There was a distinct feeling of magic in the air as Jamie received possession for the first time. He rolled the ball cheekily under his foot, forward and back. Then he stopped it dead and allowed it to remain there as he leaned his body first to the left and then to the right.

Finally, Jamie put a stop to the tricks and did what he was born to do.

Run with a football.

He touched the ball forward and exploded like a rocket after it. One defender came to close him down; Jamie skipped past him. Another slid across; Jamie hurdled him like an Olympic athlete. Then the final defender charged at him, but Jamie simply knocked the ball between his legs and raced away.

He was in on goal. He had no need to think. His body knew what to do.

Jamie’s left foot flew into the ball. As it made contact, it emitted only the softest sound. And yet the power was truly immense.

The football fairly thundered into the back of the net, rocking the frame of the goal to its foundations.

And while Jamie Johnson held his arms aloft on the pitch, Archie Fairclough hurriedly searched through his pockets on the sidelines.

His hands were shaking with excitement as he dialled the number. It rang twelve times before the call was finally answered.

“This better be good, Archie,” said an agitated Harry Armstrong. “We’re right in the middle of a team-talk. You do remember we’ve got the most important game in the club’s history on Wednesday night?”

“Yes, gaffer, I remember all right,” said Archie. His eyes were wild with childlike excitement and his chest heaved with anticipation. “That’s why I suggest that you get yourself down to the training ground as quick as you can…”

 

That night, Jamie opened his bedroom window and looked up at the night sky. As he tilted his head back and stared at the stars, he replayed in his mind what had been one of the greatest days of his life.

The football he had played today had been sublime. He knew it. He could feel it.

And it wasn’t just what he had done on the pitch. It was the way his body had felt too. It had actually taken him about half an hour to work out what had been different.

He knew something had changed from the way he had played before the injury but he couldn’t identify exactly what. It was only when he had completed his sixth long-distance sprint down the line that it finally dawned on him.

The pain in his knee.

It had gone.

Sure enough, no matter how much Jamie had twisted, turned and tested the joint, it stood up to the challenge. It didn’t just feel good. It felt sensational. As good as new.

Perhaps it should have come as no real surprise; every doctor that had examined Jamie’s knee had told him the exact same thing – it needed at least six months’ rest in order for it to heal. And when he did the calculations, Jamie realized that the period he had been out for – the length of time that had passed since that fateful match he had played for Barcelona against Real Madrid – had been five and a half months, almost to the day.

The ticking time bomb had finally been defused.

Breathing in the cool night air, Jamie smiled as he remembered the sight of Harry Amstrong’s car speeding into the training ground to catch the last ten minutes of the match he was playing in.

As he had scored his fifth goal of the game, Jamie had turned to see Harry and Archie in deep, animated discussions on the touchline. And then, almost as soon as the match had finished, Archie had marched up to Jamie and wrapped his big, warm arm around his shoulder.

“I’ve got one question for you, Jamie,” he’d said. “Do you want to play for Hawkstone United again?”

It was probably the single most stupid question anyone had ever asked Jamie in his life.