Shoot to Win Read online

  “I’ll be here all afternoon, lads,” said the photographer from the Advertiser, snapping away furiously as the Kingfield boys came out of the tunnel and ran towards the pitch.

  “If you want to buy any stills, get your dads to call the office.”

  Jamie’s heart shuddered. His dad – Jamie had invited him to come and watch the match! What would he think if he turned up and saw Jamie was only a sub?

  He’d think his son was rubbish. He’d forget trying to get Jamie a deal with a professional club. He might even take off again.

  Jamie couldn’t allow that to happen. It was only now, with his dad back in his life, that he’d realized how much he’d missed him all these years . . . how much he needed him.

  Jamie understood that there was no alternative; he had to get himself on to that pitch today. Now he just needed to work out how.

  “And welcome to Kingfield School!” boomed the PA announcer as Kingfield took to the Phoenix Park pitch.

  “Yeah! Go on Kingfield!” responded the crowd.

  Jamie turned around to see there were about three hundred people in the stands to watch the game. It was by far the biggest crowd he’d ever played – or rather been a substitute – in front of.

  He looked to see if he could spot his dad or his mum and Jeremy but, with everyone jumping up and down, it was impossible.

  Now both sides were on the pitch, warming up. If Jamie were out there, he and Ollie would be spraying long passes to each other.

  The tension was mounting as the referee called both captains to the centre circle to toss the coin.

  On the sidelines, Jamie bent down to touch the pitch. It felt perfect. He picked up a couple of blades of grass and rolled them between his thumb and his fingers. Then he stood up and released them.

  As he watched the blades flutter to the ground in the hot, windless summer air, Jamie made a wish inside his head. He hadn’t done that for a very long time.

  “Over here, Jamie!”

  Mike had somehow managed to get himself down to the side of the pitch. He was standing next to the corner flag.

  As Jamie wandered towards him, the referee put his whistle to his mouth and blew to get the game under way.

  Mike must have seen Jamie’s face drop because he put his arm around his grandson and said: “Don’t worry, JJ. You’ll get on and, when you do, you’ll be the best player on that pitch.”

  Jamie looked on from the sidelines as Ollie slid in and won the first tackle. The midfielder instinctively launched a long ball into the channel for Ashish Khan to chase.

  Hansard had drilled the tactic into them over and over again. It had worked against Oak Hall in the Semi-Final but, as soon as Ash and the Breswell defenders got into a race, it was clear the Breswell players were just as quick as him. Ash couldn’t get to the ball.

  That was a shock. Ash was the second-fastest player in the Kingfield squad. Only Jamie was faster.

  The Breswell goalkeeper collected the ball and threw it out to his full-back. Then the defenders began to play the ball between themselves. They had no intention of letting Kingfield get the ball back.

  “Let’s get into these midgets!” Dillon demanded angrily.

  But it wasn’t as simple as that. The Kingfield players sprinted forward and put as much pressure on the ball as they could but it didn’t make any difference; Breswell just passed faster. They never panicked.

  Everything that Breswell did was one-touch. Pass and go. Receive and release. The Kingfield players couldn’t get near them. They were being toyed with.

  “This lot know exactly what they’re going to do with the ball before they receive it,” Mike said, nudging Jamie. “That’s the sign of a good team.”

  Soon fifteen minutes had gone and Kingfield had still hardly had a touch of the ball. Even when they did get it, they just punted it aimlessly into the channels for Breswell to reclaim.

  “Work harder!” Hansard yelled at his team. He was going red in the face and was getting more frustrated by the second.

  Jamie smiled ruefully to himself. The sad thing was, he knew how to make things better for his team. If he could get on that pitch, he could change things; turn the game around.

  But, even though he was only standing on the touchline, he may as well have been standing on the North Pole. That’s how far away from the action he felt.

  Jamie had his face pressed up against the window of the game. Even if he shouted at the top of his voice, no one would hear.

  It wasn’t until twenty-five minutes into the game that Kingfield managed to win their first corner.

  Finally, it was a break from all the defending and chasing that they had been forced to do and it gave Dillon the chance to come up from the back. As he chugged into the Breswell penalty area, it was clear how much taller he was than everyone else. If they could find him with the corner, he’d have a great chance of getting a header in on goal.

  Jamie was the regular corner-taker, so when he saw his replacement, Tom Walker, raise both hands into the air as he stepped up to fire in the ball, Jamie knew exactly what that meant – the corner was going to the far post.

  Sure enough, Walker whipped it in, hard and fast to the far post. Dillon fought his way through the mass of Breswell defenders towards the ball; none of them were strong enough to stop him. He dived forward, full length, through a flurry of raised boots, stretching every muscle in his body towards the ball, meeting it with a diving header towards the goal.

  The crowd in the stands held their collective breath, Jamie stood on his tiptoes to try and see what was happening, then THUMP, the ball smacked against the outside of the post. It bounced away for a goal-kick. Dillon had missed. Just.

  The Kingfield players held their heads in their hands. Six inches – that’s how far they had been from taking the lead.

  “Unlucky!” Hansard shouted from the sidelines, clapping his hands. “That’s more like it.”

  As the players dispersed from the penalty area, only Dillon was left in the box. He was still lying on the ground. At first it looked as though he was just upset he hadn’t managed to score. But when the referee started frantically blowing his whistle, it was clear that there was a problem. Something must have happened when Dillon went for the header.

  “Can we get a medic on here, please?” shouted the referee. “He’s done something to his thumb. I think it might be dislocated.”

  Dillon was sitting up now, cradling his left hand. Even from where he was standing, Jamie could see that Dillon’s thumb was poking out backwards from the rest of his hand. It looked as if it had been stuck on the wrong way.

  “He don’t need no medics – he ain’t a wimp!” said a man, marching on to the pitch. Almost as soon as he saw him, with his big, burly frame and his nose broken like a boxer’s, Jamie knew exactly who he was.

  The man shoved the referee out of way and grabbed Dillon’s hand.

  “Let me have a look at that,” he ordered.

  He took one look at it and said: “Right!”

  Then he did something that made Jamie’s whole body squirm; the man forced Dillon’s thumb right back into its socket. Jamie thought he could even hear the noise of the bone snapping back into place.

  “Ahhh! Dad!!!” squealed Dillon, turning his head away.

  “Oh, stop moaning, you baby,” said his dad, walking back off the pitch. “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d have scored.”

  Jamie stared at his own thumb, rubbing it softly against his finger. Then he raised his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. He was trying to look for his dad in the stands but he couldn’t see him.

  Jamie’s mum was there, though, and she thought he was looking for her. She started jumping up and down and waving back to Jamie. She even blew him a kiss. So embarrassing.

  “Look at that!” said Mike, elbowing Ja
mie in the ribs. “Breswell’s right back has just swapped positions with their central midfielder – that’s what you call total football!”

  Jamie nodded but he wasn’t scared of them. Even though Breswell were by far the best team Kingfield had come up against, he still felt sure that he could cause them problems with his pace.

  “Eh, and I’ll tell you something else,” said Mike, nodding towards the Breswell goal. “Their keeper – have you noticed anything about him?”

  “No, why?” said Jamie.

  “He never kicks the ball out; always throws it to one of the full-backs. That’s because they’re trying to keep it on the deck.”

  The Breswell keeper had the ball in his hands. Jamie studied his movements. He watched the keeper bounce the ball once on the ground and then again, waving the outfield players forward as though he were going to kick it.

  But Mike was right – he didn’t kick it. Instead, he quickly bowled the ball out to the right full-back, who had dropped deep to collect it. It must have been something that they’d worked on in training.

  Jamie wondered how long he would have taken to notice that tactic if Mike hadn’t pointed it out.

  And, more importantly, he wondered whether Hansard had spotted it at all.

  After Dillon’s chance from the corner, Breswell re-established their grip on the game.

  “Get in their faces!” roared Hansard. “They don’t like it up ‘em!”

  Ollie responded by putting in a really hard tackle, going straight through the back of his opponent.

  It was too hard a tackle for the referee, though, who blew for a free-kick straight away.

  Without taking time to stop the ball, the Breswell centre-half drove a pass into his striker’s feet, instantly making a run upfield to support him.

  “Rolling ball! Rolling ball!” Hansard protested as Breswell streamed forward. “The ball was rolling!”

  “Play on,” shouted the referee, stretching his arms out in front of him. “Play on!”

  The Breswell striker fended off Dillon long enough to be able to control the ball with his first touch and then lay the ball back with his second.

  He was laying it back for the centre-half, who had played the ball into him in the first pace. That centre-half had sprinted the whole way up the pitch, and now he came on to the ball at full pace.

  He looked as though he was going to wallop the ball as hard as he could but, right at the last minute, he changed the shape of his body. Instead of smashing his foot through the ball, he slipped his boot under it instead. He was going for the chip.

  Everyone had expected him to go for the pile-driver, including Calum Fogarty, the Kingfield goalkeeper, who had come off his line. Now Calum was caught in no-man’s-land, only able to look on helplessly as the shot curved and arced above him towards the goal.

  The ball glided gloriously, almost softly, through the air, and, for that second, there was complete silence as all the players on the pitch and all the supporters in the stands watched it follow its seemingly pre-programmed path.

  Then the swish and ripple of the net broke the silence as the ball found the top corner.

  The Breswell supporters started jumping up and down, celebrating; they were going crazy!

  They unfurled a big banner, which read: “Breswell – it’s like watching Brazil!”

  Meanwhile, Hansard was chasing the referee up the touchline.

  “That was a rolling ball, ref!” he shouted. “Bring the play back!”

  “I gave the attacking team the advantage,” said the referee. “The goal stands.”

  “Get your top off and start doing your warm-ups, JJ,” said Mike, squeezing Jamie’s shoulder. It’s half-time in a minute, he’s got to bring you on. “The game’s crying out for a player like you.”

  Jamie smiled.

  “Here, hold this,” he said, giving Mike his tracksuit top.

  He sprinted as fast as he could down the line past Hansard. He was as quick as any of the Breswell players. And as skilful.

  He just had to be given the chance to show it.

  “What’s the matter with you lot?” Hansard demanded as the Kingfield boys trudged back into the dressing room at half-time. “You’re giving them way too much respect.”

  Jamie looked at his teammates. They were all staring at the ground as Hansard strode menacingly around them.

  Jamie just kept quiet and looked eager. He was sure Hansard was going to make the change.

  “We’re 1 – 0 down and we’re going to do something about this situation,” said Hansard.

  Jamie stood up and started doing his stretches. He started to feel that tingle of excitement, that buzz that nothing else in the world gave him.

  “We’re going to try harder,” said Hansard. “You’re the ones that have got us into this mess and now you’re gonna get us out of it.”

  Jamie sat back down.

  “You may think you’re good players because you’ve managed to get to a Cup Final. Well, I’ll tell you something: good players – real players – are the ones that show themselves when things aren’t going well.”

  “Football’s easy when you’re winning. But we’re not winning now. We’re on course to lose this Cup Final so, what I want to know is, what are you lot going to do about it?”

  “No luck?” asked Mike as Jamie walked back towards him with his head bowed. “He must just be giving them five more minutes. Keep yourself loose, though – he could bring you on at any time.”

  “Mike,” said Jamie. “Give it up, yeah? He’s not gonna put me on. He hates my guts. He hates our guts.”

  Mike looked sad.

  “I’m sorry, JJ,” he said. “I really am. You don’t deserve this.”

  Jamie could see Mike’s face redden with anger as he caught sight of Hansard coming out for the second half.

  There were two birds circling in the air above Hansard. Jamie prayed that they might splat their droppings all over his bald head.

  “I’m going to have a word with him,” said Mike, kicking over an empty water bottle. “Maybe old Hilary needs a little shock to help him change his mind.”

  “No point, Mike,” argued Jamie, pulling him back. “If you get involved, it won’t change anything. It’ll just make it worse.”

  Mike shook his head.

  “He’s a small, petty man. What’s the point of having a sub if you’re not going to use them?”

  “Depends who the sub is, doesn’t it?” said Jamie. “I s’pose for him, putting me on would be like admitting he was wrong.”

  “And he’s certainly not going to do it with me here,” said Mike. “I’m going to the back of the stands where he can’t see me.”

  Mike started to walk away. Then he turned and looked at his grandson.

  “And, Jamie, if you do get on that pitch, you show him just how wrong he’s been.”

  For a second, Jamie actually wondered if he was invisible to Hansard.

  He’d been running up and down the touchline for the last twenty minutes and Hansard had still not so much as acknowledged him. This despite the fact that Kingfield had not even managed a shot on goal yet in the second half.

  A line that Jamie had once heard in a movie rose into his brain.

  “When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said to himself in a rugged voice. Maybe Hansard didn’t want to acknowledge Jamie – but who said it was his choice?

  Jamie sprinted up the touchline and stopped next to Hansard, putting his foot on the ball.

  “Hey – Hilary. . .” he said, sharply and with confidence. He knew this was his last throw of the dice.

  “WHAT did you call me?!” Hansard’s face was divided into the perfect mixture of anger and surprise.

  “You used to be a striker, yeah?”

  “Yes I did, and don’
t you dare call me Hil—”

  “So why are you such a defensive coach, then? Stick me on . . . even you know we’ve got to shoot to win.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Johns. . .”

  But Jamie had already sprinted away down the line. He trapped the ball on his calf and flicked it over his head. He could almost feel Hansard’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.

  Just over seventy minutes had gone when Hilary Hansard finally gestured for Jamie Johnson to take off his tracksuit top.

  “So you think you’re special, then, do you, Johnson?” he said as Jamie stretched his hamstrings.

  “I just try my best, sir.”

  “Right, well, let’s see how good your best is, then. Get on there.”

  Jamie sprinted on to the pitch as fast as he could.

  Being brought on was like being released from a prison of frustration. He’d been impotent on the sidelines. Helpless.

  But now he was a part of this Cup Final. He could change things.

  As Jamie took his position on the left wing, he saw Hansard come to the touchline, holding up four fingers.

  “Kingfield!” he shouted. “Go to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack!”

  Jamie smiled. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

  For the first few minutes, the change in formation seemed to make little difference. The Kingfield defenders were still trying to hoof the ball long. They weren’t making use of the width they had now. They weren’t making use of Jamie.

  Time was running out. They had to start keeping the ball and creating some chances.

  “Oi!” shouted Jamie. “Let’s get it wide, yeah? I’m free here!”

  The next time the Kingfield left back, Steve Robinson, had the ball, Jamie came deep to collect it. As he ran, he could hear the Breswell defender following him. He was marking Jamie too closely.