The Football Trials: Kick Off Read online

  CONTENTS

  The Scout

  The Golden Ticket

  Second Thoughts

  No Regrets

  On Trial

  Bad Attitude

  New Friends

  Real Potential

  Apologies

  The Big Match

  A New Team

  Bonus Bits!

  The Scout

  “Who is that old geezer watching us?” asks Wheeler.

  I look to where Wheeler is pointing and I see an old man standing there, with a little dog. He has white hair and a fat Father Christmas belly.

  “Come on, let’s just play on,” I say.

  The four of us are having a kick about in the park. Wheeler, me, Taylor and Harj. Two on two. We’ve put our coats down to mark the goals. We come here most days after school to play football.

  “RIGHT,” I shout. “NEXT GOAL WINNER!”

  Taylor comes at me with the ball, with his Arsenal shirt on. He’s the only one who supports Arsenal. Muppet. The rest of us are United through and through. He tries to pop the ball through my legs.

  “As if!” I say. I take the ball away from his feet and nutmeg him instead.

  I want to try something different. The Rabona. I’ve seen it online.

  Instead of just shooting with my right, like I normally do, I flick my right foot around the back of my left and hit the ball hard. I almost tie myself up in a knot doing it. The ball flies straight between the coats.

  “LOVELY GOAL!” shouts the old man.

  Wheeler grabs the ball and we all go over.

  “Why are you watching us?” asks Wheeler.

  “I wasn’t watching you,” says the old man. “I was watching him.” He points at me.

  “What... what you watching me for?” I ask.

  “I’m a scout,” says the old man.

  “Bit old to be a scout aren’t you?” says Wheeler. “And shouldn’t you have lots of badges on your shirt?”

  “I’m not that sort of scout,” says the old man.

  “I’m a football scout. For United.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. It says “Arthur Logan: Football scout”. There’s a phone number and email address, and United’s logo printed in the corner.

  “I’m Arthur,” he says. He holds out his hand.

  I shake it. The others do the same.

  “I heard there was a kid with some skill – a little rough around the edges – but a real player,” he says.

  “Who told you that?” I ask.

  “A little bird,” he says and taps his nose.

  “You think Jax has got what it takes?” asks Harj.

  “He’s got something,” says Arthur. “If you want a trial, I can make that happen for you. What was your name again?”

  “Jackson,” I tell him. “Jackson Law.”

  “If I were you, I’d sign him now. Fifty K a week,” says Taylor.

  Arthur laughs. “If you want that trial, give me a call,” he says. He nods at me, then walks away with his little dog.

  “You could play in the Premier League,” says Wheeler. “How awesome is that?”

  I take a breath. I feel a bit dizzy and sick. It’s a joke. Has to be. But what if it isn’t? Could I really get signed by United?

  Man, this is PROPER crazy!

  The Golden Ticket

  I live in the flats not far from the park. I run up the stairs, because the lift breaks down all the time. When I get inside our flat, I kick off my trainers. Granddad already has his tea on his lap in the living room. Sausage and mash.

  Granddad has thick grey hair and tattoos all over his arms. He’s a big man. He used to do loads of weights, but he can’t now. He’s got an illness called MS. That stands for Multiple Sclerosis. Since they worked out what was wrong with him, he’s just got worse and worse. He can’t walk without a stick now. Mum thinks he’ll be in a wheelchair this time next year.

  That’s why he lives with us. He stopped being able to do things around his own house. Had to give up driving his taxi too. I like having him around though. I just wish it wasn’t because he had this horrible disease inside him.

  Mum comes in holding my plate of sausage and mash. “Here you go,” she says.

  “Thanks.” I shovel a forkful into my mouth.

  Mum sits on the sofa next to me with her own plate. She’s wearing her horrible Quickstop uniform. She works on the checkout there. I wish she didn’t have to work as much as she does. She can go on a bit sometimes, but she does her best for me and Granddad. And I know it’s only because she cares.

  “What are you grinning about?” asks Granddad.

  I’ve been waiting to tell them. I’m proper excited. I take out the card and hand it to Mum. “Check this out,” I say.

  Mum frowns. “Who gave you this?” she asks.

  “Some old guy,” I tell her. “He said he could sort me out a trial at United.”

  “You’re kidding me!” says Granddad. “I knew you had it, son. I knew it!”

  “Don’t fill his head with nonsense,” says Mum. “It might be dodgy.”

  My heart sinks.

  “Let’s have a look,” says Granddad.

  Mum hands Granddad the card.

  He takes his glasses from the little table next to him and puts them on. He holds the card away from him and squints at it. “Arthur Logan... hmmm, where do I know that name?” Then a smile breaks across his face. “He used to play for United. Back in the seventies. Centre half. Hard as nails he was. When is your trial?”

  “Dunno,” I tell him. “The man said I needed to ring up.”

  “Right, no problem,” says Granddad. “Leave it with me.”

  “Don’t get his hopes up,” says Mum.

  “Why not?” asks Granddad. “It’s not every day you get offered a trial with United. Could be just what the lad needs.”

  “Or it could just be a disappointment,” says Mum.

  “You know what this reminds me of?” says Granddad. “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And you my boy, have just found the golden ticket!”

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed with loads of other old people?” I ask.

  “Chance would be a fine thing!” he says.

  “Dad!” Mum says, laughing. “I’m trying to eat!”

  * * *

  Later that night, I sit and listen while Granddad is on the phone.

  “This Saturday?” he says. Then he nods. “About ten? Brilliant, we’ll see you there.” He ends the call and grins at me. “Right then, all sorted. This Saturday at ten.”

  “This Saturday?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t mean the day after tomorrow.

  “This Saturday,” he repeats. “Excited?”

  “Yeah,” I say, doing my best to grin back. And I am excited, of course I am. But I’m also scared. People talk about having butterflies in their tummy when they’re excited and nervous. Whatever is in my belly feels like a swarm of angry bees, all big and fat, buzzing about, banging into each other.

  “You’ll be fine,” says Granddad.

  “Yeah,” I say again, like it’s the only word I know. I’m really not sure I’ll be fine at all.

  Second Thoughts

  When the day of my trial comes around, Granddad comes with me on the bus. I pay the driver because Granddad’s illness means he finds it difficult to get coins out of his pockets. We sit at the front of the bus.

  Granddad groans in pain, even though he tries to hide it. Mum says he’s always in pain. He doesn’t complain though. It’s rubbish that nice people like my granddad have to live in pain. I wish I could help – do something for him and for my Mum. I wish I could buy them a nice house away from here. If things with United work out, maybe I could…


  I take a deep breath.

  “You’ll be OK,” says Granddad. “Just have some belief in yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” I tell him.

  “George Best was one of the best footballers I’ve ever seen,” he says. “They said he was too small, you know. Too small. Can you believe that? If he had listened, he would never have made it.

  “But he didn’t give up. Self-belief and determination,” he says. “That’s what you need. And hard work. Discipline. Talent...”

  “Not much then!” I say.

  He laughs. “You’ve got the talent,” he tells me. “You just need to work hard and believe in yourself.”

  * * *

  As we get closer to Samuels Park – the place where United’s academy and training ground are based – the little belief I have starts dribbling away. What am I doing? Me, play for United? As if.

  What if I’m not as good as I think? What if the other kids there are better than me? They’ve probably been playing together since they were seven. Then there’s me, coming in at fifteen. They won’t pass to me. They’ll probably just think I’m some tramp from some scummy estate.

  By the time the bus arrives at the stop, I’ve got no belief at all. All I’ve got is fear. I help Granddad off the bus and we walk slowly up to the big metal gates. Through them I can see huge white buildings with giant glass windows.

  “I can’t do this,” I say.

  “’Course you can,” says Granddad.

  “No, Granddad, I really can’t.”

  I walk away.

  “JACKSON!” Granddad shouts at me. “JACKSON! COME BACK!”

  No Regrets

  I can still hear Granddad shouting as I walk away. I feel horrible for leaving him.

  “Jackson?” I hear someone call my name.

  There’s a car driving along slowly on the road next to me.

  I look through the opened window.

  Arthur, the scout, stares at me. “Where you going?” he asks.

  “I’m... I’m, erm...”

  “JACKSON!” Granddad shouts again.

  “No need to worry,” says Arthur. “If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. No harm done.”

  Maybe he’s right. And I know I would regret it if I gave up without even trying. Whenever I watched a match or had a kick about with my mates, I would think about it.

  I take a breath, open the passenger door and help Granddad into the car. I tell him I’m sorry for ditching him, and Arthur drives us into the car park.

  I climb out the car and go around to the back door. I help Granddad get out of the car.

  “You’re not going to run off and leave me again, are you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “So you should be!” he says. Then he winks at me.

  Arthur shows us in through a set of automatic glass doors and into a foyer. A man in a training top with DP on his chest is waiting there. “Darren,” says Arthur, “This is Jackson.”

  Darren holds his hand out. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  I shake his hand.

  “And this is Jackson’s granddad,” says Arthur. “Can I leave them with you?”

  “Yeah, no worries,” says Darren. “I’ll give them a quick tour and then we can get Jackson out on the pitch.”

  I nod. Then I take a breath.

  Darren smiles at me. “It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  * * *

  Samuels Park is amazing. Darren tells me they have ten pitches, where every level of player trains.

  “Every United player trains here?” I ask.

  “That’s right,” says Darren. “You’ll see one or two first-teamers knocking about. I heard Souza has been in for some treatment on his thigh.”

  Javier Souza is one of my favourite players. He plays central midfield, which is where I like to play. He’s hard as nails, as Granddad would say. I think about asking Darren whether I could get Souza’s autograph, but I stop myself. I don’t want to come across as some tourist on a day-trip.

  Everything is state of the art. There are physiotherapy and massage rooms, gyms, 3G pitches, a sauna, classrooms and a TV studio where they interview players. There’s even a fancy restaurant.

  Darren shows us into the changing rooms. The place shines like the kitchens and bathrooms you see in the adverts on TV for bleach. Once Darren has shown me the toilets and the way onto the pitches, he gives me a training kit and tells me they’ll see me outside.

  “Good luck,” says Granddad. He gives me a wink, then leaves.

  I sit on the bench. There are designer clothes and expensive trainers all over the place. Just lying around. Thousands of pounds’ worth of gear. I take a few deep breaths to try to calm myself.

  I change into the training kit. The T-shirt is plain black with a blue stripe around the middle. On the chest there’s the club badge.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. I look the part. A United player.

  I feel dizzy. I sit back down on the bench.

  I’m really not sure I can do this.

  On Trial

  Outside, there are loads of pitches. The grass is lush and green. I can see a bunch of lads gathered in a group on the nearest pitch. Darren is there too. Granddad is over by the touchline.

  There must be about twenty lads. All sizes and colours. Some are huge. Some look like they could be at least twenty years old, even though it’s the youth squad. A couple are smaller than some of the kids in year seven at school. They’re all staring at me as I get closer.

  “Jackson is it?” says a man, in shorts and a United hoodie. The initials LC are on his chest. He looks hard, someone you wouldn’t mess with. “I’m Liam,” he says. “Head coach of the under-sixteens.”

  I shake his hand.

  “You’ve met Darren, my assistant,” he says. “I won’t introduce all the lads now. You won’t remember their names. But introduce yourself, fellas,” he says to the other players. “And be nice.”

  One of the lads is big, with a shaved head. Looks like he could bench-press me. He gives me a cold look then he stares at Granddad.

  I hate it when people stare at Granddad. Or when they tut because he’s slowing them down in the street or something. This MS thing that Granddad has got, it could happen to anyone. People should remember that.

  “Right then, boys,” says Liam. “We’ll have a little kick around. Half a pitch. Darren, sort them into two teams.”

  Darren hands out bibs to every other player.

  I get a bib. I see that the boy with the shaved head doesn’t get one, so he’ll be on the other team. Then another lad with a bib comes over.

  “I’m Ollie,” he says. He has blonde, boy-band hair and the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.

  “Jackson,” I tell him.

  The match kicks off.

  The lads at the back play it about a bit. Then one knocks it over to me.

  I try and take it with my instep, but my touch is off and the ball goes out of play.

  I hear the boy with the shaved head say “Rubbish.”

  I take a breath. I need to relax. Focus.

  My next touch is much better. I take the ball and lay it off to a teammate.

  I run forward and get the ball again. Play a one-two. I feel good, confident. I chip the ball out to the right and the winger swings one in.

  Shaved head leaps up, heads it clear.

  I take the ball on my chest, thirty yards out.

  Shaved head charges at me like a rhino.

  I do a pirouette and take him out of the game completely. He doesn’t know what day it is. I pretend to shoot with my right, but pull it onto my left. I belt it right into the top corner of the net. The other lads look over and nod. I get a few pats on the back.

  “GOOD GOAL,” shouts Granddad.

  “Who is that old freak?” asks shaved head, pointing at Granddad.

  “What did you just say?” I ask. I can feel my anger rising.

  �
�Who’s that old freak?” he asks again.

  I lose it. I shove him in the chest.

  He comes back and pushes me – hard.

  That’s it; I don’t care how big he is.

  But before I can get a dig in, Darren has his arms wrapped around me.

  “TAKE HIM INSIDE,” yells Liam.

  Bad Attitude

  “You need to calm down,” says Granddad on the bus back home.

  “Not you as well,” I say. “I’ve had enough of that from that Liam.”

  Granddad takes a shifty look about the bus, then he leans over.

  “Don’t tell your mum I said this, but I was quite proud seeing you stand up to that lump of a lad.”

  I smile. “Whatever. It was never going to work out,” I say.

  “Why would you say that?” asks Granddad.

  “I didn’t really fit in,” I say.

  “You fit in wherever you want,” he tells me.

  “Too late now anyway. I’ve blown it,” I say sadly.

  “You don’t know that,” he says.

  “Think I do,” I say.

  * * *

  That night, I have a kick about with Wheeler and the lads. When I get home, I’m surprised to find Liam in the living room talking with Mum and Granddad.

  “All right, sweetheart,” says Mum. “Liam has popped around to have a chat with us all.” Mum has got a big smile on her face. Granddad is grinning. Even Liam is smiling too. I’m a bit freaked out.

  “Good to see you again,” says Liam.

  “Is it?” I ask.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “I was just telling your mum and granddad how talented you are.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, he was,” says Mum.

  “You’re a little rough around the edges,” says Liam. “But I want to give you a chance. See if we can polish you up a bit.”

  “You hear that?” says Granddad. “A diamond in the rough!”

  “We’ve got a game coming up against Liverpool’s under-sixteens,” says Liam. “Wouldn’t mind giving you a proper run out.”

  “Liverpool,” says Mum. “They’re good, aren’t they?”

  “Some good players in their academy,” says Liam. “It’ll be a test. You up for it?”