The Kick Off (11 page)

 

 

 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Jamie? We're kicking off in fifteen minutes,” said Marsden, blocking Jamie's path in the corridor.

“I'm not playing, sir,” said Jamie stubbornly.

“What are you talking about? Of course you're playing, Jamie!”

“Simmonds has stolen my boots. I'm not playing in any team he's in.”

“I see,” said Mr Marsden, tilting his head slightly. “I take it you're quite sure about that?”

Jamie nodded.

Mr Marsden went quiet for a second. Then he said: “OK, well, clearly we'll have to sort this out later; it's too close to kick-off now. What we've got to do now is find you a new pair of boots – quickly.”

He pointed to his office.

“No, sir. I'm not. . .”

“Jamie, we haven't got time for this. Get in here now.”

 

By the time Jamie got back to the changing room, the noisy anticipation that had filled it earlier had gone. Everyone was already outside warming up.

Jamie bent down to put on the boots that Marsden had found in the lost property bin. They were way too big, and they looked about fifty years old.

There was no way he'd be able to play well in them. He wouldn't even be able to feel the ball.

Jamie hated Dillon more than anyone in the world. Some of the teachers went easy on him because he had issues at home. But that didn't give him the right to go around stealing other people's things.

Jamie would never forgive him for this. Ever.

 

 

 

By the time Jamie hesitantly walked out on to the pitch, there were only a couple of minutes left before kick-off.

Dillon was giving his own brand of pre-match team-talk.

“This is it, lads,” he said aggressively. “We can't let this bunch of muppets come here and beat us on our own turf. Let's go in hard and show 'em what we're made of.”

Jamie wasn't listening. He couldn't care less what that thick bully had to say. Instead, he let his eyes wander towards the Grove team, who were all in a huddle on the centre circle. He recognized all the faces and noticed how much they had all grown since last year. He would've shaken hands with a few of them but none of them acknowledged him.

Beyond them and along the line of people that had gathered to watch the game, Jamie saw Mike at the far end of the pitch.

Mike gave him the thumbs up and Jamie raised a wave and a faint smile but, inside, his heart was sinking.

He couldn't believe that his own captain would steal his boots on the day of the biggest game of his life.

For the first time he could ever remember, Jamie felt he didn't belong on a football pitch. He felt like a dolphin in the desert.

Just before the kick-off, Bryn Staunton, the Grove captain and their hardest player, came up to Jamie. When they had been on the same side, Bryn used to protect Jamie if he was coming in for any rough treatment.

“All right, mate,” said Jamie, offering his hand.

“You know we're not mates today, don't you, Jamie?” said Bryn, squeezing Jamie's hand really hard. “And I wouldn't bother trying any of your skills on me either. I know them all, remember?”

Then the match kicked off.

 

 

 

For the first few minutes, there was hardly any passing at all. It was all tackles and fouls, throw-ins and free-kicks.

The two teams were battling each other, not playing football.

Out on the wing, Jamie hardly got a touch of the ball. He felt so uncomfortable in these rubbish old boots. It was like he was back in the trials. He could feel that everyone was against him, willing him to fail.

The opposition hated him because he used to play for them and even his own teammates were stealing his boots. Jamie just couldn't get into the game.

The one bright spot for Kingfield was Ashish Khan. He was looking sharp, lively and quick. Whenever they got the ball to Ash's feet, he always threatened to make something happen.

Unfortunately, The Grove had noticed this too. And after ten minutes, with Ashish running full pelt at their defence, Bryn Staunton thundered into him with a horrendous challenge.

Jamie knew that in every game Bryn's plan was to clatter into the opposition's best player in the first quarter of an hour. To let him know “he was around”. Bryn had obviously decided that today Ashish was his target. Not only had he charged into him, he'd then fallen with all his weight on Ash's ankle.

Even the people watching the game on the sideline cringed when it happened. It was ugly, dangerous and clearly intentional.

As Mr Marsden dashed on to the pitch to help Ashish hobble off, Bryn held his hands up in the air to acknowledge his foul. He could hardly have denied it.

The referee pulled him to one side and showed him a yellow card immediately.

But Bryn wasn't bothered. In fact, he was smiling. He'd got rid of Kingfield's most dangerous player at the cost of a booking. From his point of view, it was a good deal.

With Ash off, Kingfield lost their cutting edge and The Grove took a grip on the game. Strong and organized, they were grinding forward like an army on the attack.

Jamie was on the outside of the game, looking in.

He started to drift away from the wing, coming further infield in search of the ball.

But with Jamie more central, The Grove's right-back had a free reign down the right flank. And, in the twenty-fifth minute, he made that space count, with a strong run all the way down the line.

Jamie tried to get back at him but the right-back had had too much of a headstart.

In the end, Dillon came across from his centre-half position and slid in with a tackle. He was late though, and gave away a free-kick right on the edge of the area.

“Johnson!” Dillon shouted angrily as he got up. “Wake up, you idiot. You're playing for us, not them.”

“Shut up, you thief,” Jamie shouted back.

But while Dillon and Jamie were busy shouting at each other, The Grove had already taken a quick free-kick to find McGiven. With Dillon still out of position, McGiven was unmarked.

Before any of the Kingfield players had a chance to react, he'd controlled the ball with a sweet first touch and driven it along the ground into the far corner of the net.

It was in as soon as he'd struck it. They had left McGiven alone for one second and had paid the price.

 

 

 

Jamie hung his head. He knew everyone would blame him for letting the full-back go in the first place.

As they prepared to take the re-start, Jamie looked at the people watching the game. He wondered what they all thought of him. “Loser”, probably.

Maybe he'd been fooling himself all these years. Maybe he was never as good as he thought he was. But if that was the case, had his whole life been one big lie?

Then Jamie stopped dead. He thought he'd seen a ghost.

At the end of the line of spectators, sitting patiently by itself, was the dog with the scary eyes that he'd seen in the park during the holidays. Was it on its own or was the tramp there too?

Jamie scanned the crowd and then he saw him. And he couldn't believe what he was doing.

The tramp was talking to Jamie's granddad. And Mike actually seemed relaxed about it. He didn't look scared at all. In fact, he seemed to be making notes on a pad while the tramp was talking.

But what was he writing? And why was he talking to the tramp in the first place?

 

 

 

When the half-time whistle went, Marsden urgently called his team over to the touchline. He couldn't get them there quick enough.

Normally he was so calm and positive. But now he was angry and agitated.

“Come in, lads, come in,” he shouted, gathering his players around him.

“Well, I hope you've got that out of your system,” he said, looking each of his players directly in the eye as they sheepishly bit into their oranges. Jamie could see a vein throbbing in the side of Marsden's forehead.

“I'll tell you something – we're damn lucky,” he carried on.

“We should be dead and buried the way we're giving away possession. We are lucky it's only 1 – 0 and we're still in it.

“If we're going to shout at each other instead of marking up when we're defending set-pieces, we've got no hope,” he said, eyeing Dillon and Jamie.

“I'll tell you what. A few of you are lucky I've only got one sub left to make. If we can't turn things around, then I'll be making a change,” he said, pointing to Alex Marcusfield, who was the other substitute.

As he peeled away to retake his position, Jamie wondered whether him being substituted might be the best thing for everyone. Even if it meant Marcusfield taking his place.

He just didn't feel right today. It wasn't just the boots. He was a stranger in his own body and he couldn't see what was going to change it.

 

As Jamie got back to his position on the wing, he saw his granddad standing on the touchline, gesturing him to come over.

There was just enough time to grab a word before kick-off.

“Mike! What are you talking to that man for?” said Jamie, staring at the tramp. “He could be dangerous.”

Mike laughed. “He's not dangerous, Jamie. Well, not since I've known him!”

“You
know
him? Who is he?”

“Like I told you, Jamie. He's the best coach I ever met.”

Jamie felt goose-pimples rise up all over his body. Suddenly he knew who the tramp was.

“What?
That's
Kenny Wilcox? But he's. . .”

“I know. He's gone off the rails a bit,” said Mike shaking his head. “It's a tragedy really – such a loss to the game. He always did have a bit of a drink problem . .  . anyway we haven't got time for this. Kenny told me to write this down and to give it to you. It's about today's game.”

Mike handed Jamie a scrap of paper. It was in Mike's handwriting but to Jamie it read just like all the drills in the book that he'd spent the whole summer practising. This is what it said:

 

You are a winger, so stay on the wing. Coming inside only narrows the pitch and your options. There's no need to make it complicated; stay out wide and attack your man.

 

Use your change of pace to unsettle him. And when you attack, do it with conviction.

 

“He's right, Jamie.”

It was a lot for Jamie to take in: he was getting advice from a tramp who also happened to be a legendary coach.

But, in some strange way, it all seemed to make sense.