Final Whistle Page 6

  23 minutes…

  Now Major beats a man and slides the ball in for Johnson before going for the return. Johnson instead tries to beat his man and loses possession. The fans howl their disapproval. Godal rises and puts his fingers to his mouth. He whistles to get his new signing’s attention. We can see him mouth those key words: “Pass and move.” Johnson raises his hand in apology to his coach and his teammate. He understands.

  27 minutes…

  Suddenly, like a flash, Rodinaldo has dashed in to steal the ball from a Madrid midfielder like a robber in the night. He is accelerating away with the speed of an Olympic sprinter and then … his ankles are tapped and he crashes to the ground.

  The referee points to the penalty spot. Nemisar falls to the ground clutching his face before getting up to chide the Fourth Official. It is no use. The referee will not be changing his mind.

  Rodinaldo picks up the ball and kisses it. He places it on the spot. He crosses himself as he takes three steps back.

  He moves towards the ball, staring obviously at the right-hand corner of the net. He dummies to kick the ball, allowing the keeper to fall to the ground before calmly rolling the ball along the ground into the left-hand corner.

  The stands shake in response. The cheers can be heard from miles away.

  The game is, once again, all level.

  The Brazilian’s smile returns. He searches for Jamie Johnson and conducts an elaborate handshake routine, followed by a short samba dance. The pair have found their attacking harmony. They play to the same rhythm.

  32 minutes…

  The tackles snipe in like bullets. Barça players go down hurt. Madrid players haul them up and wag their fingers, telling them not to play-act.

  The managers stand beside each other on the touchline, the simmering tension between them barely invisible.

  36 minutes…

  Now Barcelona break again. A quick one-two between Major and Rodinaldo. A yard of space is earned. Instantly, the ball is spread to the wing, where Johnson takes the pace of the move up another octave. He flies past one challenge before playing the ball back inside to Major. The little maestro produces a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn before flicking the ball into space on the left wing.

  Now Johnson is free. Now he can use that turn of pace. He is the furthest man forward. He strains every muscle, every tendon in his body to produce a run of such intense speed that the Madrid defence appears to dissolve in front of him.

  The crowd rise in response to Johnson’s balance, bravery and talent.

  He reaches the edge of the area. The goalkeeper comes out to close him down.

  For a second, the world stops.

  Then Johnson knocks the ball past him, on the angle.

  Now he chases after the ball, but it has gone too far wide. There is only one way for him to get the ball on target now…

  In an almost impossible move, whilst still running, Johnson wraps his left foot around the front of his right and swings his heel backwards towards the ball.

  It is an exquisite back-heel, which sends the ball hard and low along the ground towards the goal.

  The goalkeeper turns and scrambles along the ground, trying to reach the ball.

  The entire ground is frozen in time. No one dares move.

  Except for Jamie Johnson.

  Because he already knows.

  Seeing the ball hit the back of net, Jamie became a flaming ball of ecstasy. The joy sizzled through him like a lightning strike and suddenly Jamie found himself doing a celebration that he had never even tried before.

  He did a double backflip!

  The crowd gave a tumultuous roar of approval. However, almost as soon as he landed back on the ground, Jamie could feel his knee jar. He’d hurt it.

  Badly.

  42 minutes…

  The Barça players are starting to enjoy themselves. They pass and then run to find space … then they collect the ball again and move it on before the tackle can arrive.

  It is a magic trick. They show Madrid the ball and then make it disappear without the opposition knowing where it has gone.

  But not everything is looking so good. Jamie Johnson seems to be struggling. He is limping.

  Godal immediately orders his substitutes to warm-up. He looks like he is going to make the change.

  When Jamie saw the activity on the sideline and Max Muller getting changed to come on, he simply shook his head.

  There was no way he was going to allow the ticking time bomb of his knee injury to explode today. No way he was going to come off now. No way.

  He sprinted back to defend the corner, deadly determined to show Godal that he could carry on. That he could still give absolutely everything for this team.

  44 minutes…

  A corner to Madrid just before half-time. They send their formidable defenders up from the back, sensing this is their chance to hurt Barça. To wound them.

  Barça pull every player back. Now is the time to stand together.

  The ball is arced in. Dominguez jumps and punches the ball away but it doesn’t go far. It lands on the penalty spot and bounces into the air.

  The Madrid attacker lines it up. He watches it drop. He is going to volley it.

  But Johnson reads the mind of the striker. He bravely dives to head the ball clear, knocking it to safety. It is a goal-saving intervention.

  But the Madrid attacker cannot pull out of the shot. He follows through, crashing his boot into Johnson’s skull with fearful power.

  The referee immediately blows his whistle to halt the game.

  Players from both teams stand over the stricken Johnson. The Madrid striker covers his eyes. He knows how hard he kicked his fellow player in the head.

  The television cameras pan up to the stands. They show a worried-looking woman. She is Johnson’s mother. She has come over to watch the game.

  The paramedics, wearing their fluorescent yellow tops, rush on to the pitch with a stretcher…

  But amazingly, and to everyone’s relief, Johnson stands up, pushes them away and somehow even stays on the pitch to play the last few moments of the first half.

  Jamie had been so desperate to stay on that he had refused to show how hurt he had been by the kick to his head.

  It was only when he reached the Barcelona changing room and went to sit down that his body and brain collectively felt the full impact of his injury.

  At first, he thought he was going to be sick.

  As the nausea spread through him, he stood up in the middle of Godal’s team-talk to go to the toilet. But as soon as he did his entire body felt wobbly and unstable. His legs buckled beneath him.

  He was unconscious before his body collapsed on to the hard tiled floor.

  The patient opens his eyes. He does not know where he is, what he is doing here or who these people are.

  “Hello,” says the doctor kindly. “Try not to worry. You’ve been unconscious for quite a long time and you have just woken up. Do you know what your name is?”

  Panic spreads through the patient. He searches his mind but feels only pain.

  “My name … is … I … can’t…”

  The doctor purses his lips and rests his hand on his patient’s shoulder and, as he does so, the patient passes out once more.

  The patient is Jamie Johnson and he has been in a coma for three days.

  “He’s awake again!” shouted Jamie’s mum, scrambling into the corridor of the hospital. “And he knows who I am!”

  Jamie had just woken up for the second time and immediately recognized his mum.

  “Where am I, Mum?” he’d asked, grabbing her hand.

  Quickly the doctor reappeared, followed by two colleagues.

  “I’m just going to ask you a few questions,” said the doctor. “And don’t worry if you don’t kno
w the answers. This is just to give us a little more information. Now, can you tell me what your name is?”

  “Jamie Johnson,” said Jamie.

  He watched his mum close her eyes and breathe out of her mouth. Relief.

  “Good,” said the doctor. “Can you tell me the names of the two people in this room?”

  Jamie smiled at his mum, who was holding his hand.

  “Yup. This is my mum, Karen. And that’s my stepdad, Jeremy.”

  “Excellent,” continued the doctor, adding another tick to his list. “Just a few more, please, if you’ll bear with me… How old are you?”

  “I’m nineteen years old.”

  “Which school did you go to?”

  “Kingfield.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Hawkstone.”

  “And what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a footballer.”

  Jamie looked around his hospital room. It was bedecked with hundreds of football scarves, cards and photos.

  “And who do you play for?”

  “I play for Hawkstone United,” Jamie announced proudly.

  “So this is it.” Jamie’s mum smiled proudly as she helped Jamie into his new bedroom.

  They had returned to England as soon as the doctor had given them the all-clear that Jamie was OK to take the flight.

  The week since Jamie had woken up had involved a series of tests to determine his injury and the damage done.

  Finally, two days ago, the Spanish doctor had explained it all.

  “You took a huge blow to the skull,” he had confirmed, speaking perfect English. “This sent you into a coma for three days. Thankfully, there was no blood on the brain, so your life was not at risk, but you have been left with amnesia. It seems you have lost the memory of the last month of your life, or, to be more precise, everything that has happened since you moved to Spain.”

  Jamie had nodded. People had told him he was now a Barcelona player and their manager had even come to see him in hospital. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not recall one second of his time in Spain.

  Being told that he was a Barcelona player was like being told he owned a brand new Ferrari but that he was not allowed to drive it.

  “When will I get my memory back and when can I start playing again?” Jamie had asked the doctor. He wanted to play for Barcelona as quickly as possible. He wanted to get back to the life that he couldn’t remember.

  The doctor had smiled enigmatically.

  “This is not like another injury. It is not a broken bone that we can fix. It is not a torn ligament that we can repair. Where the brain is involved we have to be very careful indeed. There are no absolute rules and each case is different. You may or may not be lucky enough to recapture those memories. And your body may or may not be able to reach the same level of performance as it did before. Right now, we need to concentrate on getting you to walk properly again. And if it’s what your family wants, I’m quite happy for you to do that back in England. I have told Barcelona this and they are happy too.”

  So here Jamie was in a brand new house that he did not recognize, with a pair of crutches by the door. And somewhere in his brain was the story of his time in Barcelona. The mass of memories that he was simply unable to recall.

  Would they come back? Would he be able to remember those days at all? And when would he next be able to kick a ball?

  “Hi Archie, it’s Jamie Johnson.”

  Jamie was still in bed, but he’d called the Hawkstone Assistant Manager as soon as he’d woken up.

  “Jamie!” said Archie. “How are you? I heard you were back. I was going to come and see you straight after training. How are you doing, son?”

  “It’ll take time, but I’ll get there. Actually … that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to ask you if you could help me. Like you did when I was injured before.”

  Silence.

  “Jamie. I’d do anything for you, you know I would. But I’m not a doctor or a physiotherapist.”

  “I know and don’t worry – they’ve set me up with a doctor over here. But I also need to work with someone who knows me. Who knows my body. I need someone who can get me running again. Get me kicking a ball again. Come on, Archie, you did it before.”

  It was true. When Jamie had been hit by a car three years before, it had been Archie who had personally coaxed him back to fitness with a specially devised exercise and strengthening routine that had set Jamie on the road to stardom. It had forged a special bond between the two of them and even though this was a different type of injury altogether, Jamie was absolutely convinced that Archie could do it again.

  “I really need you, Archie,” he pleaded.

  “You’re a Barcelona player, not a Hawkstone one … we have to remember that. But I’ll call Godal and see what he says,” promised Archie.

  “Brilliant,” said Jamie. It was the first piece of good news he’d had since he’d woken up.

  “Let’s start tomorrow.”

  “Hello, stranger,” said the girl, laying down about twenty football magazines and two DVDs for Jamie as she arrived. “Long time no see.”

  “Jack!” said, Jamie, his face immediately brightening. “So good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” smiled Jack. She had been so badly affected by the news when it had come through that she had immediately tried to book a flight to Spain. Had it not been for the fact that only family were allowed to see Jamie while he was unconscious, she would have been by his side the entire time. “So how are you? Your mum told me it’s complicated?”

  “Kind of,” said Jamie. “Memory-wise, I can remember everything now, except what happened in Barcelona. And football-wise, we don’t know yet. They reckon the head injury has affected my coordination, which explains why I’m walking like I’m drunk. I’m going to work with Archie over here until I’m ready to go back.”

  “Well, if you want to know how you did, you can watch these,” said Jack, holding up the DVDs she’d brought. “These are the games you played for Barça. I got the office to make copies for me. You did well, Jamie. You smashed it over there. They love you!”

  “Really?” said Jamie. His huge smile was unmistakable. The colour returned to his cheeks. “You know what? I really needed someone to tell me that. Thanks, Jack, you’re a great mate.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Can I ask you a question, Jamie?” said Jack.

  “Course you can.”

  “Is everything that happened in Barcelona a complete blank for you? Can you remember any of the conversations that you had with … people out there?”

  “Nope. Not a thing. It’s a complete blank. It’s like those whole couple of months have been erased. It’s mental. To think I’ve played for the best club in the world and I can’t remember any of it. That’s why it’s lucky you brought me those DVDs.”

  Jamie looked at Jack. Her face seemed to have changed.

  “You OK, Jack?”

  “Yeah, it’s just… I’m fine. Look, I’ve got to coach my girls’ team tonight and I’ve got loads to do at the office. I’ll catch up with you later, OK?”

  “OK, mate,” smiled Jamie. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Was it as bad as it sounded on the radio?” asked Jamie as he and Archie started doing some light stretches in Jamie’s bedroom before their first session.

  Archie had come straight over after Hawkstone’s humiliating third straight defeat at home in the league.

  “Worse,” said Archie. “I don’t know why people are surprised, though. We’ve sold all our best players to pay the bills. Don’t tell Jack this, but the players haven’t been paid for three weeks. No wonder they’re not putting it in on the pitch. They’re even offering odds on us becoming the first team to get relegated the season after winning the Premier League. Anyway, do
n’t get me started on that, you’ll just depress me! Right, to begin with I just want to see how your coordination is.”

  He produced a small brown sponge ball and held it in the air for Jamie to see.

  “Try catching this,” he said, tossing it into the air.

  Jamie watched the ball spin and spiral into the air. He tried to engage his brain. The part that analysed the flight and pace of the ball and told his body what to do.

  But he couldn’t find the switch to turn it on.

  Jamie flung out his hands but could only watch as it fell past his clutches on to his bedroom floor.

  “Ha!” Jamie laughed. “Wow! Don’t know what happened there! Bit of a muck up!”

  “Don’t worry,” Archie reassured him. “I spoke to a few doctors yesterday. They all say it’ll take time. Do you think you can throw the ball back to me?”

  “Of course!” said Jamie. “I’m a footballer, remember, not a complete malco!”

  Jamie reached down to pick up the ball and felt his head tumble into a well of dizziness. He almost fell over as he grasped for the ball, having to cling on to the side of his bed to maintain his balance.

  “You OK?” asked Archie.

  Jamie nodded.

  “OK, then,” said Archie. “I just want you to loop the ball back to me. A light throw, as if you were lobbing it to a young child.”

  “Cool,” replied Jamie, readying himself to apply his maximum concentration to this next task.

  He took a deep breath and threw the ball into the air.

  However, instead of producing a soft, sympathetic lob, which was what his mind had asked his body to do, his hand jerked forward involuntarily and tossed the ball directly into his own face.