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One Shot at Glory (Dave Shaw: A soccer prodigy)

  Copyright Paddy Davitt 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Paddy is currently working on part two in the Dave Shaw series

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Crippling pain shoots through my right ankle. Pain like I have never experienced before in my life. Rising fear replaces the adrenaline surging around my body. One second focusing on scoring a goal, the next trying to avoid looking down at my shattered ankle and the anxious faces of Wolston’s medical staff and team mates crowding around me.

  I know what the boys are thinking.

  Counting their blessings it’s me and not them lying there on the turf.

  Dad kisses my forehead in the ambulance as paramedics fit the oxygen mask. Mum cries by my hospital bedside a few hours later after I come round from surgery.

  Doctors can repair shattered bones and ligaments, but what about the numbness of missing the thing you love? The thing you’ve done everyday for the previous eleven years of your life.

  Playing with a sponge ball in the living room, weaving in and out of cushions, turning the sofa into AC Milan’s famous defence for one night, playing with mates in the park, school teams in cup finals, Wolston Rovers in that famous sky blue kit.

  Life becomes one endless battle to rebuild my shattered right leg. Weeks on crutches, rehab sessions with club physios and specialists.

  Mum and Dad learning the art of walking on eggshells around a timebomb in their midst. Offers of help met with anger and resentment.

  It was monotonous. I hated my world and everything in it, from the physical torture to those dark thoughts and black moods. The self-doubt and the sick sensation my dream was over.

  Now here I am. 12 months later having to play the game of my life. Eight years in Wolston’s academy and it all comes down to the next 90 minutes.

  Not that it should have, you understand. No way. I’d been cruising towards that scholarship contract and a giant step towards the big time ever since Rovers first spotted me.

  Mighty Rovers. My club, Dad’s club. The team I first fell in love with when he took me to watch them play Liverpool as a five-year-old. If I close my eyes I’m back there again. Holding his hand tightly as we weave between the crowds, squeeze through the turnstile to climb those steep steps that seemed to go on forever towards the back of the West Stand.

  And there it is. That first sight of the lush football pitch bathed in brilliant sunshine. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It still is, even now at 16. Wolston’s home is like a drug to me and I’m hooked.

  ‘David, for the last time will you get in the car.’

  ‘Don’t panic, Dad, we’ve got plenty of time. Bopper told us to report to The Lodge for one.’

  I slam the passenger door shut and pull the headphones over my ears. I’m in no mood for Dad’s pre-match pep talk today.

  What does Bop always say?

  Get yourself mentally right, visualise your runs into channels, springing their offside trap, outwitting their keeper. Now repeat the mantra. Focus. Focus.

  Bopper French. Wolston’s Under-16s coach. The man guiding Rovers to the brink of an academy league title. The same man who carried me off the pitch last March screaming in agony.

  Bop is more than a football coach. He’s a mentor.

  ‘Look Shawsy, I believe in you,’ I remember him saying after one more average display during my comeback from injury. ‘The other coaches believe in you, your team mates still believe in you.’

  ‘My confidence’s shot to bits, Bop.’

  ‘You’re the most natural goalscorer we’ve got here in the academy. You don’t lose that, injury or no injury. You have to give your body time to adjust, get minutes under your belt. Find your match sharpness.’

  Five games without a goal. I’d never fired so many blanks in a row. My brain was sharp as ever, I knew what I had to do and where I needed to be on a pitch, but the signals just weren’t getting through to the rest of my body or my wrecked right ankle.

  I’ve never been a streaky striker. I didn’t run hot and cold before my world was turned upside down.

  The tears and the tantrums start again, rows with my old man over the littlest things, constant atmospheres at home as my dream slipped away.

  I know the numbers. All the lads know the numbers. Wolston recruit eight or nine first year scholars each summer. By my age, clubs were on the look out for players from all over, and I mean home and abroad, so what chance a striker with a dodgy ankle who had lost a yard of pace and couldn’t score goals anymore?

  You know as well as I do.

  With each miss the pressure grew. Lads who had been in my shadow were starting to blossom, edging me out of the spotlight.

  Now I was getting substituted in matches, having to sit on the bench alongside players who previously looked up to me.

  Dave Shaw. Predator, goal machine, the young hotshot with an academy contract tucked in his back pocket destined for the very top.

  Except I’m hurtling in the opposite direction, lying awake at night after each misfiring match replaying conversations with Bop and his staff. Searching for clues like some amateur detective, picking through the meaning of every sentence, studying the body language of the coaches; worrying about the growing presence of Rob Duncan.

  Wolston’s academy chief is a cross between that teacher you hate most and the school bully you steer clear of.

  Lads go out of their way to avoid his office window at The Lodge when we wait for lifts home after training.

  On Saturday mornings he stares out of that same window down at the pitches below. Wolston’s training ground is his manor and he knows everyone and everything. Step out of line and he’d be the first to hear about it. Late for training, late for meeting the minibus to an away match, arguing with referees, nothing escapes his attention.

  Duncan compiles dossiers on all the academy players. If you fall foul of the surly Scot your binder is open on the desk as you enter his room; the head teacher pouring over his crime sheet, only occasionally looking up to jab an accusing finger.

  The older you get, the more you wise up. The information in those leather folders contains the keys to the door or having it slammed shut in your face; just who has a real chance out of the 100 or so boys progressing through Wolston’s academy at any one time, the one or two touched by stardust hurtling towards the top, the possibles, the ones yet to convince or those just making up the numbers.

  It was black or white by my age. Stay or go. Cashing in the lottery ticket, earning a two-year scholarship with every advantage going to clear that one final hurdle; the barrier to a privileged world of money, status, hero worship. Or cast into a world of exit trials with others scrambling for a second chance, maybe settling for part-time football and giving up on the dream of being a professional.

  Earn the golden academy invite and it was training and playing just like a professional for two more years. There were still no guarantees at 18 you wouldn’t be tossed aside, but the odds were in your favour then to at least make a decent living
lower down the leagues.

  Duncan is driving this gravy train. His brief is to produce first team talent for Wolston Rovers. He had a proven track record. His verdict was final.

  Rain lashes across the windscreen as we turn off the main road into The Lodge. My mind drifts back to Ipswich and the game I broke my ankle that was played in similar conditions.

  No one could be that unlucky? Not today of all days.

  Positive thoughts Dave. This is your time. You’re a big game player.

  Wolston need a win to clinch the academy league title. The club’s first at this level in five years. That was the team of Hamer, Pounchett and Hassall, now first team regulars.

  Arsenal stands in our way. One of the best youth set-ups in the country. We were just little rural cousins stuck out in the sticks.

  The past few nights I dreamt about repeating my hat-trick against the Gunners in a 5-2 victory last season. That seemed a lifetime ago, when the sky was the limit until a shattered ankle brought me crashing down to earth.

  C’mon Dave. Time to live in the present here, not the past.

  I’d stumbled on that mantra in a self-help book Dad bought me, when the depression really kicked in. I told him it would come in handy to prop up that wonky snooker table in our extension, but I’d read it cover to cover.

  ‘Shape Your Own Destiny’ by some expert in psychology. Typical Dad. He’d grown up in an era when the only scientific thing players did was pop pills to help with hangovers.

  Dad had watched every game since I’d first turned out for Rovers eight years ago. The embarrassing picture of his son wearing a sky blue top three sizes too big for him took pride of place in our hallway.

  It’s always a boost to see him standing there on the touchline but after a shocker I knew it was coming; the post-mortem. Sometimes I’d sit in silence, let his words sink in. He talks plenty of sense and knows my game better than anyone. Other days I’d be spoiling for a fight and the car would turn into a war zone, like two rival managers trading insults in a press conference.

  Then silence for the rest of the evening, Mum the mediator, before the Sunday morning thaw.

  ‘How are you feeling son?’

  We park in our usual spot. The car park was barely half full on Saturdays with no office staff or senior players about. But we were still in the furthest bay from the changing rooms. It was a superstition of mine. Lesson one about Dave Shaw. I’m superstitious. Big time.

  ‘A bit nervous, Dad. Just want to get out there.’

  ‘That’s good. If you didn’t have butterflies there’d be something wrong.’

  ‘Dad, what if…’

  I hold his gaze for a second and look away. I couldn’t quite finish the sentence, but I guess he could see the anxiety on my face.

  ‘David, just do your best. That’ll be good enough. Trust me. I know how hard you’ve worked, the long hours to get fit, the worries about your form and sharpness. Just put those negative thoughts out of your head. I’m proud of you. Whatever happens today, remember that.’

  This was big for my old man. He didn’t normally do the whole emotional, touchy feely stuff.

  I feel an urge to respond but the rain hammering against our car roof is the soundtrack to this tender moment.

  ‘C’mon Shawsy, they’ll have kicked off at this rate.’

  Bop taps on the car window. Dad gives me a smile, then a nod of re-assurance. I bolt from the car, kit bag over my head as the rain buckets down.

  Strains of drum and bass grow louder as I stride through the dressing room door. I don’t need any pumping up today. I sit down at my usual peg in the far corner and look across at players I’d grown up with over the last few years. It’s like peering in the mirror. Tense faces, no banter, no eye contact, just the thud of the music reverberating around the walls. They were all in the same boat as me. This was more than a game, more than a championship at stake.

  Bop strides in and looks around. No need for a rousing team talk. We have plenty of motivation for this one.

  The rain eases as we jog out onto the pitch for a warm up.

  Maybe it’s a sign?

  One of the conditioning coaches who’d helped me back to fitness drills us through stretches, shuttle runs, shooting practice, anything to get us loose and get those muscles working.

  Arsenal’s squad do the same at the opposite end of the pitch. They were out of the title race but still had everything to play for. Earn an academy contract at a club like Arsenal and you’d hit the jackpot.

  Even if you never made it anywhere near the Gunners’ first team you could count on being picked up by other top flight clubs. Or worst case scenario, drop down a league or two and try to work your way back to the big time.

  ‘Shaw, wake up, laddie. Stop day-dreaming.’

  The thick Glaswegian accent was a dead give away. Duncan. Dressed in his favourite three-quarter length raincoat Wolston’s academy chief looks every inch the mafia henchman.

  ‘Sorry Rob, miles away.’

  He was striding towards me.

  Here we go, just what I need, a full on roasting to shatter my fragile confidence.

  ‘I hope your mind’s on the job, laddie. This is a big game for you.’

  Full marks for stating the obvious, Duncan. You fool.

  ‘I know Rob.’

  ‘Do you remember destroying this shower last time? You had a fantastic match.’

  I look into the bloke’s grey, colourless eyes. Why should I be surprised? Duncan’s instant recall of past academy games was the stuff of legend amongst the rest of the coaches.

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled.

  How could I forget it – it was my last match before Ipswich. The last time I felt like a proper footballer.

  ‘Well, that’s the benchmark. That’s the player I expect to see this afternoon.’

  Duncan walks off in the direction of Jack Goddard, our skipper, centre half and talisman.

  Benchmark. What did he mean by that? Did I have to go out and score a hat-trick just to get in his good books again? I hadn’t scored more than once in a game since coming back from injury. Did my hopes of a scholarship rest on scoring a hat-trick?

  Couldn’t this bloke see what I’d been through? The pain, the tears, the self-doubt and now he seems to be demanding perfection.

  I jog back towards the changing rooms alone. Head down. Eyes fixed on the grass.

  ‘Good luck David.’

  I raise a hand towards a small group of supporters walking from the direction of the car park. I appreciate the backing but there is only one thing I cared about. Showing Duncan.

  ‘Right lads, shut the door.’

  Time for Bop’s final instructions, one last outing for his flipcharts and diagrams as he reminds us who was zonal on set pieces or who had to mark targets.

  Bop’s mouth is moving, words tumbling out, but I’m not listening.

  Only his parting shot pierces my bubble.

  ‘You know what’s at stake.’ He was rolling a ball underneath his foot in the centre of the dressing room, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘…everything we’ve done, and I don’t just mean this season but for the majority of you here who’ve been with us from the age of eight or nine, well, it comes down to this one game.

  ‘It’s in our own hands. Don’t blow it. Do it for your families, do it for your team mates, but above all do it for yourself.’

  Players embrace and shake hands. Goddard gives it the verbals. All he’s missing is steam coming out of his ears. It was like we were in the trenches ready to go over the top, knowing only a few of us would come back.

  Jim Cornforth is in the toilet, throwing up. Our midfielder’s usual pre-match routine. If only Arsenal could see him in this state.

  Once the whistle blew he’d be like a mad dog, snarling at opponents, biting into tackles. Jim loved a tackle. Referees loved to book him, but he was our heartbeat, he set the tone and dragged the rest of the lads along for the ride.

&n
bsp; Goddard leads us towards the closed door. He was a powerhouse of a defender. Tough, aggressive, uncompromising. The one player you hoped was on your team whenever the training bibs were handed out.

  All those bruises down the back of my Achilles testify to that. He’d been singled out as captaincy material for as long as I could remember.

  But the lad can play. And boy is he brave. He’s wearing a head bandage to protect a fresh scar above his right eyebrow after getting ten stitches where he’d thrown himself into a ruck of boots at West Ham. We’d been hanging on for dear life in the closing stages, but he held us together.

  He’d have stayed on the park that day as well for the final, frantic minutes if the referee was prepared to turn a blind eye to the blood pouring out of his noggin.

  Goddard’s nasty gash was almost a badge of honour. That and the three points we picked up in London to keep us on Chelsea’s heels.

  It was the start of our run. We’d gone ten matches unbeaten. I’d scored eight goals since coming back from injury, my worst tally of any academy season.

  Wayne Bufton had stepped out of my shadow.

  What he lacked in pace, Wazza more than made up for in awkwardness. He was tall and gangly but with great feet and a touch that caught most opponents by surprise. We’d formed a good partnership in the earlier age groups, me gorging on flicks as defenders struggled with flailing arms and legs.

  He’d scored 20 goals by the end of last month, the first year he’d ever beaten me in the goalscoring charts.

  Don’t get me wrong here. I like Wayne. He’s a great lad and it seems to work on the pitch. We just knew it could come down to a straight fight between us for a scholarship. The same applied throughout the whole squad. We were going out there to beat Arsenal as a team but we were also rivals waiting for Duncan’s final verdict.

  I edge to the back of the line up as we file out of the dressing room to occupy my usual spot in the pecking order. Did I mention earlier I’m quite superstitious?

  I’m a pretty cool customer, normally, but my stomach is doing somersaults.

  Forget about that.

  Time for a condition check here, old son. Do you have the talent? Yes. Have you prepared right? Yes. Do you feel fit and sharp? Yes. Are you going to show Duncan? Not sure. How many goals are you going to score today? Don’t know. Are you going to score today? Pass.

  Scoring goals came so easy in the past. I possessed all the character flaws that marked out the best strikers – arrogance, cockiness, selfishness.

  Now I needed to produce on demand. It’s a pressure I hadn’t felt before. That fear of stepping into the unknown with no reference point to gauge if I can sink or swim.

  The rain is heavier as we emerge from the dressing rooms. The surface feels greasy. Perfect for defenders but a nightmare for predatory strikers. The usual suspects are crouching under umbrellas dotted along the touchline. Family and friends and hardcore Roverites who turn up in all weathers to watch any group of lads wearing their colours, just to see the team they love. The team I love, a club struggling to get back into the Premier League.

  Wolston used to be called the ‘Harry Houdinis’ defying the odds every season to survive against the big boys.

  Not any more. Now we were stuck in the Championship for the last four years trying and failing to scramble into the top flight.

  Mark Peacock had returned as first team manager following relegation. Peacock was one of the club’s FA Cup heroes from the greatest day in our history. A day I never get bored of hearing about from Dad, even though I tell him differently to wind him up.

  He’d made the trek to Wembley along with 50,000 from the town to watch one of the greatest cup finals ever played. I knew the television commentary backwards I’d watched it so many times.

  Dad loves to tell the story about how he and his brothers returned to Wolston the night of the cup final to find people dancing in the public fountains, the water dyed sky blue. Pubs staying open through the night, endless street parties, like peace had broken out after war.

  Then the open top bus tour the following day as fans clambered up road signs and traffic lights to grab a glimpse of the squad holding aloft the FA Cup.

  Peacock was the youngest member of that special team. A hungry midfielder who covered every blade of Wembley, but the time for basking in reflective glory had long since passed. Now only the future mattered for him and Wolston.

  The deadwood was cut, old timers reaching the end of their careers sitting on fat Premier League contracts collecting money to go through the motions. Youth was the way forward, breeding players with the club at heart. Players Duncan was helping to nurture. Players like me.

  Goddard is the focal point of our pre-match huddle in the middle of our half. We know this is our time. I had come a long way with the majority of these boys but as we split it feels like a farewell, one last hurrah.

  Not that Goddard is one for sentiment. As Arsenal’s number nine discovers with an early calling card. The professionals call it a reducer, letting your opposite man know you mean business as early as possible to get inside his head. Sending a signal there’s plenty more where that came from.

  The ref calls him over but it’s a lecture, rather than a yellow card. Result. Arsenal’s striker protests as the physio runs back to the bench.

  I smile.

  Don’t take it personally, mate. Goddard is an animal. His own granny would’ve hit the deck if she had a chance to score against us.

  The wet surface is treacherous. I make a couple of early runs into the channels but balls go flying over my head and skid out of play.

  I clap our midfielders. I need the supply line like never before today.

  Bop barks orders from the dugout. Duncan leans against it. Hands tucked in his overcoat; mind no doubt whirring. Weighing up who stays and who goes.

  Jimbo surges forward after mugging one of Arsenal’s midfielders. I’m on the move, bending my run trying to stay onside, begging for the ball.

  Delay, delay. Finally Jimbo looks up and fires it in my direction. I kill it instantly, ready to test the Gunners’ keeper when the whistle blows. I look across at the assistant’s flag and hammer the ball away in frustration.

  Not a good move, Shawsy.

  ‘Son, come here. Now.’

  I know how this ends. The referee might have let Goddard’s assault go in the opening skirmishes, but kicking the ball away, wow, that was a heinous crime to be punished.

  Typical letter of the law merchant.

  ‘Ref, give me a break.’

  ‘Play had stopped long before you kicked it away. You knew it was offside. I’m booking you for deliberate time wasting.’

  Time wasting? Time was one thing I didn’t have on my side.

  ‘Ref, we need to win this game. I’d hardly be time wasting at this stage?’

  Arguing with your old man was one thing but even an arrogant 16-year-old knows there is only one winner in this situation.

  He flashes a yellow card in my face, a brand new one for the occasion, no doubt. 30 minutes gone, not even a sniff of a chance and now a booking.

  One rash tackle and I was off – slick surface or not. I’d burnt my bridges with this referee.

  You know what they say about first impressions and all that.

  ‘C’mon Jimbo, that ball should’ve gone first time man. See the play developing.’

  Jimbo gives me a thumbs up. Duncan would’ve reserved a different hand gesture for getting the wrong side of the official. I jog back into position avoiding eye contact with my nemesis.

  Wazza tests the Arsenal keeper with a long ranger sighter in the closing stages of the opening period, but the half-time whistle is a blessed relief.

  I troop off in the direction of the changing rooms knowing I have contributed nothing of any value. A must-win match had become a defensive stalemate.

  It already feels like the type of game with one goal written all over it. I just have to make sure it’s my
name on the scoresheet.

  ‘That was total and utter rubbish.’

  Bop slams the dressing room door so hard I think it’s going to fly off its hinges. His face reddens by the second as a water bottle goes flying across the room.

  This man was a heart attack victim waiting to happen. I’ve never seen him so worked up.

  ‘They’ve come here with nothing to play for and it’s you clowns going through the motions. Where’s our pattern of play gone? Where’s the creativity? It’s like eleven strangers in blue shirts. That was embarrassing. I can’t remember stringing two passes together.

  ‘And as for you, Shawsy, you’re running around like a headless chicken. What’s wrong with you man?’

  He looks straight at me. All the boys are suddenly looking straight at me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t need telling. I bite my lip, take a long sip of energy drink, fiddle with my tie ups hoping he turns on someone else. Quickly.

  I could take the bait, kick off about the lack of service to the front players but what good would that do? Just rile Bop and the rest of the boys.

  ‘You really want to be professionals?’ Bop is winding up for the big finish now. This isn’t a question and answer session, or even a straw poll he’s conducting, more like a rallying cry.

  ‘Prove it. Shape up or you’ll be sitting next to me on the bench.’

  Another water bottle is despatched into orbit before toppling a tactics board.

  This was so out of character for the guy. And it has the desired effect. Stung into action, we start on the front foot.

  Jimbo begins to link the play as we fizz it about, pinning Arsenal back inside their own half, turning their big defenders, fighting for second balls.

  Wayne chases one of Arsenal’s full-backs down into the corner flag. You know what the guy is thinking as this giant lumbered towards him. I’d seen it plenty of times over the past few seasons.

  Defenders who think they can take liberties because they are too quick or too mobile for Wazza. Big mistake.

  I pull off the shoulder of my marker.

  Time to gamble Shawsy.

  The Arsenal full-back realises he is in danger. Wazza jockeys, waits for him to make the first move. He’s pinned right near the corner flag, waiting for Wazza to dive in and concede a free kick.

  Without even looking he flicks it back in the direction of his goalkeeper. Result. I’m on the half-turn ready to cash in. Two, three strides forward, now I’m favourite to nick it past the Arsenal goalie.

  He goes to ground. I touch the ball with my left. I can tumble, the angle’s getting tight but the goal’s gaping. Just one more flick, then an agonising look as the ball bobbles the wrong side of the far post.

  Off-balance, I slump to the turf. I’d fluffed the best chance of the game. Scuffed it. I feel sick. I smash a clenched fist into the ground. The keeper helps me to my feet.

  I’m not hurt but I’m raging inside.

  I glance towards our bench and clock Duncan stood next to Bop; hands firmly in his coat, leaning against the dugout. No trace of emotion.

  What was he thinking? Please, just tell me. Put me out of my misery.

  I usually slot chances like that with my eyes closed in training, maybe a cheeky back heel or a cute sidefoot finish.

  But I’d bottled it when it mattered.

  Good strikers put misses out of their mind. They know if they keep getting into positions goals will come.

  But as Arsenal’s keeper launches the ball skywards my brain’s scrambled. Those nagging doubts following my ankle injury are flooding back, and no amount of self-help tips can block them out.

  Arsenal scoring is the only thing that makes this situation worse.

  Right on cue, the Gunners’ England schoolboy international, Parnell, rises unchallenged at the near post to power home a corner minutes after my howler.

  I stand on the halfway line as our keeper, Mike Usher, fishes the ball out of his net and punts it back towards me for the restart. I feel guilty. Like my miss has deflated the rest of the lads. We’d switched off for the first time inside our penalty box and got punished.

  The title is slipping away. The academy contract too. I glance at Wayne as we kick-off again.

  Was he thinking the same?

  Arsenal retreat back into their defensive shell. We haven’t looked like breaking them down for an hour and now we need two goals.

  Tom Hamer picks up the ball and drives at his marker. Wolston’s winger has all the skills in the book and pace to burn.

  I take my man one way, then dive back towards the near post as Hames rides his defender’s sliding tackle.

  A decent delivery and it’ll just need a touch. Hames’ cutback sails over my head. I hit the brakes, but an Arsenal defender has a handful of my shirt. I twist my neck in a last ditch effort to make contact; too late, but there’s a sky blue shirt behind me. Wazza is already airborne, arriving at the back stick to head home from close range.

  Get in.

  In that moment I didn’t care if Duncan had wandered on in his dirty raincoat to grab us an equaliser. It was a lifeline. For the first time all afternoon, my future can wait. We have a game to win.

  Arsenal throws on reinforcements. Bop pushes Goddard up front for his physical presence. It is pure desperation stuff, but his tactics board is not going to get a winner now as crosses rain into the Gunners’ penalty box and Arsenal struggle to lift the siege.

  One clear-cut chance. Please, just one clear-cut chance.

  I knew I’d already had one but figured someone, somewhere was looking down on Dave Shaw.

  Surely I was good for another after my injury hell?

  Arsenal’s striker forces a corner. Respite for the Gunners. Goddard jogs back into familiar territory.

  Mike Usher climbs highest in the crowded six-yard box to claim the set piece. That’s my signal to leg it. We’d practised the same drill hundreds of times.

  I stop dead and spin around ready to control his long throw. Wazza is ten yards further upfield with Arsenal light after piling bodies forward at the corner looking for a winner. Wayne comes short for a wall pass.

  Sorry pal, this time I’m flying solo.

  It’s like someone hits the pause button. Play develops in slow motion. I push the ball out of my feet, crossing the halfway line. I hear Hames’ shouting for the ball wide right. Three Arsenal defenders retreat. 25 yards, 20 yards out from goal.

  Wait, wait Shawsy. Pick your moment.

  Finally two Gunners’ defenders break ranks and try to throw up a road block just outside the penalty area.

  I drag the ball from right to left. My standing leg starts to buckle. I feel a touch around my ankle but there’s no way I’m going down.

  I thrust out an arm into the other defender’s chest. It’s a gamble but there’s no whistle. Play on, just the keeper to beat, Arsenal’s last line of defence. He decides to rush out again but don’t bet on the same outcome this time.

  I know exactly what I’m going to do as I lift the ball with the outside of my right. Bang. I’m in mid-air, flying over the grounded keeper, but I know it is perfect contact as I hurdle his body.

  My head thuds against the soft pitch. For a split-second, darkness. Then players pile on top of me. Screaming, shouting, Goddard’s huge hands wrap around my waist as he drags me to my feet.

  Let me guess what you’re thinking. Describe how it feels, Dave?

  I can’t. Sorry. Words don’t cut it. Any goalscorer will say the same. That surge of adrenaline pumping through your body, but times it by ten, no, a hundred. This game matters like no other. It was joy and ecstasy tinged with sheer relief.

  I kiss the badge on my shirt and point to my old man on the touchline. He’s standing with both arms in the air like a fast bowler appealing for a catch.

  I look across towards our bench. Duncan is talking to Bop.

  Passing on the good news about D Shaw, Wolston academy scholar, I suspect.

 
Bop motions to the fourth official.

  One of our subs is taking off his tracksuit top. A tactical change to see the game out for the final few moments. Like it. Good move.

  Hold on. Number nine? Number nine? That can’t be right.

  I’d just scored a title-winning goal and I’m getting hooked.

  Stuff it. I’m staying on here.

  I wander back to the centre circle seriously contemplating ignoring the madness unfolding out of the corner of my eye.

  Take Wazza off. I’m more mobile than him. I can run the clock down. I’m buzzing. I’m back.

  The referee practically pushes me towards the dugout. More time wasting? No chance. I’m just in a total state of shock.

  Bravely, perhaps foolishly, I hold Duncan’s stare as I grab a training top and slump in the dugout.

  More ill-discipline. Do I look bothered, pal?

  I score a fantastic goal but it’s not enough? Maybe Duncan thinks I’m lucky to conjure a sublime moment in a dreadful display. Maybe there was a better pass onto Wayne in the build up.

  Told you, Bop. He’s not a team player. He’s a wildcard. Selfish.

  Rubbish. Who else could have scored a goal like that in our squad? Not even Duncan would be that stubborn. Surely?

  The fourth official signals a minimum of two added minutes at the end of the game. I rip off my shin pads. My legs feel sore. I’ve ran myself daft on a heavy pitch. I reach down and massage my right ankle. For the first time since coming back from injury I played without nagging doubts, the ones saying my body would never be the same.

  The only doubts now are about my future.

  The referee motions to Goddard to give him the ball. The whistle’s in his mouth. It’s over. We’ve won the title.

  Energy drinks and fluids get sprayed everywhere. I sit on the bench, trying to wipe my eyes as celebrations erupt all around me.

  Bop embraces his coaches. This was as much their triumph as ours. Jimbo slumps to the pitch. Goddard punches the air. Rob Duncan strides out into the centre-circle to shake hands with the match officials. Probably apologise for the antics of Wolston’s match-winner while he’s there. He looks the calmest man in the melee; seen it all before, expected nothing less.

  I break away from the mayhem. I want to share this moment with my old man.

  ‘Not bad, son. Not bad.’

  The broad smile is a dead give away. Even he’s struggling to hide his emotions as he pulls me closer in a big bear hug.

  ‘Yeah, but is it enough Dad?’