Betsy. That was her name.

And even though she was probably even older than Jamie, he still loved her.

And so did Dillon. Even more than Jamie.

He adored Betsy. Probably would have married her if he could.

Never has a boy had such deep affection for a van.

Dillon hooted Betsy’s horn outside Jamie’s house at eight thirty every morning and off they went to work.

Digging, building, plastering… Together they worked tirelessly every day. But they almost didn’t notice. Because, while they laboured, they were having fun. Not only did they get to listen to music and sing along to all the songs, they also got to talk endlessly about Hawkstone’s mad season and how, despite fighting relegation in the league, they were somehow still striving on in the Champions League. And all the while, they were outside doing exercise. Finally, Jamie had found a job – other than football – to which he was suited.

And the more they worked together, the more it became apparent how much Dillon and Jamie had in common. Neither of them had been much good at schoolwork, but they were both hard workers who took satisfaction from actually producing something with their hands. When they looked at a wall they had built at the end of the day, they truly felt proud of themselves.

And as the cement walls were going up, the emotional ones were coming down. Jamie even found himself talking about his dad to Dillon. How he wished he’d been able to have a relationship with him, how he envied the sons who were close to their dads.

One day, Jamie even told Dillon about Jack. About how their relationship seemed to be different since the injury and about how he hoped that they would soon be able to get back to becoming as close friends as they had been before.

It was only when Jamie leapt into Betsy one morning that he realized he’d stopped hoping for something else.

When had it been that he had actually stopped? About a week ago? Maybe even longer.

For weeks after his injury, Jamie had gone to sleep each night praying that his football skills would come back to him.

He had developed a kind of mantra – “Please let me find my talent again, please let me have my skills back, please let me play again.” And he would repeat those words over and over hundreds of times until unconsciousness claimed him.

Then each morning, he would wake up with a mixture of hope and desperation – would this finally be that special day? He would pick up a ball and try to juggle with it. But it would be no use. Nothing had changed.

His football skills were like bright silver fish in a black pond. Sometimes, just for a second, they looked as if they might swim to the surface to come back to Jamie, but the more he tried to grasp for them, the faster they disappeared.

And yet these last few days and weeks building with Dillon had shown Jamie that there was life after football. And a good life too. And so Jamie had stopped praying for the existence he’d used to know. Instead something else had happened. He had become thankful. How many other boys get to play for the football club that they love?

Recently, he’d watched the video recording that his granddad, Mike, had made of the first day Jamie had ever stepped out in front of the Hawkstone fans as an eleven-year-old mascot and wowed them with his overhead kick. How they had clapped. How the electricity of excitement had ripped around the ground. “We’ve got one,” the experienced fans had celebrated. “That boy is a bit special – keep an eye on him!” And how right they had been.

Jamie Johnson was already in the folklore of Hawkstone United. He’d won the Premier League and he’d played in a World Cup. He’d even played for Barcelona. What did he really have to feel annoyed and bitter about? Yes, he would have loved to be able to do it for longer, but he was also immensely grateful for the experiences that he’d had.

Jamie Johnson had done it his way. He’d been the boy who had been born to play.

And play he had.