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  The playmakers in their team had been dubbed “Les Artistes” by the French press, and it was easy to see why, as they painted pretty patterns with the ball.

  The French came out of the traps bursting with imagination and confidence. Their comfort and ease at playing at this level served only to further highlight Scotland’s own lack of World Cup experience. At times it resembled kids playing against adults.

  The lightning-quick break which resulted in France’s opening goal was a lesson in clinical, modern football. Their winger, Tapin, exchanged passes before carrying the ball twenty yards forward and laying it into their striker, Santini, who was lurking on the edge of the box like a hungry fox.

  Santini controlled the ball instantly and turned in order to return the ball to Tapin. Yet when he saw that the entire Scotland defence was concerned with Tapin, he simply wrong-footed them with a neat drag-back on the half-turn, earning himself just enough time and space to rifle the ball right into the very top corner of the net.

  With three back flips and a series of high fives to celebrate, France were on their way. Scotland, meanwhile, were in complete disarray.

  “Hold the ball! Calm down!” Sir Brian Robertson implored to his players from the touchline, immediately sensing the panic that was taking hold in his team. Every pass looked under pressure, every kick seemed clumsy. They were playing fast, frenzied football, when what they really needed was a touch of class and composure.

  If they could just get through to half-time without conceding another goal, then Robertson might be able to get into their heads, organize them, inject some belief back into their play.

  Thankfully, the players heeded Robertson’s advice and managed to gain a foothold in the game by at least stringing a few passes together.

  Which was why it came as an almighty blow when, on the brink of half-time, the France centre-half was allowed to advance, unchallenged, as far as the edge of the Scotland area. With few other options open to him, he got his head down and unleashed an effort at goal.

  It was a stinging strike but it was sailing straight into Allie Stone’s welcoming arms – until it took a freakish flick off the back of Cameron McManus’s heel, causing it to veer sharply into the air and somehow loop over Allie Stone and into the back of the net.

  “Allez les Bleus!” roared the French fans from all around the ground.

  At first, the Scotland section of the ground was as silent as a cemetery. They knew they were witnessing the death of their World Cup dreams.

  But then, watching Robertson lead his men down the tunnel for half-time, the Tartan Army’s disapproval metamorphosed into a murmur, grew into a grumble and finally forced itself into a fully fledged roar:

  “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!

  YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

  They yelled angrily at their manager. Indeed, some of the fans, disgusted by Scotland’s performance, had already seen enough and were leaving the ground, even though it was only half-time.

  “Go back to England, Johnson!” shouted one furious-looking man at Jamie. The fan, who was bare-chested and heavily tattooed, was storming out of the stadium in anger. But not before he’d told Jamie what he really thought of him.

  “You’re not one of us,” he continued viciously, each word of his vitriol laced with pure aggression. “We’ll never like you – ever!”

  Nothing hurt Jamie more than being abused by his own fans. It was the worst feeling in football. And what made it all the more painful was that he agreed with them – right now Jamie hated himself.

  Trailing by two, Scotland had much to do, so Brian Robertson’s half-time instructions were short and to the point.

  “One chance,” he said, gravely. “You’ll probably only have one chance to play in a World Cup in your entire careers. Is this how you want to go out of it? Is it? Without even trying? Without even showing what you’re capable of?

  “Losing inspires winners and it defeats losers. So, which one are we – winners or losers? You’ve got forty-five minutes left of this game to prove that you are winners, gentlemen. If I were you, I’d give it every last thing I had because, believe me, if you don’t, you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.”

  Jamie and his teammates took in every word and solemnly rose to their feet to get back out there. Right now, they were at rock bottom, but one goal was all they needed to get back into this game. One goal could change everything.

  While Duncan Farrell psyched himself up by hammering the wall with his head, Robertson pulled Jamie aside for a quick chat.

  “Don’t worry about what those French players were saying about you,” Robertson whispered discreetly to Jamie. “It’s a lack of respect on their part. You just play your normal game.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jamie, confused. “Who was saying what about me?”

  “The stuff they were saying about you being rubbish and overrated. Ignore them; they’re just trying to wind you up.”

  At first, Jamie was stunned. But then he began to feel the anger rising from the soles of his feet. Overrated? Easy to play against? Jamie could feel his teeth grinding together and his jaw jutting out aggressively.

  Now, Jamie had a point to prove. And he wanted to prove it immediately.

  As the referee blew loudly on his whistle to restart the game, the noise was drowned out in Jamie’s mind by a series of words which were being repeated with such an insistent rhythm that they sounded almost like a song.

  I’ll show them! These feet can do anything with a football… These feet can do anything with a football…

  He heard the words over and over again and he recognized the voice as his own.

  And just then, like a faithful lost dog happily returning to its owner, the ball came back to Jamie.

  Jamie collected it comfortably into his stride and set off like a rocket. He felt himself smoothly accelerating into his turbo gear as he drove deeper and deeper into French territory. These fools had said Jamie was overrated. Now they were going to pay.

  Scared and shocked by the sudden show of electric pace, the French defence seemed to melt and part in front of Jamie, inviting him to go on yet further.

  With a final, gravity-defying dummy, he waltzed past the last defender and tore towards the byline, where he smashed the ball across the turf.

  Running back towards his own goal, the French defender could feel Duncan Farrell’s menacing presence behind him. Aware that Farrell was arriving just in time to slot the ball home, the French defender had no option but to make sure he met Jamie’s centre first and try to lift the ball over the goal. But the cross was too powerfully hit to control, meaning the defender could do nothing other than volley the ball straight into his own net. In a flash it was in, smashing its way into the back of the net.

  Jamie had created a goal, the Tartan Army had something to cheer about and at long last Scotland were back in the game.

  Jamie sprinted over to the Scotland bench and gave his manager a high five.

  “Boss,” he said, still panting from his pitch-long run to the byline. “You know what you said yesterday … in the press conference … about me showing people what I’ve got when I’m ready?”

  Robertson nodded.

  “Well, guess what? I’m ready.”

  While the French team reorganized themselves and put the ball back on the centre spot, Jamie inhaled a deep breath and tilted his head back to look at the sky. A bird, he could not make out which type, was flying freely and gracefully from one side of the stadium roof to the other. It picked up speed as it weaved and dipped through the air. Jamie smiled. That’s how he felt when he played his best football – free as a bird.

  With time beginning to ebb away, Scotland were still behind. The afternoon was turning to evening and the dark danger of Scotland’s exit from the tournament began to loom ever larg
er.

  As the last of the afternoon sunlight tickled Jamie’s cheeks, he knew that now was the moment for him to step out of the shadows.

  There were less than thirty minutes remaining when, using his anticipation to read a French passing move, Jamie swooped to intercept a loose ball in the centre circle.

  He had possession. He felt free. It was time for him to fly.

  Jamie soared across the ground, his feet barely touching the turf. Then, as a French midfielder advanced, Jamie did something truly remarkable.

  He trapped the ball behind his heel and looped it over both his and the French defender’s head with a rainbow flick! It was an astonishing, breathtaking piece of artistry.

  But Jamie wasn’t finished there. He skipped around the defender and he watched the ball drop towards his left foot before executing a volley with such sweet perfection that it roared towards the goal.

  Jamie was forty yards out, so he followed right through his strike to get the maximum amount of power and momentum. Then he watched, transfixed like everyone else in the ground, as the ball arrowed towards the target. It shot through the air like a bullet, dipping at the very last moment just enough to kiss the underside of the crossbar on its way into the back of the net.

  For just a second the entire stadium was in silence … sixty thousand fans were frozen into paralysis by a moment of pure footballing genius… And then a blast of such huge noise erupted that it shook the ground to its very foundations.

  It had finally dawned on Sir Brian Robertson’s side that they had what it took to mix it with the very best. They deserved their place at football’s top table.

  Meanwhile, their star player felt light on his feet, powerful in his mind, and dangerous with the ball. He was hungry for another helping.

  With confidence now coursing through his veins, Jamie went on dribble after dribble, constantly teasing the French defenders into committing to the tackle before flicking it past them and skipping away. His pace was extraordinary. He seemed to have a change of gear, even when he appeared to already be running at top speed. It was just the same as when he used to play Tag in the playground. Once Jamie got away from someone, they were never going to catch him. Ever.

  And, almost like a brother who didn’t want his sibling rival to steal all the attention, Duncan Farrell quickly made sure that he got in on the act too.

  In the seventy-third minute, he went up for a Jamie Johnson cross and bulldozed his way through the French defence to head the ball home. The dejected French keeper protested that he had been pushed out of the way, but the fact was he had simply been outmuscled by the fearsome Scotland striker.

  Then with six minutes remaining, Farrell latched on to another killer pass from Jamie before belting in Scotland’s fourth from way outside the area.

  It was a strike of quite ballistic proportions. It seemed to travel the twenty-five yards to the goal faster than the speed of sound because it crashed into the back of the net almost before you could hear the noise of Farrell’s size thirteen boot smashing into the ball. Never had Jamie seen a shot hit so hard.

  On any other day, Farrell’s second strike would have been goal of the match, but today there was only going to be one recipient of that prize.

  At the end of the game Jamie went over to the Tartan Army to throw his shirt into the crowd. It started an almighty scramble. Grown men were acting like kids, pushing and pulling to try to get their hands on the shirt. Some of them were even pulling one another’s hair!

  Forty-five minutes before, fans were ready to leave the ground, angry, blaming Jamie for the death of their World Cup hopes.

  The fans were still going mental, but now they were shouting Jamie’s name with pride and dramatically bowing in front of him.

  Both the players and fans knew that finally, at long last, and just at the right time, Scotland had pulled out a performance. Their World Cup campaign was up and running. And their magic man had started to weave his special spell on the tournament.

  Brian Robertson was in a jubilant mood in the dressing room when the players got back.

  “Now that is what I call a second-half performance,” he beamed, slapping every player on the back. “You lot were superb! By the way, when we get back to the hotel, we’re having a quiz night. And the good news is you can eat whatever you want!”

  The players bellowed their approval. They had been begging the manager for something different to eat after all the grilled fish and pasta they had been force-fed over the last few days.

  “A cheeseburger! Beauty!” yelled Duncan Farrell.

  “Chips!” shrieked Pat Renton, the full-back.

  “Yeah! And extra baked beans!” added Allie Stone.

  Meanwhile, in the corner of the dressing room, Jamie quietly collected his ring from Tommy the kit man and slipped it back on. He’d be after some Chinese tonight.

  “Nice goal, son,” said Brian Robertson, approaching Jamie. “But I don’t ever want to see you doing that again.”

  “Doing what?” asked a bewildered Jamie. He’d never been told off for scoring a goal before.

  “It’s a good skill. I’ll give you that. And it’s fine for showing off. But you don’t use flicks like that in a game. It winds up the opposition. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “But I was angry, boss. I did the rainbow flick cos I wanted to show those French defenders what I could do after what they’d said about me. I wanted to prove them wrong.”

  This time it was Brian Robertson’s turn to look confused.

  “They said that I was rubbish and that I didn’t even deserve to be playing at the World Cup. Remember? You told me at half-time.”

  “Oh, Jamie.” Robertson smiled almost sympathetically. “Did I ever tell you? I don’t speak a word of French.”

  Group D – Standings

  Match Day 2 Results

  Final Matches Remaining in Group D

  She hadn’t been there.

  On his big day, on the day he’d scored the goal of his life. She had been nowhere to be seen.

  So where had she been?

  Jamie only had to turn on his TV to get the answer.

  There Jack was, looking annoyingly happy, hosting live coverage of England’s training session ahead of their crunch Group F game against Turkey. She was standing between two of the England players, wishing them luck for their big game.

  The players were bare-chested. They were smiling at her, while she praised their individual qualities as though she was their personal cheerleader. It was sickening.

  Turning off the TV in disgust, Jamie slammed his door shut behind him and stomped down the hotel stairs. He felt as if someone had stabbed him in the stomach and twisted the knife.

  He was in no mood for a quiz night.

  “Big Fatty…?!” repeated Allie Stone, literally shrieking with laughter. He was stamping his feet on the ground in hysterics. “Big Fatty…”

  Each time he tried to begin the sentence, he got through a couple of words before descending again into hysterical laughter, which, after a while, transformed into a coughing fit.

  “It’s not that funny,” said Jamie. “Just cos you knew what ‘flatulent’ meant doesn’t make you some kind of genius all of a sudden. Just drop it now, will you?”

  “Oh, but it is that funny!” said Stonefish, starting up again. “Big Fatty—”

  “All right!” snapped Jamie. “I got one answer wrong, so what?! Do you have to keep on laughing about it?”

  “Yeah, but there’s getting it wrong and getting it wrong, isn’t there? I mean, even I know what BFG stands for and I haven’t read a book for about twenty years! I mean, you gotta tell me, where did you get Big Fatty Goat from?! What kind of books do you read? Hey, Jamie, where are you going? Come back! I wanna know what you think the OMG stands for!”

 
; Jamie had had enough. The whole room had cracked up when he’d got the answer wrong. Even the players on his team. Big Fatty Goat! What had he been thinking? If he didn’t know the answer he should have just kept quiet.

  He sat down by himself in the hotel lobby and miserably spun his ring on the table in front of him. With his mobile broken and his new one not yet delivered, he couldn’t even pretend he was texting, which was what he normally did if he was ever in a restaurant by himself and didn’t want to look sad.

  As his ring spun, so did Jamie’s mind. He hated seeing Jack talking to other players, but he knew she would say she was just doing “her job”. But why wasn’t it her job to interview him about the best goal he’d ever scored—

  “Excuse me,” said a voice from behind Jamie.

  Jamie turned around to see a girl – a really pretty girl – smiling broadly at him. She had sparkling blue eyes and very blonde hair. Jamie immediately recognized her as the hairdresser in the hotel.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m a really big fan of yours,” said the girl, who had very long eyelashes and was wearing quite a bit of make-up. “Could I have my photo taken with you, please?”

  “Sure,” replied, Jamie a little too eagerly. He’d completely forgotten everything he was thinking about and for some reason his voice had gone really high, too. It sounded as it had done when he was ten!

  If he was honest, Jamie still had no idea what to say to girls. On the pitch, he could produce a rainbow flick goal to defeat international-class defenders. Off the pitch, when faced with a pretty girl, he struggled to muster a hello.

  “I’m Loretta, by the way,” said the girl, pushing herself really close to Jamie as she reached her phone in front of them to take a picture. “But you can call me Lolly.”