The Football Trials: Game Changer

  CONTENTS

  Stepping Up

  Dad

  The Unicorn

  Smiley

  Life Savings

  Pain

  Betrayal

  The Old Man

  Captured

  A United Player

  Bonus Bits!

  Stepping Up

  I still can’t believe I’m playing for the under-eighteens. OK, it’s only one game, and I’m on the bench, but this is a proper step up. And I can see it’s a step up too, as I watch from the sidelines. The players out on the pitch are bigger than me – most of them are a couple of years older.

  There are more people watching too. More pressure. Six months ago, I was playing football in the park with my mates. Now I play for United, the biggest team in the world.

  And I’m freezing. It’s the end of November and if I get out there on the pitch, I’m keeping my gloves on. I don’t care whether Granddad thinks “real footballers don’t wear gloves,” I don’t want my fingers to fall off with frostbite. It’s probably not even worth thinking about anyway. I bet I don’t get to play. Liam, the manager, has just got me on the bench to see what it’s like with the under-eighteens. Why would he bring me on when he has got all these older lads, with loads more experience? Not that I’m moaning – it’s great being here. I’m just being realistic.

  Right before half time, City score. It’s a scrappy goal, the ball bouncing around in our area like a pinball, before their forward toe pokes it past our keeper. Then the ref blows the whistle for half-time.

  When the lads get off the pitch, Liam shouts at us. “That’s the worst time to concede, right before half-time. You switched off, lads, you can’t do that.” Liam looks angry most of the time – but now his face is even redder than usual.

  I look around at the other lads in the changing room. Some are listening to Liam. Some are looking down at the floor. Everyone is gutted about letting in a goal.

  “Jackson,” says Liam. “Get your jacket off.”

  My heart stops. “Me?”

  “Think you could do a job on the right?” he asks.

  “Right wing?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Up to it?”

  Up to it? I would play anywhere he wanted me too. Stick me in goal, I don’t care! “Yeah,” I tell him, trying to keep it cool. “I’m up to it.”

  The second half kicks off and my first touch is loose. The ball bounces off me like I’m made of rubber. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m not ready for this level. Liam should have left me on the bench, where I was safe, where I wouldn’t have made an idiot of myself. He’s never going to pick me for the under-eighteens again.

  But this is my chance. If I play well here, who knows what can happen? I need to focus. Be confident. I can do this.

  My second touch is better, but their left back gets his foot in straight away, knocking the ball out. As the half goes on, I warm up, even though I’m absolutely freezing. I knock the ball about, make a few nice passes.

  Then I get the ball out on the right, run at their left back. One step-over, then another. He doesn’t know what day it is. I stop the ball. He stops. I go forward, making a bit of space. I whip a cross in.

  Bang. Our forward, Anton, gets his head on it. Right into the top corner. Their keeper doesn’t stand a chance.

  Some of the lads rush to Anton, some race over to me. Anton points at me as he celebrates, and runs over, wrapping his arm around me. I’m buzzing!

  My second assist is even better. I get the ball in midfield and chip it over their defence. Our left-winger takes it on the chest, outpaces their back line and slots it past the keeper. The whistle blows and we win, 2-1. Our players come over and give me a pat on the back or a fist-bump. Even the City players tell me I played well.

  Liam throws his arm around me as we walk off the pitch. “Well played, Jax. If you keep making that step up, you’ll get that pro contract,” he says. “Just keep your head down, keep working, and you could go all the way.”

  I can feel the smile on my face.

  Liam goes to talk to some parents. Wheeler, my best mate, and my girlfriend, Lauren, jog over.

  “Well played man,” says Wheeler.

  “You were awesome,” says Lauren. “Wasn’t he?”

  “Mate,” says Wheeler, “you should see what people are saying online.” He pulls his phone out, and reads someone’s post to me: “If Jackson Law doesn’t make the United first team, there’s something not right with the world.”

  “Nice one,” I say.

  “Nice one? It’s amazing! There’s loads like that,” he tells me. “Everyone is raving about you.”

  I’m totally buzzing. It's a shame Mum and Granddad aren’t here. Granddad has been poorly these last few weeks, so Mum stayed at home with him.

  I walk Lauren back to her place, then head home myself. All the way back it’s on my mind. A pro contract. I’ve been saving most of my wages each week, and I’ve got about £5,000. I haven’t told Mum or Granddad, but I’m saving up for somewhere nice to live, somewhere much nicer than the tower block where we live now. If I got a pro contract, I would be able to buy an amazing place!

  Then I see someone sitting on the wall, at the end of the alley. I grab my phone, and hold onto it. People get robbed around here, sometimes.

  As I get closer, the person stands up. My heart thumps. Something is about to go off. This is all I need.

  Then the person speaks. “Jackson?” It’s a man’s voice. And I know who it is straight away, even though I haven't heard that voice in nine years.

  It’s my dad.

  Dad

  I was shocked to get a call-up to the under-eighteens, but seeing my dad, after all these years – this is the biggest shock of them all. He has a shaved head, a beard, and a thick gold chain around his neck.

  “Alright?” he says. His hands are in the pockets of a leather jacket that looks too big for him. He gives me a smile, but it’s like he doesn’t really want to be smiling at all. He’s bent over, like he’s ashamed. I had an idea in my head of what my dad would be like now. I thought he would be big, strong, someone you wouldn’t mess around with. But he’s the exact opposite. Skinny, weak, and he looks like someone people walk all over. I don’t know why, but I feel guilty. I feel bad for him. Surely it should be the other way around?

  “How have you been keeping?” he asks, and I don’t answer. “It has been a while,” he says, and I think, “yeah, it has been nine years and you haven’t come anywhere near me.”

  “I heard about United,” my dad says. “You’re playing for the youth team. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him.

  “Wow!” he says. “My boy playing for United? I’m made-up for you, I really am. Your mum must be so proud.”

  I think about Mum and how she has brought me up on her own, pretty much most of my life, and how Dad walked out on us. I just stare at him.

  “I know you probably don’t want to talk to me,” he says. “But I’ve always asked around to find out how you were doing.”

  I think about asking him why I never got a birthday card or Christmas present. But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut and just squeeze my hands into fists.

  “So I knew you and your mum still lived round here,” he says. “I thought if I hung around long enough, you would turn up. How is she anyway? Your mum?”

  “She’s fine,” I tell him.

  “Good,” he says. “Glad to hear it. I know she will have told you lots of things about me, but I would like to tell you my side of things,” he says. “Some time, maybe?”

  I just look at him.

  “Anyway,” he says. “If you ever want a chat, I’m in The Unicorn mos
t days. It’s not far.”

  That makes sense. I can smell the beer on him.

  “Nice seeing you,” he says. He gives me another sad smile and walks away. I just stand there, thinking about what has just happened.

  When I get home, I think about not telling Mum and Granddad about meeting Dad, but that seems wrong.

  Mum doesn’t take it well. “If he bothers you again, you tell me, OK?” she says. “He is probably only hanging around because he has heard about United, and thinks there will be money in it for him. That man is bad news.”

  “Yes,” says Granddad. “But he’s also the boy’s dad. Go easy.”

  “OK,” says Mum. “But promise me, if your dad bothers you again, you will tell me.”

  I nod, and I wish I hadn’t told them anything about seeing my dad.

  The Unicorn

  The next day after school, me and Wheeler have a kick about in the park. We knock the ball back and forward to one another.

  “Wheels, can I ask you something,” I say. “About my old man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw him yesterday. He was hanging about outside the flat.”

  “Hanging about?” he asks.

  “Waiting for me,” I say. “He wanted to talk.”

  “When did you see him last?” he asks.

  “Dunno,” I say, even though I do know. “When I was like seven or something.”

  “That’s a long time,” he says.

  “He said he wants to talk to me, to explain his side of things. Do you think I should meet him?” I ask.

  “Of course you should,” says Wheeler. “He’s your dad.”

  I was hoping he would say that.

  An hour later, me and Wheeler are standing outside The Unicorn, a run-down old man’s pub about fifteen minutes from my flat. It’s mad to think I never knew where my dad was all this time, and he has only been a quarter of an hour away.

  “Go on then,” says Wheeler.

  I take a breath and step inside the pub.

  For once, my dad wasn’t lying. He is standing at the bar, in that same leather coat, with a pint of beer in his hand.

  I can feel my heart banging as I walk over.

  “Alright, Dad?” I say.

  Then he turns around, sees me. At first he looks shocked, then a big smile fills his face.

  “Jackson, how’s it going? Good to see you,” he says. “Lads,” he says to some other men at the bar, “this is my boy, Jackson.”

  They all nod at me.

  “Gentlemen, you’re looking at the next Jesse Walters right here,” my dad tells the other men. “Jackson plays for United, don’t you, son?”

  I smile, feeling awkward.

  My dad looks at Wheeler. “I know you,” he says. “What’s your name again?”

  “Scott,” says Wheeler. “But everyone just calls me Wheeler.”

  “I thought I knew your face. You used to be best mates with Jackson when you were little.”

  “We still are,” I say.

  “It’s good to have a best mate,” says Dad. “Let me get you both a drink.”

  He orders us both a cola and we take a seat away from the bar, near the pool table.

  “I used to bring you here when you were little, to have a game of pool,” says Dad.

  I remember, but I don’t say anything.

  “Anyway, boys,” says Dad. “I just need to make a quick phone call. I won’t be a minute.” He gets up and goes off.

  “He seems alright,” says Wheeler.

  “Yeah,” I say. And I think about being a kid, playing pool with my dad. I realise how much I’ve missed him.

  When Dad comes back, we talk about old times, about how we used to watch the football together, how we would play over at the park, how he got me into United. “I’m telling you,” says Dad, “you definitely get your skills from me. I could probably have signed for United myself.”

  “Why didn’t you?” asks Wheeler.

  Dad lifts his pint up. “This stuff,” he says. “And women.” He winks at me.

  Then someone shouts out: “Ash.”

  My dad turns.

  A big guy who everyone calls Smiley is standing near the pub door. Smiley is definitely not very smiley. He is, however, not the sort of guy you mess with. “I want a word with you,” he says to my dad.

  Dad looks scared. “I won’t be a minute,” he says. He jumps up and rushes out after Smiley.

  I look at Wheeler and ask: “Is he in trouble?”

  Smiley

  Everybody has heard of Smiley. He’s a real trouble-maker. He’s big, built like a tank. You can tell he works out all day – his biceps are massive. He always wears a parka and he has a tattoo of a teardrop under his eye. Smiley is dangerous – and I want to know what he wants with my dad.

  We sneak to the window and watch Smiley have a go at Dad on the car park. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can tell it’s not good.

  “People say Smiley keeps a gun under his bed,” whispers Wheeler.

  “Don’t tell me that,” I whisper back.

  “Just saying,” says Wheeler.

  Then, we see Smiley thump my dad in the gut. My dad doubles over and I feel like someone has punched me in the belly too. I watch Smiley point at my dad, shout something, then walk away. My dad walks slowly back to the pub.

  Me and Wheeler hurry away from the window, back to our table.

  After a moment, Dad sits at the table too, rubbing his gut. He doesn’t look me or Wheeler in the eye. It’s like he’s ashamed, just like he was when I saw him the other night.

  “You OK?” I ask.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Just a bit of business.”

  I look across at Wheeler, and he just shakes his head.

  “I wasn’t spying or anything,” I say. “But we saw what happened.”

  “Nothing happened,” says Dad.

  “We saw him thump you,” I tell him.

  Dad looks at me a moment, then looks away.

  “What does Smiley want with you?” I ask.

  “You don’t need to know,” he tells me.

  “I want to know.”

  Dad takes a drink from his pint. “I owe him some money. A lot of money. Nothing for you to worry about,” he says.

  “Yeah, right,” I tell him.

  Life Savings

  The next day at football training, I can’t control the ball properly, I can’t pick out a pass. Nothing I do works out. I keep thinking about Smiley thumping my dad. It’s like he has thumped me. And I can’t stop thinking about that gun under Smiley’s bed, and what might happen if my dad doesn’t pay up.

  After training, Liam takes me to one side.

  “Everything alright?” he asks.

  “Yeah, fine,” I tell him.

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” he says.

  “Just Granddad,” I lie. “He has not been too well lately.”

  “I thought I hadn’t seen him for a bit,” says Liam. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  After training, I go to the bank. I can’t draw all of my money out of the cash-point, there’s too much. So I have to go inside. The woman behind the counter frowns at me when I ask for £5,000, and asks me for ID. I show it to her and she doesn’t say anything. Outside, I stuff the wedge of money into my backpack.

  * * *

  In The Unicorn, Dad is at the bar again, just like he was a few days ago. “Alright, Dad,” I say.

  “Alright, mate,” he says. “What you doing here?”

  “Can I have a word?” I ask.

  He sits down at a table with me. “What’s up?” he asks me.

  I unzip my backpack, and pull out a thick wad of notes.

  “What’s all that?” he asks.

  “Money,” I tell him.

  “I can see that,” he says. “What are you doing with it?”

  I offer it to him, but he doesn’t take it. “There’s five grand,” I tell h
im. “Take it.”

  “For what?”

  “To pay off Smiley.”

  “I can’t take your money,” he says. “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s my savings,” I tell him.

  “All of it?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Thought footballers earned millions these days,” he says.

  “One day,” I tell him. “Maybe.”

  “I can’t take it,” he says. “It’s not right.”

  “Please,” I say. “Is it enough?”

  “It’s a good start,” he says. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No big deal,” I tell him. I think about that house I wanted to help Mum and Granddad get, but push the thought out of my head.

  “I’ll pay you back, every penny,” he says.

  “OK.”

  “I’m not joking, Jackson, I mean it,” he says. “Tell you what, when are you playing next? Would it be alright if I came along and watched?”

  Pain

  The following Saturday, I’m on the bench for the under-eighteen match against Rovers. I might have started if I had been on my game in training. Wheeler and Lauren watch from the sidelines again. But there is no sign of my dad. I’m gutted. Worst of all, I talked Mum out of coming along, and told her to stay with Granddad, because I was worried what might happen if Dad rocked up and Mum was here.

  When I finally get on, I’m useless. My tackling is terrible. My passing is poor. My shooting is shocking. My head is just not in the game at all.

  All I can think about is Dad and him letting me down all over again.

  We are 1-0 down and the game is almost over. Then the ball comes to me on the edge of the box. I struggle to get it under control, but I do. I knock it to my right, get a clear sight of goal.

  Jamal is screaming at me to pass it.

  Even though I’ve been rubbish all half, this is my chance to put things right.

  I have to take it.

  I hit the ball hard.

  It flies over the bar. Nowhere near. I just stand there, hands on my hips, feeling like a complete loser.

  “Effort,” says a Rovers defender sarcastically.