Free Golden Goal by Dan Freedman Page A

that that was one of the most gruelling physical tasks he’d ever completed.
    â€œThanks 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.
    â€œNo problem, gaffer,” said Archie, more cheerful than Jamie had ever seen him before. “We’ll come and collect them when training’s finished.”
    â€œNice one,” said Harry. Then he turned to look at Jamie.
    â€œAnd I take it this is the new member of staff you’ve been telling me about, Cloughie?”
    â€œSure 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.”
    â€œYup – 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?”
    â€œJamie, sir … I mean gaffer… I’m Jamie.”
    They shook hands.
    â€œWelcome to Hawkstone, Jamie,” said Armstrong, smiling widely. “Good to have you on board.”

 
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    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
    â€œAll 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!
    â€œDid you make sure all the touchlines were completely straight?” asked Archie. He was obsessed with the touchlines. They all had to be exactly perfect.
    â€œOf course!” chuckled Jamie. “See you next week!”
    â€œAnd where do you think you’re going?” said Archie, poking his head out of the shed.
    â€œHome,” said Jamie. “I’m done.”
    â€œNot 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…”
    â€œAh, come on, Archie,” Jamie protested. “It’s the weekend and I’m seriously knackered. Can’t we do it on Monday?”
    â€œNo rest for the wicked, eh?” Archie teased, handing Jamie the brush.
    Jamie had no idea that