Golden Goal (14 page)

 

 

“And you join us here in Foxborough for a terrific climax to the Premier League season. What a game we have in store for you today.

“The hosts, Foxborough, need only a point to win the League title for the third year in a row, while Hawkstone United come here knowing that only a win will be good enough to save them from relegation.

“And even the team line-ups are not without a little drama.

“Now, who remembers Jamie Johnson? He was the young winger who put in a starring performance for Foxborough in last season's Youth Cup Final, only to be cruelly struck down in a shocking car accident only days later.

“That was end of the young prodigy's career. Or so we thought. Today Jamie Johnson is back … but there has been a change: Johnson is now playing for Hawkstone United!

“Johnson has only just started playing again, but player-manager Harry Armstrong clearly believes he has nothing to lose today, so he's put Johnson in from the start!

“Buckle up, people. This could be a classic… It's Foxborough versus Hawkstone … and it's live!”

Jamie put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He waved to his mum, Jeremy and Jack. They were in with the rest of the Hawks fans. He was so glad they had made the journey. He had a good feeling about today.

As the referee put the whistle to his mouth, Harry Armstrong turned around to look at his troops one last time.

Now was the moment for any final instructions. Any last words of inspiration. But Harry didn't say a word. It had all been said.

They knew what they had to do.

As the whistle went to get the game under way, the noise from both sets of fans made it seem like there were a million people crammed into The Lair. The stadium was practically vibrating!

And the players responded to the atmosphere. This was more like a battle between warring gladiators than a game of football.

One particular confrontation on the halfway line between the two hard men, Dave Lewington and Harry Armstrong, was so colossal that they almost burst the ball as they went in for the tackle!

Even the referee was playing his part. Apart from one early booking – Rick Morgan for a deliberate handball – he seemed prepared to allow most things to go.

The intensity was unbelievable. Neither team were prepared to give any ground. How could they? There was too much at stake.

There was nothing between the two sides until, on eighteen minutes, Glenn Richardson decided it was time to interrupt the warfare with a moment of artistry. He produced one of the finest pieces of skill ever witnessed in the Premier League…

He collected the ball from a throw-in, controlling it on his thigh with his back to goal. Then, as the ball dropped, he turned and struck a full-blooded volley high into the air. At first, no one in the ground was quite sure what he was attempting; they simply saw the ball fly up into the afternoon sky.

But as the ball arced and began its descent, and the Foxborough keeper suddenly turned and scampered back towards his goal, people began to see what Glenn Richardson's football vision had shown him a few seconds before: that he could take on a shot from the halfway line!

Time stood still as the Foxborough keeper desperately raced back to try and tip the ball over. He just managed to get a hand to it. But it wasn't enough. He could only palm the ball further into the goal.

It was in! Hawkstone had scored! They were on course!

Every single Hawkstone player mobbed Glenn Richardson. Jamie was so excited he even kissed Glenn's boot!

“What a goal!” screamed Jamie. “You the man!”

Now the Hawks were flying. Their confidence was soaring. And on their next attack, it was time for Jamie to get in on the act.

As the ball came to him, his feet felt springy and powerful. He was completely in control of his body. This was his destiny. The time had come.

He took on Rick Morgan for pace and shot past him like a brand-new Ferrari overtaking a clapped-out old banger. Morgan only just managed to get back in time to block the cross and concede a corner.

Jamie bounced over to take the set piece. He had energy and confidence coursing through his veins. He had football power in his core. He was back and he knew it.

He raised his hands in the air to clap the Hawks fans behind the goal. They were all shouting his name.

And there above them, in one of the posh executive boxes, smiling down eerily, was a face that Jamie thought he would never see again.

It was his dad.

 

 

“Go on, Jamie! Use your skills! Whip it in!” shouted the Hawks fans, as Jamie prepared to take the corner. “Put it in the mixer!”

But Jamie felt sick. He felt weak. His legs were about to give way. He couldn't believe that, after all this time, his dad would just show up. Today of all days. Hadn't he done enough damage?

Jamie stepped towards the ball. He tried to curl it into the middle but his boot struck the corner flag and he fell flat on his face. It must have been the worst corner in the history of football.

“Oh dear, that's not what Jamie Johnson would have intended,”
said the TV commentator, up in the gantry.
“After such a positive start, perhaps nerves are beginning to get the better of the young man.”

The rest of the first half, Jamie was a pale imitation of a footballer. A pale imitation of himself.

He just couldn't focus on the game. When his teammates had the ball and looked up for someone to pass to, Jamie didn't call for it. He wasn't making any runs either.

His sharpness… His hunger… It was gone.

All he seemed to be able to think about was his dad. He hated the fact that he was here, looking down at Jamie.

Where had he been when Jamie needed him?

As the half-time whistle blew, Jamie sprinted off the pitch before anyone else. He could hear the Hawks fans barracking him as he went.

“Get him off, Harry!”

“He's too young, Armstrong, make the change!”

“We have to defend our lead, Harry – we can't afford to play a kid now!”

And Jamie couldn't blame them. He would have shouted the same.

He sensed there was only one way out of this situation.

“What the hell's going on?!” Harry Armstrong roared at Jamie as soon as they got into the dressing room. “You start like a house on fire and then, for the last ten minutes, you can hardly kick the ball? It's like you don't even want to be out there. What's the problem?!”

“I'll explain later, boss,” said Jamie, standing up and walking towards the dressing-room door. “But right now I've got to go and do something.”

“What are you talking about?!” raged Harry. “You can sit down like the rest of the lads and listen to what I've got to say.”

“Seriously, boss. I can't. This is just something I have to do.”

“If you walk out that door, Jamie, I'm subbing you. That's it.”

“I promise, boss, I'll explain everything. Just give me five minutes.”

Jamie didn't wait to hear the response. He left the Hawkstone dressing room.

Once he'd explained to the policeman where he wanted to go to, it was only a matter of seconds before Jamie found himself in the Foxborough boardroom, which fell into a confused silence as the young winger, still dressed in his Hawkstone strip, entered the room.

Everyone turned to look at Jamie, but he was staring at just one person.

“Jamie!” said his dad, putting down his glass of wine and walking over to greet his son. Jamie could now see the falseness of the smile that had fooled him for so long.

“What are
you
doing here?” demanded Jamie. He made no attempt to keep his voice down.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” smiled his dad, trying to usher Jamie into a corner so he wouldn't cause a scene in front of everyone else in the boardroom.

“I'm here for you, Jamie, like always. Oh, and by the way, I've had a word with the Foxborough chairman and they're very interested in—”

“Where have you been for the last year, then?” snarled Jamie. He hadn't moved. He was standing right in the centre of the room.

“When you thought I wasn't worth anything to you, you just dropped me. Like I was a piece of rubbish. Well, I'm not rubbish! And I'm not stupid, either.”

“Of course you're not, Jamie. Look, I'm sorry, I just had other business stuff,” said Jamie's dad, trying to put his arm around Jamie's shoulder.

“Don't touch me!” shouted Jamie. Now the whole room had turned to stare at them.

“As far as I'm concerned, you're not my dad, and I never want to speak to you again. You're nothing to me.”

As he said the words, Jamie felt a burden lift from his chest. He felt relieved.

“Fine,” said Ian Reacher, and suddenly the smoothness in his voice was replaced by dark venom. His true colours were coming through. “But remember, Jamie, you wouldn't be anything without me. I'm the one who got you here.”

“Wrong,” said Jamie. “You're the one that left me.”

As Jamie walked out of the boardroom, he saw the Foxborough chairman speak to two of the security guards. The guards approached Ian Reacher and asked him to leave.

“All right!” Reacher snapped. “I'm going! Get your hands off me!”

Jamie ran back to the changing room as fast as he could, but the players were already out on the pitch.

As Jamie sprinted down the tunnel, his heart sank. He was too late. He could see the fourth official was holding up the board. There was going to be a substitution.