Man of the Match (5 page)

 

 

“Raymond Porlock,” announced the man, extending his hand to shake Jamie's.

Jamie was having his first meeting with his new manager, Raymond Porlock, boss of Seaport Town. He'd spent the last ten minutes waiting for Porlock, listening to the sound of rats scurrying beneath the floorboards.

Now they were sitting in Porlock's office, and for a moment, there was silence as the player and the manager stared at each other across the desk.

Porlock had a face unlike any that Jamie had ever seen before. He was old – at least fifty, maybe sixty – and his face was wrinkled and weathered. How many nights must Porlock have stood on the touchlines, in the freezing cold, bellowing out instructions to his players, trying to eke out that extra ten per cent? He had seen everything that football had to offer.

And yet, at the same time, his eyes were fresh, sharp and playful. They were alive with ideas, bright with enthusiasm.

The word in the game was that Raymond Porlock was also slightly eccentric. Had his own way of doing things. Or, to put it another way, he was as mad as a box of frogs.

“Now, what happened at Hawkstone, James . . . I want you to forget all about that,” Porlock was saying.

“Jamie,” said Jamie.

“What?” asked Porlock.

“My name's Jamie.”

“I know what your name is,” said Porlock. “But we all have nicknames here. Yours will be James. Now, where was I? Yes, this is a new start for you, James. A new dawn. I want Seaport Town to be the place where you get back to your best. And that will be good for everyone. If you can get back to playing how we both know you can, then that will be great for you and cracking for Seaport Town! Back of the net, eh?”

“Yup . . . back of the net,” Jamie said, smiling. But inside, he was thinking:
Just get me back to Hawkstone. As soon as possible!

 

“Morning, lads, gather in,” said Raymond Porlock, marching into the dressing room the next morning. He looked odd. He was wearing a lime-green tracksuit top and he'd paired it with bright blue tracksuit bottoms, one grey sock, and one pink one.

‘Right, it's Albiston Athletic tomorrow,” said Porlock in his husky, croaky voice. “It's the big one; could be ten thousand people watching.”

Jamie tried to recall the biggest crowd he'd played in front of. Probably fifty thousand.

“So, by way of preparation, what I want you all to do between now and tomorrow's game is . . . and this is important . . . I want you to imagine all the Albiston players – the entire team – on the toilet.”

The Seaport players all dissolved into laughter. Even Jamie.

“Seriously, Mr Porlock?” they teased. “So shall we imagine them going for a wee or a number two?!”

Raymond Porlock held up his hand to quell the chuckles.

“Gentlemen . . . gentlemen . . . I'll have you know that I've been studying a bit of psychology in my spare time, and one of the books that I read clearly states that if you are going into a situation that is making you nervous, just imagine your opponents sitting on the toilet. It makes them less intimidating . . . more, you know, human.

“Listen, lads,” he said, aware that the giggles were starting up again. “Trust me, it's all this modern claptrap that'll get us promoted . . . I swear!”

Jamie felt like standing up and saying, “I'm sorry, I don't think I should be at this club. I need to get back to Hawkstone now,” and walking straight out of the door.

But Jamie stayed sitting down. As a leak from the ceiling continued to drop cold, dirty water on to his forehead, he bit his lip so hard that he could start to feel the hot, sickly taste of his own blood in his mouth.

It was his big mouth that had got him into this situation in the first place. And he'd decided to keep it firmly shut from now on. He hadn't even told Jack the real story about Bertorelli even though normally they told each other everything.

No. Harry Armstrong had made it very clear – Jamie had to keep his mouth shut and his head down if he ever wanted to play for Hawkstone again.

He had fallen a long way. But the journey back was even further.

“Some of you may have noticed that we have a new face in the dressing room today,” Porlock said as the Seaport squad got ready to head outside for training. “We've taken James Johnson on loan from Hawkstone United and he goes straight into the side for tomorrow's match.”

Jamie could feel his cheeks start to burn as he sensed the other players turning around to stare at him. Some would be pleased that he was here. Some would not.

“James will be playing right wing,” Porlock concluded, almost as an afterthought.

Jamie looked up immediately. He was startled. The whole point of him being at Seaport was to prove to everyone that he was still the best young left-winger in the country.

But how could he do that by playing on the right?

 

 

Dog poo. And lots of it. That was what struck Jamie first about Seaport Town's training pitches.

They were everywhere! Old ones, which were greying, crumbling, decomposing almost to nothing. And new ones. Moist, steaming, brown, smelly new ones.

Jamie had already decided that he wouldn't be making any sliding tackles today!

As the Seaport players made their way out into the pouring rain for training, Jamie caught up with Raymond Porlock. He knew he had to sort out his position in the team as quickly as possible. He just hoped Porlock would see sense.

“Er, gaffer,” Jamie said. “Just wanted to let you know you might have made a bit of a mistake back there earlier.”

“Did I indeed, James?” smiled Porlock. “Wouldn't be the first time!”

“Yeah,” laughed Jamie. “Erm, it's just you said I would be playing right wing. . .”

“Did I?” said Porlock, now laughing too. In fact, they were both laughing hard.

And then, abruptly, Porlock stopped laughing. His face suddenly looked deadly serious.

“And what was the mistake I made?”

“Well, you know I'm a left-winger?” said Jamie. “I don't play right wing.”

“James, you are a footballer, are you not?” asked Porlock, continuing before Jamie could answer. “Of course you can play right wing. I've thought about it. Got it all worked out. If you play right wing, not only will you score more goals because you can cut in and shoot with your left foot, but it will also improve your overall game because it will make you more comfortable on your right. It'll make you twice the player!”

Porlock's excitement was in complete contrast to Jamie's utter deflation. He was starting to get seriously worried.

“Listen . . . gaffer . . . I've played left wing all my life. Never played anywhere else apart from left-wing back once, and that was a bad idea anyway. I mean, don't forget, I've just been playing left wing for Hawkstone in the Premier League.'

Jamie smiled. He didn't think Porlock could argue with that!

“Go on, just play me in my best position. Please, Ray! It'll be—”

“Have you finished?” asked Raymond Porlock. And when Jamie looked up, he could see that something had changed in his manager's eyes. Gone altogether was the jokey spark. Now his eyes were hard. Hard as stone.

“Yes,” said Jamie as an icy dagger of wind from the sea suddenly stabbed him right through his shirt.

“Good. Then maybe we'd better get a couple of things straight between us. You may only be at this club on loan. But as long as you
are
here, you will be treated and behave like every other player at this football club.

“That means, a), you will play
exactly
where I tell you to play and b), you only – and I mean ONLY EVER – refer to me as
Mr
Porlock.
Capische?
”

“What?” asked Jamie timidly. He was in shock at how Porlock had changed from mad funny to mad scary in the space of seconds.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Porlock shouted. It was so loud that a flock of birds in a tree above their heads all flew away.

“Yes . . . Mr Porlock,” murmured Jamie.

“Good. Then perhaps you and I are beginning to understand each other. So, let me ask you again: what position are you going to play tomorrow?”

This is a test
, Jamie thought to himself.
Mustn't crack. Got to stay focused. Have to work my way back up. One more mistake and I'm in trouble. Big trouble.

“I'll play on the right wing, Mr Porlock,” Jamie somehow managed to spit out. “I'll play anywhere you want me to play.”

“Well done, James,” said Porlock. “That is the correct answer.”

 

 

“Where's the long-sleeved shirts, mate?” Jamie asked the Seaport Town kit man.

As he pulled on his long-sleeved blue-and-white-striped top, Jamie was aware of the muffled sounds of laughter from the other Seaport players, who were all in short sleeves, despite the cold.

“What?” Jamie laughed. “It's like minus ten out there! Just cos you lot don't mind freezing doesn't mean I have to as well!”

 

Even before Jamie got the ball, he'd already decided what he was going to do. He was a Premier League player. It was showtime.

Jamie flicked the ball into the air and started running with it. He was doing keep-ups as he went. Keep-ups with his knee, his thigh, his he—

BANG!

Jamie had been decked. It wasn't so much a tackle as an assault! And play had been allowed to go on. It wasn't even a free-kick!

“Ref!” Jamie roared, leaping up and chasing after the official. “Ref, what's going on? That would be a sending-off in the Premier League! The geezer almost sliced my chest open!”

The referee didn't even look at Jamie as he simply responded: “We're not playing in the Premier League now.”

 

Even in his long-sleeved shirt, Jamie was freezing. He couldn't imagine what the others felt like. His teeth were actually starting to chatter. He had to keep moving just to stop his body freezing up.

“Yes!” he shouted, running into acres of space down the line. “Play me in!”

Receiving the ball, Jamie drove forward a few yards and then quickly back-heeled it behind him. He assumed the full-back would be supporting him. He'd seen the Brazil players do it loads of times.

But the Seaport Town full-back was not there. He was twenty yards behind.

Jamie flung his arms up into the air in frustration.

He looked to the dugout for help. He couldn't do this by himself. He needed someone to work with. A player who could read his game. Who was on his level.

Quickly there was some activity on the Seaport bench. They were making a substitution.
Finally!
Jamie thought. And then he saw the number they were holding up.

At first Jamie couldn't believe it. Thought they had made a mistake holding up his number, but the serious look on Porlock's face told him this was no mistake. He wanted Jamie off.

“You're taking me off?” Jamie shouted across the pitch, his voice thundering with aggression and disappointment. “Why me?”

Jamie was fuming. As he stormed past the dugout, he ripped off his Seaport Town shirt and chucked it angrily right at the feet of Raymond Porlock.

“You know what you can do with that!” he shouted, spitting his words at Porlock.

Almost as soon as he had done it, Jamie regretted it. Sometimes he couldn't help it. The red mist descended and he said things without even knowing what was coming out of his mouth. He knew what he'd done was wrong but he'd been too angry to stop himself.

Jamie kicked the door to the dressing room open and sat down.

He shook his head.

How had it come to this? Where had it all gone wrong? And what kind of footballer was he becoming?