was singling him out . . . why Hansard seemed to want to hurt him.

  Jamie had managed to stay calm enough to catch Mr Gilles on his way into the staffroom and ask him if Mr Hansard was in there. Now, here they were, standing face to face.

  “I just wanted to know why, sir,” said Jamie. He searched in Hansard’s eyes for an answer.

  “Why? Why what?” He was teasing Jamie now, taunting him almost.

  “Why you’ve . . . left me out, sir . . . I don’t get it, sir. . .”

  “I’m sorry, Johnson – do you think you’re so special that you’re different to everyone else?”

  “No, sir, but it’s the Cup Final – I have to—”

  “What you have to do, Johnson, is accept that I am in charge of this football team and I am not changing a winning side for you or for anyone else.”

  “Sir!”

  But before Jamie could argue, Hansard had gone.

  As the staffroom door closed, Jamie sensed that his last chance of becoming a professional footballer might have just been slammed shut in his face.

  “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 s
aid together. “BRING IT ON!”

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

  As the Kingfield boys made their way to the dressing room, their opponents, Breswell School, were just arriving.

  The first thing that everyone noticed was their height; all the Breswell players were small, and some were even tiny.

  Dillon made sure that he barged into practically every one of them as they went past. He wanted them to feel how strong he was.

  “Anyone seen Breswell?” he shouted, towering above them. “All I can see is this bunch of midgets! We want a proper game!”

  Some of the Breswell players were getting wound up but their coach quickly ushered them into their dressing room. “Give your answers on the pitch,” he told them as they filed past him.

  *

  “OK,” said Hansard, clapping his hands together as he got ready to send his team out for the big match.

  “Today is your opportunity to win a Cup Final,” he announced. “You will never get a better opportunity than this . . . But I only want winners out there, so if you don’t think you’re going to win, don’t bother leaving this dressing room.”

  He let the silence hang for a couple of seconds.

  “Good,” he said. “Now get out there and win this game!”

  “Come on!” the Kingfield boys shouted, banging their fists against the wall as they grabbed their shirts from the kitbag. The school had had new ones made especially for the Final.

  Jamie couldn’t help but let the excitement in the dressing room envelop him too.

  Jamie picked up his shirt and felt its soft material.