Golden Goal (10 page)

 

 

“A constructive way to generate an income until he goes back to school” was Jeremy's view of Jamie's new job at Hawkstone.

Although Jamie had no intention of ever going back to school, he'd decided to save that argument for another day.

Now, because Jamie was earning his own money, Jeremy couldn't have a go at him any more. In fact, he was even giving Jamie a lift into the Hawks training ground for his first day at work.

Jamie stared at Jeremy as he drove. He was wearing his leather driving gloves, checking his rear-view mirror every forty-five seconds. He had the news on the radio. He never ever listened to music in the car. And he always stayed exactly on the speed limit.

Straight
, Jamie decided. Straight was the ideal word to describe Jeremy. Everything about him was uniform, in order and unsurprising: his hair, his tie, his neatly polished shoes. Even his voice was boring. Jamie hadn't realized that Jeremy had been talking for the last two minutes. He'd just tuned in for the end of the sermon.

“…and that is why punctuality is so important,” Jeremy was saying. “It shows an organized mind.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. He wondered if the man had ever taken a risk in his life.

Archie Fairclough probably looked older than he actually was. When Jamie had first seen him, he'd thought that he must have been about seventy. But, having worked with him for just a few hours, Jamie soon realized that the wrinkles he'd taken for age were actually just lines – evidence of the countless days he'd spent out in the open air.

The other feature that struck Jamie about Archie was his strength. With his huge hands, he'd clasp a set of five-a-side goals, raise them above his head and walk the length of the pitch with them. His tattooed biceps bulged through the Hawkstone T-shirt that was his daily uniform.

“All right, Cloughie!” all the Hawkstone First Teamers shouted whenever they saw Archie.

He was pretty much a legend within the club. He'd been the Hawks groundsman for twenty years, and when veteran midfielder Harry Armstrong had been appointed Hawkstone player-manager a few days before, one of the first decisions he'd made was to give Archie a promotion and ask him to sit in the dugout during First Team games.

So now Archie's grand title was Head Groundsman
and
Kit Manager. Jamie's title was simply Archie Fairclough's Assistant.

 

 

“What's your second name, by the way?” asked Archie as he led Jamie out to the pitches. “I need to let the finance people know all your details so that you get your huge pay packet at the end of the month!”

For some reason this made Archie laugh almost uncontrollably. He was properly cracking up. His mug was shaking so much that the tea was beginning to spill down the side.

“Johnson,” said Jamie.

“Johnson, eh?” Archie repeated, studying Jamie closely as he spoke. “You know, there was a great young player at this club once called Mike Johnson – he was playing when I first started supporting Hawkstone. Centre back, he was. As hard as nails. If it hadn't been for his injury, he could have done anything in the game. Tell you what, we could do with a player like him now…”

“Yeah,” said Jamie. He could feel the slight salty prickle of a tear in the corner of his eye. “I've heard about Mike Johnson.”

“OK,” said Archie, changing the subject. “The first thing you can do is take these over to the academy boys.”

He was pointing to a crate of energy drinks. “They'll come over and drink them at half-time in their game. And make sure you bring back all the empty cartons.”

Jamie nodded and started to lug the crate over towards the academy players. He could feel the hot sweat dripping down inside his tracksuit top. He realized that he had hardly done any exercise at all in the last eight months. He was so unfit.

As soon as he arrived, all the academy players gathered quickly around him, snatching the drinks like a group of prisoners that had been starved of water.

They downed the drinks and then chucked the cartons on the ground beneath them. Not one of them bothered to hand their carton back to Jamie. Or say thanks.

Jamie was just bending down to pick them up when he heard the voice that immediately brought back a torrent of bad memories.

“Johnson – is that you?”

Jamie didn't have to turn around to know who it was. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It was Dillon Simmonds.

Dillon was by far the worst enemy that Jamie had ever had. They had hated each other since the day Jamie had started at Kingfield School. It was Dillon who had started it – having a go at Jamie for being small and always saying how rubbish Jamie was at football.

Dillon had done some really evil things to Jamie, but Jamie had never let it show that he was upset. He didn't want to give Dillon the satisfaction.

Even when Dillon had pulled one of his worst tricks – stealing Jamie's phone and sending a text to Jamie's mum which simply read:
I want 2 kiss u
– Jamie had still tried to laugh it off. Not that his mum and Jeremy had been too amused…

And now here they were, together again at Hawkstone. Except this time all the chips were stacked in Dillon's favour.

Jamie realized he had to at least pretend to be friendly.

“All right, Dil—”

“Ha ha! I knew it was you! So what happened at Foxborough, then? I thought you were supposed to be the next big thing?!”

“I got—”

“Man, how sad are you?! You're like nothing now. And I almost didn't recognize you 'cos you're so fat! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

He still had that same high-pitched hyena laugh that had tormented Jamie when they were at school.

Dillon jogged back towards his teammates, turning only to chuck his drink carton as far away as possible. He knew Jamie would be the one to have to go and pick it up.

As soon as Jamie got home that night, he went straight into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He couldn't get Dillon's insults out of his mind.

He struggled to pull his clinging wet tracksuit top over his shoulders and head. When he finally managed it, he tossed the sodden top on to the floor.

As Jamie looked up, his reflection in the mirror gave him a shock. He hadn't studied his body in the mirror for months.

He twisted his white, freckled form from side to side, eyeing every inch of himself in the glass.

He softly patted his belly. Gone was the taut, hard stomach that he'd gained by doing hundreds of sit-ups during his Foxborough days. Instead, here was the flabby result of all the ice cream and chips that he'd tucked away mindlessly during his months as a couch potato.

Jamie traced his hands up his body, towards his chest. He squeezed the loose flesh. He couldn't believe it. He even had the beginning of man boobs!

Dillon was right. Jamie was fat.

He ran his fingers through his thick, spiky hair.

“Right! Time for a change!” he said to himself, with a new determination in his voice.

Then he picked up Jeremy's clippers and began that change.

 

 

“Someone's had a haircut!” said Archie when Jamie got to work on Monday. “But if you wanted to borrow the mower, you only had to ask!”

“What d'you mean?” asked Jamie.

“Oh, doesn't matter,” chuckled Archie, his laughter slowly subsiding. “Gaffer says they're playing five-a-side today, so we need to move these goalposts over to that field. Follow me.”

Jamie watched as Archie hauled the set of goals above his head and began the arduous trek to the other side of the training ground.

Jamie tried to lift his goals. But they were seriously heavy; Jamie pulled, but he couldn't get them off the ground.

Archie looked around and waved him on impatiently. Jamie didn't know what to do. There was no way he could say he was too weak. This was his job. Somehow, he had to lift these goals.

He bent his knees and crouched down beneath the crossbar. He exhaled a few times, as he'd seen weightlifters do. Then, with a huge push of his lungs and a rush of power through his arms and shoulders, he raised the goals high above his head. A little unsteady at first, he soon found his balance and followed in the direction Archie was heading.

Jamie's whole body ached by the time they reached the training pitch and he and Archie carefully laid the goals down at either end. His thighs, which had taken the brunt of the carrying, were throbbing so hard, it felt as though they might burst through Jamie's tracksuit bottoms.

Jamie breathed out and wrung his wrists to try and get the blood flowing again.

“What?” teased Archie. “You're not out of puff, are you? That was nothing!”

Jamie shook his head. He didn't want Archie to know that that was one of the most gruelling physical tasks he'd ever completed.

“Thanks for that, Cloughie,” said a man in a tracksuit, striding purposefully on to the pitch. Jamie instantly knew who the man was. It was Harry Armstrong, the new player-manager of Hawkstone United. Harry had been one of Jamie's favourite players when Jamie was younger.

“No problem, gaffer,” said Archie, more cheerful than Jamie had ever seen him before. “We'll come and collect them when training's finished.”

“Nice one,” said Harry. Then he turned to look at Jamie.

“And I take it this is the new member of staff you've been telling me about, Cloughie?”

“Sure is, gaffer,” replied Archie. “He's been with us a couple of weeks now. It's good to have an extra pair of hands around the place.”

“Yup – we need all the help we can get at the moment,” Harry Armstrong said, stretching out his hand for Jamie to shake. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Jamie, sir … I mean gaffer… I'm Jamie.”

They shook hands.

“Welcome to Hawkstone, Jamie,” said Armstrong, smiling widely. “Good to have you on board.”

 

 

Sometimes, on a Friday, as a treat, Archie would let Jamie go and watch the Hawkstone team train ahead of their weekend match.

Jamie loved being so close to the action. Although more than anything else he would have wanted to be out there on the pitch himself, standing as an observer on the touchline gave him an opportunity. He could study the game in a way that wasn't possible when he was in the thick of the action.

For the first time, Jamie was able to analyse the way that football actually worked.

The player Jamie most liked to watch was Glenn Richardson. He was the Hawkstone playmaker and he wore the number ten – the shirt of legends.

Harry Armstrong had said in an interview recently that, if Richardson had been Brazilian, he would have had a hundred caps and been a national hero. And it was certain that, if Hawkstone did end up being relegated, Richardson would be transferred to one of the biggest clubs in the country. He was way too skilful a player not to be playing in the Premier League.

Jamie marvelled at how Richardson could spray fifty-yard through-balls to the striker, each one of them inch-perfect. He could even put backspin on his passes so that they held up enough to prevent the goalkeeper coming out to intercept them.

For a second, Jamie allowed himself to imagine what it would be like playing in the same team as Glenn Richardson: Jamie would stay out on the wing, knowing that Richardson could find him with one of his perfect passes…

But then Jamie stopped himself. He knew that was a painful scab to pick at.

Friday 26 March

“All right, I'm off, Archie,” Jamie called into the shed. As the training ground was empty, he'd mowed every single pitch today. He'd probably walked about five miles in total!

“Did you make sure all the touchlines were completely straight?” asked Archie. He was obsessed with the touchlines. They all had to be exactly perfect.

“Of course!” chuckled Jamie. “See you next week!”

“And where do you think you're going?” said Archie, poking his head out of the shed.

“Home,” said Jamie. “I'm done.”

“Not quite,” said Archie, reaching inside to produce two tins of white paint from one of his cupboards. “I reckon our little shed could do with a lick of paint, don't you?” he smiled. “Especially now that it's an office for two…”

“Ah, come on, Archie,” Jamie protested. “It's the weekend and I'm seriously knackered. Can't we do it on Monday?”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Archie teased, handing Jamie the brush.

Jamie had no idea that painting a shed could be so tiring. It was seven forty-five by the time he'd finally finished and his arms felt so heavy he didn't know how he was going to carry them home.

“Not bad,” said Archie, inspecting the work as Jamie washed his hands inside the shed. His fingers were almost blue with cold and his pecs ached more than if he'd done two hundred press-ups.

“There you go,” said Archie, handing Jamie an envelope.

“What's this?”

“Your wages – you're getting paid this month. But don't worry, I can keep ‘em if you don't want ‘em!”

“No … thanks … I just didn't realize it was the end of the month already.”

“Time flies when you're painting sheds, eh,” said Archie, laughing heartily at his own joke. “Don't spend it all at once!”

Jamie already knew how he wanted to spend some of it.