Shoot to Win by Dan Freedman Page A

fast he could run, he’d show them. Why was it always him that they had a go at? Why couldn’t they pick on someone else for a change?
    And what did either of them know about football anyway?

 

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    It was boiling hot as Hansard pulled his team around him for the half-time team-talk. Jamie could taste the salty sweat seeping into his mouth. He could feel the heat radiating from his forehead without even touching it.
    Maybe he felt the heat more than the others because his skin was so fair.
    â€œOK. Apart from one or two certain individuals who seem to think that they are too good to stick to the tactics, things are going to plan,” said Hansard, staring right at Jamie as he spoke. He had that same look on his face – as if he’d just tasted some milk that had gone sour – that he got whenever he looked at Jamie.
    â€œSemi-finals are about seeing who cracks first. If we stick to my tactics, we’ll keep a clean sheet and we’ll win this game. I can promise you that.”
    â€œWe protect what we’ve got and hit them on the counter. They’re mentally frail. They will break. I can see it in their eyes.”
    With the sun reflecting off the top of Hansard’s head, it looked like a newly polished cue ball on a pool table.
    â€œIs everybody clear on the tactics?” he said.
    â€œYes, sir,” the boys answered robotically.
    â€œGood. Has anyone got anything they want to say?” he asked, looking at Dillon, who was the captain.
    â€œSir, I have. . .”
    As his teammates looked round at him in surprise, Jamie realized that he was the one who was talking. His friend Ollie Walsh was shaking his head at Jamie, trying to tell him not to carry on. But Jamie had already started.
    â€œIf we can get it to my feet . . . I can get past their defenders easily,” he said. “Can we play it on the ground a bit more?”
    Hansard stared at Jamie as if he’d suggested that they all get different outfits and play the second half in fancy dress.
    â€œI’m sorry, Johnson – for a second I thought I was the coach of this football team!” Hansard snarled. “You’ve already nearly cost us a goal through your selfishness and now you’re trying to tell me how to do my job. . .”
    â€œBut, sir!” Jamie said, feeling Ollie’s elbow dig into his ribs. They knew Hansard hated being interrupted. Still, it was too late now.
    â€œAll these long balls . . . we just keep giving it away. How can we score a goal if we haven’t got the ball?”
    â€œFine,” said Hansard in a much calmer voice than Jamie had expected. “No problem at all . . . if you don’t like my tactics, Johnson, you don’t have to use them. Walker, get warmed up, you’re coming on.”

 
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    Jamie’s mouth hung open. Hansard couldn’t just take him off! Not Jamie. And not in a match this big.
    He was committing football suicide!
    â€œSir, I was just giving my opinion, I thought. . .”
    â€œAnd what’s so special about your opinion, Johnson? Do you think you’re better than everyone else?”
    â€œNo, sir, I just. . .”
    â€œHow do you spell team, Johnson?”
    â€œErm . . . T, E, A, M, sir.”
    â€œExactly. There is no I in team, Johnson – and you can think about that during the second half,” he said, turning his back on Jamie.
    â€œExactly,” Dillon Simmonds parroted, smiling sarcastically at Jamie.
    â€œNow,” said Hansard. “Has anybody else got any comments to make about my tactics?”
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    As the ref blew his whistle to get the second half under way, Jamie was torn in hundreds of different directions. Part of him wanted Kingfield to lose really badly so everyone could see what a fool Hansard had been to sub him. But, then again, Jamie knew that the only way he was going to play in the Cup Final was if Kingfield went on to