Chapter One
Still they wait. Jack looks skyward at the black canvas stretched over the stadium. Around him, under dazzling lights, pulse the chants of the thousands who come to pray, worship and abuse. He’s one of three figures stretching their silhouettes on the sidelines.
Out on the illuminated field lies a man, his body contorting, finger nails digging deep into sacred turf. A mass of players surround him. All drinking and spitting. A worried white face appears from the huddle. A slow head shake. For one player the season is over.
Now Jack and the other two vultures look toward the bench.
“Looks like you’re wanted,” says Jack to the man on his left.
The older player unfurls from his lunges and sprints off down the line back towards the home dug-out. Jack’s gaze returns to the field. He looks on as a twitching body gets loaded on to a stretcher.
“Bailey!”
His head swivels back to the bench. It’s him they are motioning for. Slowly he gets to his feet, and begins a steady jog. Thoughts overwhelm him. A thousand boyhood dreams are about to bear fruit and he’s terrified. Stomach clutched tight, all he can think is don’t screw this up. Do not screw this up.
A firm hand grasps his shoulder. “I’m putting you on, son. Hold the left, don’t get carried away. Your job is to support the fullback, nothing fancy. Got it?”
“Yes,” comes the automatic response, but he hasn’t got it at all. He wasn’t listening. Every one of his senses is muted by fear. The pitch grows, and the rows of supporters wrapped around it slide up the sky. He pulls off his jacket and paces out to toe the white line which denotes the edge of everything.
“Studs.” The assistant referee eyeballs him.
Jack pauses for a second. Unsure of whether lifting a boot will cause him to fall over. Left. then right.
“Ok.” The assistant now looks at Jacks back and punches the number 25 into the electronic board for the first time. A quick tap on the back, and Jack’s on.
He doesn’t hear the announcement of his arrival for the sound of blood rushing past his ears. He looks back to the bench who are busily sending finger signals. All eyes now fall upon the youngster. He reaches sanctuary on the left side of the pitch. Home. The game is underway once more, and Jack Bailey is now a Premiership footballer. No longer a pretender to what he will become, but an active participant in what is.
And still all he can think is don’t screw up.
The ball comes. It feels light. He hits a tentative pass, which skips from the surface and out for a throwing. A thousand groans. Great, now the crowd are wondering who is this joker.
Nice work, you’ve done hero to zero in record time.
But then a break, the ball presents itself. It seems to sit there, as enticing as a empty can in the middle of a backstreet alley. Jack collects. He’s off, scampering. Now he doesn’t hear the crowd, but he smells blood. The opposition full back comes at him. Jack begins his internal dialogue. What will he do Jack? What do they always do?
That’s right, he’s going to push you out wide. He’ll block you with a diagonal run, so that every step you take will force you further from the goal. So you watch his feet and at the moment when you see his body weight shift to the left, bang, you go right. You’re free of him.
Jack checks his stride, his right foot comes inside the ball and with gentle flick he’s past the defender and bearing down on goal. Glory time. Load the trigger.
He sees the keeper edge across to cover the left half of the goal.
Power.
Jack’s left foot comes back. The next time it makes contact will be to unleash every ounce of pressure his leg can muster and blast this lump of leather past that big man between the posts. Now Jack. Now.
Crunch.
Jack’s legs sweep up behind him and arch over his back like a scorpion’s tale. The ground rushes towards him and he gets a face full of green.
For a moment he doesn’t move. He’s assessing the damage. Tasting the turf. Nobody is moving around him. Time is suspended. Play has stopped. He rises to his feet only to be rushed by team mates who man-handle him further.
“You little beauty,” they say - or words to that effect.
“Didn’t we tell him to hold that line?” laughs the manager on the bench. He turns to his players behind him wishing to reuse the same line again, “What was he doing in the box? Didn’t we tell him to hold that line.”
In the confusion Jack missed the referee blowing for the penalty. He also missed which one of the 6ft something thugs brought him down. Still dazed he looks on as his centre forward slots home and sends 30,000 men to their feet all chanting his name. His name, mind. Not Jack’s.
Jack turns and makes his way back to his designated spot for the restart.
“Bai-ley! Bai-ley!” comes the call from a section of the crowd closest to him. Jack turns to see a group of faces. They clap him. Some give him the thumbs up, others a defiant, supportive fist.
Now he has them, they are his, and he is theirs.
Some years later...
Jack was lagging. Slowly drifting to the back of the pack, he found himself amongst the keepers, the big central defenders, and the aged warriors whose knees had already seen too much action. His breathing had become heavy and laboured. The eagerness he'd felt at the start of the season had dissipated.
Last May he'd walked from the field pushing for a first team place, four starts in as many weeks and a half dozen as a sub. Then in the closed-season his manager went shopping. A Colombian left-back was bought and Jack's dream had been extinguished. Now he was going through the motions of training with little heart. The winter air meant his lungs had begun to burn and his gums tingled, and so the whistle to end the session brought welcome relief.
He let the hot water from the shower fall on his face for some time. It burned his frozen flesh. He rubbed the excess away from his eyes and hit the steel tap to knock off the cascading water. Food beckoned. He dressed in silence, ignoring the conversations of others, and made his way through the narrow corridors to the noise beyond double doors.
The canteen echoed with familiar sounds. One television was locked onto the sports news channel, whilst from another a music channel hummed. A group of players were gathered around the pool table noisily arguing over the repositioning of the cue-ball. Random groups scattered themselves around the tables; Jack watched as their Guinean midfielder curled huge balls of spaghetti on to his fork, then rammed the whole thing down his throat.
'Spaghetti,' Jack responded to the chef.
Glancing up at the top table he saw the gaffer rocking back in his chair and laughing. One of the coaches was doing the full headmaster act with two of the younger players. Jack put plenty of distance between himself and the management. He'd trained badly all week, and no one had said a word. It was a clear sign he was out of the picture.
'Jackie,' said the assistant manager in a troublingly calm voice. 'Come see me when you've finished eating, will you.'
After a few minutes of pushing his spaghetti around the plate, Jack gave up and made his way to the assistant manager’s office. He found himself sat on a cheap blue sofa, looking at the detritus of football - coaching manuals, scouting reports, old team photos and stacks of DVDs.
Finally he put down the phone and addressed Jack.
'We've had an offer to take you on loan,' he said in his Scouse tones. 'I've had a word with the Manager and he agrees that you should take it. Get some matches under your belt; get your confidence back.'
'Where is it?'
'Auckland, New Zealand.'
'Are you serious?' It was a genuine question.
'A friend of the manager’s is head coach out there. Needs a left-footer desperately.' It was clear Jack wasn't keen, if anything he was insulted. 'Hey, it’s a regular first team place. I know it's a big decision with it being so far away and all, but we can't guarantee you anything here. The A-League is a growing league. Their average gate isn't too far off our own. And the standard there is pretty high now.'
'When would they want me?' asked Jack, impassive as ever.
'Soon as possible. I mean we're not telling you to go. It's your choice son. Think it over.'
Jack was being let go.
In truth it's a wonder the club held on to him as long as they had. He'd signed forms as a school boy. Two Managers had both kept him on the payroll. Partly down to his usefulness as a utility player. And partly because his agent was the grateful sort.
He didn't say a word to anyone on his way out. He paced out to his car, unlocked it with a blip from the key-fob, and tossed his bag on the back seat. The leather creaked as he sat down. He closed the door and his nostrils opened to allow him to enjoy the scent.
Every time he got into his car he was aware of it. Luxury cars just smelled different. Cocooned, he began to think of his options. He could sit on his wages and live the easy life for the season he had left on his contract – there were plenty doing that – but that thought sat uneasy within him.
He pushed the start button and listened to the Jaguar’s engine burble. He always went through the same slow routine, savouring every moment of it. Sure his car was financed up to his eyeballs, but he was a Premiership footballer. He carefully backed out and crawled past the Porsches, Range Rovers, Audis, Ferraris, Hummers, Mercedes and BMWs.
It was his agent’s fault he told himself. Dennis Reims had five players all with the same club. A former fabrics trader, who had somehow stumbled into being an agent, he was the sort of agent that clubs love. They'd make a reasonable offer and he would agree, and for that lack of work he'd cut a healthy slice.
Reims looked successful, aged, that's what players were looking for. The settled-in suit, the blue business shirt with white collar and cuffs, and the reassurance of golden cufflinks, which he fiddled with as he hypnotised a young player into signing over his future to him. So Jack was stuck on his six-grand-a-week contract, reading about team mates earning ten times that if not more. The average annual wage for a Premiership footballer, £1.5 million.
As he pulled away from the training ground, the rain clouds rumbled again and emptied their payload with relentless ferocity. The wipers came on to deal with the deluge. Halfway through October and he could count the number of decent days on the frozen fingers of one hand. It would get worse. The bad weather clung to this part of the country. The cold damp air would gnaw into the bones and the flesh would freeze, tingle, and sting.
Jack stabbed at the air-con, turning up the heat. The motorway traffic was bunched and squeezed. A complete lane was coned off without reason.
'We've had severe weather reports across the North, with meteorologists predicting increasing wintery conditions to come. Motorists are warned of the possibility of icy roads…’ Started the news on the radio. Once more Jack stabbed at the air-con. 'It is coldest temperatures on record for October...'
'Fff..!' Jack didn't even have time to get out the full expletive as he slammed on the brakes. The traffic had suddenly ground to a complete halt. He stared hard at the red brake lights of the car in front. They glowed demonically back at him.
With the car no longer moving the TV kicked into life. Home and Away, an Aussie soap. It was a scene on the beach. He looked at the white sand, the golden bodies. It wasn't set in New Zealand, but it was close enough. His hand reached instinctively for the phone.
'Dennis...'
Two weeks later he would be airborne.