Golden Goal (2 page)

 

 

“What you lot need to do is forget about the TV cameras,” said an angry Steve Brooker, while his players sat looking at the floor.

“And Brian Robertson being here. All that stuff's irrelevant. Remember what I always tell you: this is a simple game – get the ball, pass it to your mate and have a shot on goal… Boys, you have to trust yourselves to play.”

Steve's eyes were ablaze with ambition; this was
his
big night as well as his players'.

“And Jamie,” he said, turning to face his left-winger. “Their full-back is scared of you. Petrified. You only have to wiggle your hips and he falls over. Trust me. He wants to go home and cuddle his mum! He's had enough!”

The boys laughed but, as their chuckles subsided, Steve was still focusing his attention on Jamie.

“So when you're one-on-one with him, take him on. Every time,” he said, pacing steadily towards Jamie. “Show him how good you are. Show everyone how good you are – including yourself.”

He put his hand on Jamie's shoulder and gave the muscle above his collarbone a firm but friendly pinch.

“And why don't you try the snake?”

The snake was the new skill that Jamie had been working on for the last few weeks in training.

It was a Brazilian skill in which the attacker flicked the ball outside and then inside of the defender in one rapid movement. If it was done properly, the defender stood no chance; his body and brain would be twisted in different directions before he eventually lost balance. The snake was the single most impossible skill to defend against.

And only Jamie Johnson had the skill, speed and confidence to pull it off.

“Just show it to him once… You'll destroy him.” Steve Brooker smiled. “And lads – let me make this very simple for you: when we get the ball, we give it to Jamie.”

 

 

There were fifty-five minutes on the clock when Xabi Negredo curled the ball up the line to Jamie, who had it under control in an instant. This was what he'd been waiting for.

He immediately jinked towards the full-back. Then he shaped to cut inside. The defender lunged off in the direction that he thought Jamie was going, only to find that Jamie hadn't moved at all.

Jamie was still standing in the same position, with his foot resting confidently, almost arrogantly, on top of the ball. Then he did the simplest trick in the football book: he just knocked the ball down the line and chased it.

Simple it may have been, but combined with Jamie's pace, it was also hugely effective.

The two players raced after the ball in a one-on-one test of speed. The defender was giving his all to stay with Jamie but, like so many others, his best was not enough.

Jamie won the race and prodded the ball forward. However, the defender had already committed himself to the tackle, bringing Jamie down right on the very edge of the area. It was a clear free-kick.

Jamie hauled himself up and, while the Harrington goalkeeper frantically organized his wall, the Three Amigos clustered around the ball to discuss their options.

“I'll smash one,” suggested Antony.

“I reckon I can bend one into the far corner,” said Jamie, eyeing a gap to the keeper's left.

Then an ear-piercing whistle broke up the discussion.

It was Steve Brooker. He was holding up two fingers on one hand and, behind them, one finger from another.

The boys knew who he wanted to take it: Xabi. They were going to use a free-kick routine they had been working on in training. Jamie and Antony were to stand directly in front of the ball, with their backs to the Harrington wall. They were providing a protective screen so that neither the players in the wall nor the goalkeeper could see how the ball was going to be struck or, crucially, when. The element of surprise was the key.

Antony and Jamie took up their positions, puffing their chests out and standing as tall as they could to completely shield the ball from view. Then, a second before Xabi was about to strike the ball, they peeled away in opposite directions, to leave the route to the goal clear.

The Butcher's strike was crisp, precise and brimming with power.

Jamie knew it was in as soon as Xabi hit it. He'd seen it enough times in training. Xabi was a free-kick specialist; he always found the target and when this boy hit a ball, it stayed hit.

The ball arced and swung over the wall. It homed in on its target with laser-like accuracy. It swerved, dipped and fizzed, all the while staying on course for the top left-hand corner of the goal. It seemed to be getting even faster as it whooshed into the net.

It was there! A Xabi Negredo special!

By the time his teammates looked around, Xabi was already on his knees, sliding across the turf towards the corner flag. That was something he'd practised in training too!

“Gol! Gol! Gol!”
Xabi was shouting to himself, punching his fist against his chest. He was so happy he was almost crying. He crossed himself and kissed his fingers with a flourish. Then he looked to the sky with a dramatic expression on his face.

It was such a professional celebration that Jamie and Antony felt almost rude to interrupt it by piling on top of him. But they did anyway, kissing Xabi's cheek for good measure!

 

 

Now Foxborough were beginning to motor. The millions of miles that their scouts had travelled in order to assemble this team of starlets was beginning to pay off.

Steve Brooker's careful approach had brought them together as a powerful team. And now Jamie Johnson, the jewel in the crown, was ready to announce his talent to the watching public.

Sprinting back towards his own goal, Jamie quickly caught up with a Harrington midfielder, who was bringing the ball out of his own half. As the Harrington player searched for someone to pass to, he was becoming hesitant … vulnerable.

Jamie slid along the grass and hooked his foot cleanly around the ball. Then he sprang back up on to his feet, flicking the ball forward in the same movement.

Jamie flew into Harrington territory at his very top speed. He was a leopard, chasing down his prey – the Harrington full-back.

The defender was standing on the edge of his area, waiting. He had been left alone – exposed and unprotected by his teammates. He was defenceless.

It was almost possible to detect a glint of a smile on Jamie's face as he powered towards his cowering opponent.

Jamie was completely in control. Of the ball. Of his body. Of the situation…

He nudged the ball forward – slowly, softly, almost teasing the defender's brain with the possibility of making a challenge. But the defender wouldn't bite, he wouldn't go for it; he just kept backing away further and further towards his own goal.

Jamie knew that, to get past him, he was going to have to beat him.

Fine,
Jamie thought to himself.
If that's the way you want it, that's the way you can have it.
And with that, Jamie unleashed his skills.

His left foot swept the ball outwards and then back inside so swiftly that the defender would've had to watch the move in ultra slow motion to even be able to work out where the ball was, never mind intercept it!

It wasn't until Jamie was long gone that the Harrington full-back realized that Jamie had beaten him on the inside with – what else? The snake.

Now Jamie bore down on the goal. He was just ten yards out.

The keeper scurried off his line to shut down the angles. He hunched down and put his gloved hands up as though Jamie were threatening him with a weapon.

Jamie pulled his left foot as far back as he could. It seemed clear he was going to blast the ball into the back of the net.

The keeper steadied himself, ready for a missile of a shot.

So he was shocked when Jamie slipped his left foot under the ball and, with simple grace, craftily chipped it high above him.

The goalkeeper raised his hands into the air and arched his body backwards, but both he and Jamie knew there was no point. He was never going to save that ball. It had been chipped too perfectly for the goalkeeper to get anywhere near it.

The ball bounced once and, even before it had hit the net, Jamie already had his arms outstretched, awaiting the rush of his teammates to celebrate the strike.

As they engulfed him, Jamie stood tall and, with a broad smile, pointed a finger of gratitude back towards the applauding Steve Brooker in the dugout.

It was an individual goal. It combined pace, skill and football intelligence.

It had Jamie Johnson written all over it.