Jamie broke away from the team photo and sprinted off towards the fans, who roared his name as he raced towards them.

As he got closer to the crowd, he saw a quite beautiful sight. In the top right-hand corner of the stand behind the goal was a group of about four hundred Barcelona fans, all mixing and singing with the Hawkstone fans.

The black and white colours of Hawkstone mingled with the blue and maroon colours of Barcelona. Jamie was so happy that the Barcelona fans were there to support him.

As they cheered, the fans lifted a huge banner above their heads. Half of it was in Spanish and half of it was in English and, when he saw the words on the banner, a huge smile came across Jamie’s face.

There were seven minutes until kick-off. Just enough time to warm up and smash a few balls into the net.

As the PA announcer called out those famous words – “Number eleven … Jamie Johnson!” – Jamie raised his hands above his head to return the applause that was coming his way. He clenched his fist and punched the air. He knew the team needed the fans to be pumped up tonight. And they needed to see that he was back to his best.

Jamie knocked the ball out to Glenn Richardson and pointed above his head for where he wanted the ball delivered back to him. It was time for an overhead kick.

As he waited for the inch-perfect pass to be delivered to him, Jamie flicked his eyes at the goal to assess the speed and angle that would be required from his strike.

And it was at that moment that he saw them. All five of them, standing there, behind the goal.

And in an instant, Jamie’s world crumbled before him.

They hadn’t even been doing anything. Just carrying the stretchers down the touchline to make sure that they were there in case anything happened during the game. But just seeing the paramedics in their fluorescent yellow jackets had suddenly brought the recall crashing back down on Jamie.

Seeing those bright yellow jackets was enough for the memories of that fateful day – the last time he’d played against Madrid – to come tearing back into his mind.

For the very first time since it had happened, Jamie had total recollection of his injury. Launching himself head first to clear the ball … the horrific impact of the Madrid player’s boot into his skull … the paramedics rushing on to help him … to assess him… Jamie seeing their jackets and the stretcher and instinctively pushing them away telling them he was fine, despite the booming, pulsating headache like a hammer hacking away at his brain … and then getting to the changing room at half-time … feeling wobbly, dizzy, sick … and then it had gone black.

Jamie now watched the paramedics walking down the tunnel, readying themselves for the game. Instantly, he felt the blood drain from his body. His excitement faded into fear. His confidence dissolved into distress.

“Jamie!” hollered Glenn Richardson from the sideline. “Here you go!”

The crowd cheered as Richardson drifted over a gorgeous little dink of a cross to where Jamie was standing. All around fans got up to witness Jamie’s overhead kick. The final signal of his return.

But Jamie was rooted to the spot. Paralysed by the memories that had just returned to haunt him.

The ball simply hit him on the shoulder and bobbled away behind the goal.

A murmur of concern raced around the ground.

“Is he OK?”

“His face looks blank.”

“He’s got a problem.”

“Where’s he going?”

Jamie Johnson was walking off the pitch.