Free Shoot to Win by Dan Freedman Page A

head.
    â€œHe’s a small, petty man. What’s the point of having a sub if you’re not going to use them?”
    â€œDepends who the sub is, doesn’t it?” said Jamie. “I s’pose for him, putting me on would be like admitting he was wrong.”
    â€œAnd he’s certainly not going to do it with me here,” said Mike. “I’m going to the back of the stands where he can’t see me.”
    Mike started to walk away. Then he turned and looked at his grandson.
    â€œAnd, Jamie, if you do get on that pitch, you show him just how wrong he’s been.”

 

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    For a second, Jamie actually wondered if he was invisible to Hansard.
    He’d been running up and down the touchline for the last twenty minutes and Hansard had still not so much as acknowledged him. This despite the fact that Kingfield had not even managed a shot on goal yet in the second half.
    A line that Jamie had once heard in a movie rose into his brain.
    â€œWhen you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said to himself in a rugged voice. Maybe Hansard didn’t want to acknowledge Jamie – but who said it was his choice?
    Jamie sprinted up the touchline and stopped next to Hansard, putting his foot on the ball.
    â€œHey – Hilary. . .” he said, sharply and with confidence. He knew this was his last throw of the dice.
    â€œ WHAT did you call me?!” Hansard’s face was divided into the perfect mixture of anger and surprise.
    â€œYou used to be a striker, yeah?”
    â€œYes I did, and don’t you dare call me Hil—”
    â€œSo why are you such a defensive coach, then? Stick me on . . . even you know we’ve got to shoot to win.”
    â€œI’ll be the judge of that, Johns. . .”
    But Jamie had already sprinted away down the line. He trapped the ball on his calf and flicked it over his head. He could almost feel Hansard’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.

 
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    Just over seventy minutes had gone when Hilary Hansard finally gestured for Jamie Johnson to take off his tracksuit top.
    â€œSo you think you’re special, then, do you, Johnson?” he said as Jamie stretched his hamstrings.
    â€œI just try my best, sir.”
    â€œRight, well, let’s see how good your best is, then. Get on there.”
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    Jamie sprinted on to the pitch as fast as he could.
    Being brought on was like being released from a prison of frustration. He’d been impotent on the sidelines. Helpless.
    But now he was a part of this Cup Final. He could change things.
    As Jamie took his position on the left wing, he saw Hansard come to the touchline, holding up four fingers.
    â€œKingfield!” he shouted. “Go to 4 – 4 – 2! Attack!”
    Jamie smiled. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for.
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    For the first few minutes, the change in formation seemed to make little difference. The Kingfield defenders were still trying to hoof the ball long. They weren’t making use of the width they had now. They weren’t making use of Jamie.
    Time was running out. They had to start keeping the ball and creating some chances.
    â€œOi!” shouted Jamie. “Let’s get it wide, yeah? I’m free here!”
    The next time the Kingfield left back, Steve Robinson, had the ball, Jamie came deep to collect it. As he ran, he could hear the Breswell defender following him. He was marking Jamie too closely.
    In an instant, Jamie spun and exploded away in the other direction, back towards the Breswell goal.
    â€œYes!” he screamed as soon as he made his run in behind.
    Steve Robinson had played with Jamie long enough to know what he wanted. He curled the ball down the line, bending it around the Breswell right back. It fell perfectly into Jamie’s path.
    Jamie collected the ball. He was away. He purred down the line like a brand new Ferrari. He overtook all the defenders in