Jamie knew why the boss wanted to see them. The other two, Jack and Jermaine, knew too. Jamie could see it in their eyes. But none of them said anything. It was as if, just by keeping quiet, they could maybe stop it happening.
As they walked down the corridor to the manager’s office at the training ground, Jamie started thinking about The X Factor. That bit before boot camp, when all the contestants are put into different rooms. Some rooms contain people who are going through to the next round, and some are full of people who are going to be sent home. Well, you must know which of the two you’re in, mustn’t you? If you look around and see some of the really good singers – the ones that the judges say have a chance of winning – then you’re OK, aren’t you? But if you’re in a room with some croaky old granny, or a guy who weighs a hundred and fifty kilos and has a beard down to the floor, you’re in trouble.
Jack and Jermaine were like two croaky old grannies. Not that they looked like croaky old grannies, of course. They were tall, muscular eighteen-year-olds. But when it came to football, and a future at Shelby Town FC, they might as well have been in their nineties. Jack was as talented as any young player at the club, but he was always in trouble. He’d been late for training loads of times, and once, when he’d been subbed with thirty minutes to go, he’d kicked a water bottle, hard, at the coach. It hadn’t hit him, but it hadn’t missed by much. And everyone knew he spent his Saturday nights in bars and clubs, partying with people in their twenties and thirties who thought it was cool to get a young Shelby player drunk.
Jermaine, on the other hand, was a nice kid, he just wasn’t getting any better. He was getting slower, though. Or at least that’s what it looked like, because over the last couple of years everyone else had got quicker. He was a left back, and in the last few games he’d been murdered by whoever he’d been up against. In the game against Charlton, the right-winger he’d been marking had scored twice and set up a third. Jermaine did everything he possibly could to work on his pace – he trained hard and did endless sprints with a fitness coach. But nothing worked. He was who he was, and he had what he’d been given, and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough for Shelby Town, anyway.
So why was Jamie walking down the corridor with these two? What was he doing with bad boy Jack and Jermaine the Snail? He wasn’t sure he could put it into words. He had technical ability, he had stamina, he had tricks; he understood football, and he had enough pace for his position in central midfield. But games just seemed to pass him by. He was always on the edge of them, never in the middle. He was in the middle of the pitch, but he wasn’t in the middle of the match. He began every match thinking, This is the one. This is the one where everyone will notice me. But twenty minutes later, he knew it had happened again, that he’d somehow found himself pushed out of it. And then he found his concentration wandering, and his spirits falling. He had never told anyone this, but recently he’d spent half the games panicking and the other half thinking about life after Shelby Town.
Jermaine knocked on the office door. The three of them still weren’t looking at each other. They heard a phone call finishing, and then Mick Diamond opened the door and ushered them inside. He looked serious, as if he was about to tell them that someone had died. Jamie was relieved to realize that it didn’t feel like that to him.
There were three chairs lined up ready for them, and they sat down without being invited. Diamond returned to his seat behind the desk.
“I’m not going to drag this out,” he said. “We’re letting you go.”
Nobody said anything. There wasn’t anything to say. Jamie gave the other two a sidelong glance and could see that Jermaine was trying hard not to cry.
“I’m sorry,” the manager went on. “We like to think that we look after our young players here, and we’ll give you as much help as possible with finding a new club. We’ll sit down with you individually and talk to you about what you want to do. We can make introductions and recommendations, and with a bit of luck you still have a future in the game. We always involve your parents in any—”
Suddenly, Jack stood up and kicked his chair over. It happened so quickly that it made Jamie jump. Then Jack swore, walked out and slammed the door. Jamie never saw him again. He heard months later that Jack was in Portugal, playing for some Second Division team. But when Jamie tried Googling his name, the only links he got were to the Shelby Town website.
Mick Diamond shrugged. “That doesn’t make me feel like we’re making the wrong decision,” he said.
Jamie had a nice car. It was one of the only things he’d spent proper cash on since he’d started at Shelby. He still had a bit of money in the bank. Maybe it was because he knew he wasn’t ever going to make big money from the game: Wayne Rooney money. Maybe that’s what separated the great players from the OK ones. The ones who went on to make it never doubted they would make it. Was it only the doubt that stopped him from being great? Or was he doubtful because he wasn’t any good? What came first, the chicken or the egg? He’d never know.
He drove home slowly, radio on loud. He was more worried about talking to his dad than he had been about talking to Diamond. Unlike just about everyone else in the team, Jamie had grown up in Shelby. His dad was a season-ticket holder, a Town fan all his life. The last few years, he’d started to dream about watching his son lift the Premier League trophy, or lead the team out at a European final, or score the winning goal in a big game at Manor Park.
Jamie waited until they were eating their dinner. “They’re not giving me a new contract, Dad,” he said quietly.
“’Course they are,” said his dad. “You’re their best player.”
Jamie stared at him.
“Are there any more potatoes, Karen?” his dad asked. His mum looked at Jamie. She understood. His dad carried on chomping his way through his dinner as if Jamie had just told him he was going out to the cinema.
“Did you hear me?” Jamie said.
“I’m not deaf. I’m just telling you, they will.”
“I was called in to Mick Diamond’s office this afternoon. With Jermaine and Jack. He offered to help us find new clubs.”
Finally, his dad got it. He stopped chewing, and stared at his plate for a long time.
“Did Diamond tell you why?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
“No. I knew why.”
“So you just sat there and accepted it?”
“What was I supposed to do? Argue with him?”
“Show him you care. Show him you want it!”
“It’s not about wanting it, Dad. It’s about not being good enough.”
“That’s your trouble, right there,” said his father. “You just give up. No fight.”
His mum put down her knife and fork. “Stop it, David,” she said. “Leave him alone. This is his disappointment, not yours.”
But that wasn’t really true, Jamie saw suddenly. The disappointment was all his father’s.
The next day, Derek Hardaker from the Academy took him to one side before training. “There’s a lot of interest in both you and Jermaine,” he told him.
“That was quick,” said Jamie. Hardaker looked a bit sheepish, and Jamie felt stupid. Of course, they’d been letting other clubs know for a while that he was being let go.
“Orient are interested,” he went on. “And Lincoln City are desperate. They’d offer you a contract today if you wanted one. Good little club, Lincoln. Well run. And a nice place to live, too.”
“Can I think about it?” Jamie asked.
“You should be telling them that, not me. Talk to them first. Go and have a look around.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t hang around waiting for Manchester United to come calling, son.” Mr Hardaker wasn’t being unkind. He put an arm on Jamie’s shoulder to prove it.
“I’m not,” said Jamie. “I don’t know if I want to stay in the game, that’s all.”
“Really?”
Jamie looked at the Academy Director. “You sound surprised.”
“Sorry,” Hardaker said. “I just didn’t – well, I didn’t know you were interested in anything else, that’s all.”
Something else he didn’t know was that with those words Derek Hardaker made Jamie’s mind up for him.
That was then, two years ago, but this is now. Jamie is preparing to take a free kick, right-footed, ten metres outside the penalty area. He fancies trying to bend it into the top corner, but there are only a couple of minutes to go, and it’s a cup tie, and the score is 1–1. If he gets it wrong, he knows he’ll get slaughtered by the rest of the team. So he whips it in, with pace, and at a decent height, and it’s the right decision. Danny Collister gets his head to it and puts it right into the bottom corner.
Danny runs over to the touchline with his shirt over his head. There’s no crowd, but there are people watching. Danny is on the same course as Jamie, and half a dozen of their classmates are standing in a huddle, cheering and laughing, as Danny slides on his stomach in the mud.
Jamie loves playing for North Shelby College. It helps that the team is top of the league, and if they hang on here they’ll be into the cup semi-final. But what Jamie loves most is knowing that he can control the game. The truth is, he’s better than everyone else, teammates and opponents. He’s not miles better, but good enough. He’s never out of his depth, and he never loses concentration or panics, like he used to when he played for Shelby under-18s. And he’s not out of his depth in his lectures, either. He passed Level 1 of the NVQ in Sports and Recreation without too much trouble, and he’s enjoying Level 2. At Shelby Town, he realizes now, he’d spent every day waiting to be told that he’d failed.
In the final couple of minutes, they have to defend a corner, but it doesn’t make it over the head of the first defender. When the ball is thumped clear, the ref blows the whistle.
As Jamie is coming off the pitch, he sees a guy wearing a dark puffa jacket and a baseball cap walk towards him quickly. Jamie has spent a lot of time in his life with men like this, and doesn’t really want to spend any more.
“Jamie, son, can I have a quick word?”
“I really want to get changed and go home,” says Jamie.
“I know it didn’t work out for you at Shelby,” says the man, “but you’re wasted on this lot. I’ve been watching you the last few games, and I think you should come down to—”
“I’m sorry,” Jamie interrupts. “I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Jamie. “But thanks anyway.” And he jogs after his teammates towards the college changing rooms.
