Man of the Match by Dan Freedman Page B

give anything to inspire Hawkstone to victory today, but somehow he felt as though he’d hit a brick wall. . .
    Â 
    â€œI think I’m going to take him off,” said Harry Armstrong to Archie Fairclough. “What do you reckon?”
    Archie Fairclough smiled. A big, broad smile.
    â€œYou know what I think, Harry. Same as always: I’d never bet against Jamie Johnson.”
    â€œYeah, and normally I’d agree with you, but look at him, Archie. Look at his body language. It’s all over the place. His head’s gone. He’s not right. We have to do something . . . I’m making the change.”
    Jamie looked at the board. His number was up. Literally. And although his stomach was plummeting through his body, he couldn’t argue. Football wasn’t about one player; it was about what was best for the whole team. He’d learned that much at Seaport. And while there was still a chance for Hawkstone, they had to take it.
    â€œSubstitution for Hawkstone United after seventy-three minutes,” said the stadium announcer. “Coming off, number eleven, Jamie Johnson, to be replaced by number twenty-six, Benny Kamara.”
    Jamie clapped the Hawkstone fans and quickly ran towards the touchline to make way for Kamara.
    In fact, he was barely an inch away from leaving the pitch when Archie Fairclough dashed out from the dugout and hurriedly put his hand out to stop Jamie leaving the pitch.
    â€œWait there!” said Archie to Jamie before turning to Harry Armstrong.
    â€œHarry!” he shouted. “Look at Glenn! He’s in trouble!”
    They all turned to see that Glenn Richardson was lying on the ground, screaming out in agony. He was holding his knee and calling out for the physio.
    â€œAaah!” he was shouting. “Heard something snap! Think it’s the cruciate!”
    Â 

 
    Â 
    â€œI need you to stay on for the moment,” said Armstrong, putting his arm around Jamie as they watched Glenn Richardson being stretchered off the pitch. “I just need to work out what I’m going to do.”
    Both Harry and Jamie tapped Glenn Richardson on the head as he was carried away down the tunnel to the waiting ambulance.
    He was in so much pain he’d put a blanket over his face so people couldn’t see his eyes. He didn’t want them to see the tears.
    Play had been stopped for seven minutes to allow him to be treated and stretchered from the field. There hadn’t even been anyone near him when the injury had occurred. Richardson had simply caught his studs in the turf as he was turning. It had snapped his cruciate knee ligament: the worst injury in football.
    Â 
    In the break in play, both sets of players had gathered around the dugouts to talk to their managers and get some water on board. It was well past five p.m. now, but the temperature on the pitch was still soaring.
    Jamie had so much to think about. So much pressure. He wandered away from the rest of the Hawkstone players in some kind of daze. He didn’t really know where he was.
    â€œHey, Jamie! Jamie!” he heard people shouting from the crowd. They were familiar voices . . . and familiar faces. . .
    It was the Seaport squad. All of them!
    They must have all come to support him! And they were all wearing their Seaport Town strips. At least now it was warm enough to wear the short-sleeved shirts!
    At the front of the group, someone was frantically trying to get his attention.
    It was Dillon Simmonds.
    â€œOi!” he was shouting, loudly. “Oi! Come here!”
    Jamie didn’t know what to do. The last thing he needed now was Dillon Simmonds barking insults at him. He was obviously still wound up about Jamie offering him that penalty. But Robbie was there too, and he was also calling Jamie over.
    As soon as Jamie got within arm’s reach of the crowd, Dillon snaked out his hand and grabbed Jamie’s wrist so tightly it practically crushed every single