One Shot at Glory Page 4

  Part of me hoped an unannounced visit might force Rovers’ hand and help Duncan make up his mind if they thought they were about to lose me.

  But I seriously doubt whether I can hold back the anger and bitterness if our paths do cross. There was so much rage building inside me since watching Evatt drive away last night.

  Let me level with you here, I felt cheated.

  Hadn’t I played my part too? Granted, it might not have been the leading role of previous seasons but I deserved more than Duncan toying with my hopes and dreams like a puppet master.

  I hardly need an extra reason to despise the bloke but Evatt’s revelations about Goddard and the other lads touched a raw nerve.

  All I really want to do is to storm into Rob Duncan’s office at The Lodge and have it out. Once and for all. Just to see his smug face drop when I deliver my own bombshell. See how he likes it when the boot is on the other foot, when someone else is pulling the strings, holding the balance of power.

  No, keep your cool, Shawsy. Play the long game.

  I only have to wait a few more days before I get my showdown. Mum proves the voice of reason. For now, exams were the priority.

  Sitting in The Lodge canteen the following week my mind is made up.

  If Rovers don’t want me I’m heading north. I hadn’t needed another pep talk from Evatt to convince me. I told Dad to accept his offer to tour Chapel United after my exams were finished. Duncan’s betrayal is too much to take.

  My eyes wander through the glass windows out across the lush training fields. The indoor pod we use during the winter months is situated to the left of the main first team pitch. The gym that had been my own personal prison is next door.

  I feel like I know every brick and blade of grass after coming here weeknights and weekends for the past eight years. It is why I know I will go to pieces when Duncan breaks the bad news; even armed with my insurance policy.

  He can stuff the encouraging speech. The one where he tells me to keep my head down, look for another club and battle back. The patronising bit about how he expects me to prove him wrong.

  Well, he is right on that last point. That is going to be my sole motivation when I join Chapel United’s academy as a new scholar.

  Dad sits back down with two cups of tea. I feel sick. I’d spent half my life running around these pitches and it was surreal to think it could be all over this afternoon. A title-winning academy goal against Arsenal the nearest I ever get to appearing for Wolston.

  Except that isn’t going to be my last memory of Rovers. You know what is? Trudging off the pitch as my final appearance ended on the substitutes’ bench. My winner’s medal shoved at the back of the trophy cabinet in our living room can’t erase that bitter image.

  I glance at Dad. He is watching one of the sports channels on the widescreen television that dominates the spacious seating area. Except he isn’t, not really, we both know this is just filling the void until we get put out of our misery.

  Me, the ex-Wolston hotshot. Him, the prospect of ever seeing his son running out for the team he supports. I was letting Dad down and there is nothing I can do to make things better. No words to soften that blow.

  I just want to get this over. This is like waiting outside the headmaster’s office the time we’d accidently hit Mary Pavon in the face during a game of playground football at lunchtime when were about eleven. Six weeks spent with our hands on our heads standing in the assembly hall as punishment during break time.

  Six weeks without football. Pure hell. Thanks Mr McGoldrick.

  ‘Mr Shaw, David, follow me please.’

  It’s Wolston’s very own headmaster.

  Mum has forced me to wear a suit for the execution. I look like a carbon copy of my old man and no 16-year-old wants to dress like their Dad. I follow him into Duncan’s office. It’s like a shrine to all his years of loyal service. Every wall filled with pictures of academy sides gone by, including the title-winning academy team we’d had just matched who did the same as us five years earlier.

  Players like Hamer, Pounchett and Hassall who Duncan helped mould from raw recruits to crack first team troops.

  Those boys must have faced these same fears as me, sat in the same canteen with their parents not knowing what the future held. Or maybe not. They were the brightest talents from one of the best academy sides we’d ever produced at Wolston. I bet Duncan didn’t keep them hanging by a thread.

  ‘Aye, that was a great team, laddie, a great team of young footballers.’

  I glance from the picture to Duncan reclining in his big leather chair.

  I’m not here for nostalgia, Rob. The future interests me. Not your dusty past.

  The wall directly behind his desk is ringed with sheets of A4 paper. On each one the full names of every player in the Wolston academy, divided into age group headings.

  I scan the final sheet containing the oldest age group; my age group. There I was, S, for Shaw, second from bottom. Wayne Bufton, my strike partner and potential rival for a scholarship, at the top. I know it’s purely alphabetical order but this is doing nothing for my frayed nerves.

  ‘Well, young man, do you think your side deserves to go next to them on my wall now?’

  Typical Duncan. Always probing, always trying to catch you off guard.

  ‘We did win the academy title, Rob.’

  I figure I am on fairly safe ground stating the obvious.

  ‘Aye, that you did. But you made bloody hard work of it.’

  Duncan’s cluttered desk contains a couple of old black and white photos in silver frames. They were two team groups from years gone by.

  Bop had told me Duncan’s story once. He was an old school centre half. The type who would kick a striker up in the air and ask questions later during an era when football was all about physical intimidation as much as technical ability. I’d always thought to myself that’s why Jack Goddard was teacher’s pet. Duncan probably saw him as a chip off the old block.

  Dad reckoned he’d been a journeyman defender who spent his whole career in the lowest professional league; a hard man in a hard school.

  Maybe that’s what drove him now. He hadn’t made it big himself and that fuelled his desire to succeed in a second football career.

  The hair was jet black, not white, but you could still pick him out in those old photos. The big, muscular frame, the grimace instead of the grin.

  Did this guy ever smile?

  Duncan leans forward, opens one of his bottom drawers, and places a leather binder on the desk.

  The dossier, my dossier. Duncan was old school in a lot of things. He doesn’t do tablets or laptops or smartphones. He leaves that to the analysts and the academy support staff. Everything he needs to know to make a momentous decision is in those crammed pages.

  Every scrap of information from my first season in the academy as an eight-year-old to my last, the records of matches, training schedules, goals, plenty of goals, 25 plus every campaign until the ankle injury.

  It was the last entries that interest me the most, Dave Shaw’s story since breaking his right ankle through the eyes of Rob Duncan. The Scot’s personal thoughts, the medical notes on my surgery and rehab, my contribution over the second half of the season, my character faults, my bad attitude, my future, his final verdict.

  I try hard to suppress a smile. For the last month my head has been buried in folders, barely mustering enough interest to turn the pages, but right there, sat opposite Duncan, I could have pored over every last word in my own life story for the next fortnight or so.

  Duncan scans the pages for what feels like an eternity before looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘Do you know, laddie, you’ve got the best goals per game ratio of anyone we’ve ever had here in the academy.’

  Right. Thanks. Okay, Rob. I’m waiting for the killer punch line now.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. You’re one of the most natural finishers I’ve ever worked with.’

&n
bsp; Mr Evatt had used exactly the same phrase, ‘natural finisher’. Maybe the two exchanged crib sheets?

  ‘Do you know how fortunate you are, David? Only the lucky ones are blessed with such god given talent. I know. I wasn’t. I had to work tooth and nail for everything I achieved as a player.’

  Now this was going well, too well.

  Either I still hadn’t woken up and my date with destiny was starting with a dream or the man sitting opposite me, a man I hated and feared for as long as I could remember, was finally warming to Dave Shaw (Wolston striker).

  It has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think? Well Rob, if you insist. Pass me that scholarship contract and I’ll sign it now.

  ‘But you’re lazy. Really lazy.’

  Duncan pauses to let the last, cutting word puncture the suffocating tension in his office.

  ‘Take Manchester United. One of the biggest clubs, if not the biggest, in the world. Every single player wearing that famous red jersey has talent. You don’t get near their squad without it. But what do you think sets them apart, laddie? Why are players at Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal different from the rest, the also rans, the ones who just make up the numbers?’

  You think I’m playing this game, Duncan. After that ‘lazy’ jibe.

  ‘Well I’ll tell you, son.’ My insolence is not going to stop him now he’s in full flow. ‘Every club in the land has talented players. The difference is the elite players work harder than any other team when they don’t have the ball. Their wide players track back to help out full backs, attacking midfielders put in a shift going the other way, centre forwards close down defenders.

  ‘In the modern game your frontmen are the first line of defence. The first line of defence.’

  Note the exaggerated emphasis on ‘frontmen’ just for my benefit.

  ‘Laddie, I’ve watched you from my window in this office, last out of the changing room, half-hearted warm ups, doing just enough in fitness tests or trotting out the back in running drills.

  ‘Yet when it came to a match, when that first whistle went all that was immaterial. Why? Because you had more talent, more natural ability in your right boot than the rest of the strikers you played with put together.

  ‘Take Wayne Bufton. Wayne would have done anything to possess just half of what you have. You were born with things coaches can’t teach, that knack of creating a yard of space inside the penalty box, the nous when to make runs, when to stand still, such coolness in pressure situations with keepers.’

  Bopper had always pulled me on the fitness side of things but Duncan’s tongue lashings carried added venom that set the two apart. This lambasting was no different.

  ‘Then of course you injured your ankle and things changed.’

  I look over at Dad. He’d stayed silent as Duncan dissected his son’s flaws. Maybe he’s thinking what I am thinking. The end is in sight.

  ‘I’ve seen a different David Shaw in the last 12 or so months; a more mature, focused, driven young man. The penny seems to have finally dropped. The medical people told me it was one of the worst injuries to a young player they’d seen. In those early days we feared you could even struggle to come back because of the complex nature of the fracture.’

  Did I just hear him right? Career-threatening? Okay in those dark, depressing early days after the injury I admit I might have had the same fears but surely I had proved something to myself and everyone at Wolston. Hadn’t I?

  ‘Rob, I was always going to come back.’

  Whether I stayed or whether I left I suddenly felt an urge to convince Duncan, or probably just myself.

  ‘That’s what I’m talking about, David. I haven’t seen this side to you before. You’d been the poster boy and suddenly, bang, something you have no control over turns your whole world upside down.

  ‘Until then you probably thought it was a formality we’d offer you a scholarship deal. Perhaps go on and play for the first team scoring goals as you wrote your perfect script every step of the way.

  ‘And you were probably right, laddie. We had plenty of Premier League clubs sniffing around every summer. I knew they were watching you, but I was never worried when it came to renewing your academy contract. Don’t think I don’t know how much this club means to you and your family. I just knew you wouldn’t have your head turned when you got to 16 and could take your pick of what was out there.’

  Duncan was right. It was Rovers or nothing. Or at least it had been. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing.

  ‘I genuinely think that desire to play for Rovers so badly helped you recover from the injury. I saw you here, working hour after hour in the gym. I got the weekly reports about pool sessions and muscle strengthening physio. You really impressed me.’

  Give it a rest Duncan. The guy is patronising me now. I’d only shown any commitment to the cause, put any effort in, when injury threatened to take my dream away.

  ‘I thought you said I was lazy, Rob.’

  I almost spit the words out. Enough is enough. It’s bold and stupid but I don’t care.

  ‘You are. And that mouth of yours will always get you in trouble,’ Duncan had dealt with plenty of cocky teenagers down the years, ‘…and don’t think I’ve forgotten the verbals you gave the referee against Arsenal either. You still have plenty of growing up to do.’

  Duncan stares at Dad, like he has to direct the incoming tirade at the man responsible for rearing such a disobedient child. ‘…young footballers today need to show more respect. They don’t appreciate what they’ve got. I didn’t have state-of-the-art training facilities or medical support on tap when I was an apprentice.

  ‘They don’t have to muck out toilets, or clean boots, or sweep terraces. That was my life as an aspiring professional. And if you gave a senior professional at the club any backchat, then Lord help you.’

  Duncan is in overdrive and I only have myself to blame.

  ‘Youngsters now have it too easy, in my view. Everything is put on a plate for them, but your injury taught you a valuable lesson. It wasn’t just your ankle you had to re-build, you also had to salvage a promising career. You had to deal with disappointment, fear, pain and then make huge sacrifices or watch something you love snatched away from you.

  ‘People out there in the real world envy footballers. It’s a fabulous life with rewards they can only dream about stuck in factories or offices doing jobs they hate just to make a living and pay the bills. But they don’t realise the hard work involved. All they see is the 90 minutes at the weekend or a midweek game.

  ‘This profession takes a life of sacrifice until the day you retire. You have to live the life every single hour of every single day, not just when you are forced to. This past year has proved to me how badly you want it.’

  Duncan stands up and wanders to the window. He opens the top vent to let in some air. Even by his standards this was a proper dressing down.

  I was a wreck. Listening to the guy praise me then dig me in the ribs at the same time. And I was none the wiser.

  ‘So David. Tell me honestly, are you going to accept Chapel United’s scholarship offer?’

  Duncan was still staring out of the window with his back to us both. Dad almost falls off his chair as he begins coughing and spluttering. I feel like throwing up over the Scot’s old photographs. Duncan’s sniffer dogs had been out or Mr Evatt had been on the phone, taunting him about snatching a prized asset.

  I didn’t have a clue how that world operated.

  ‘Relax Mr Shaw. I know every person who comes to watch our academy matches. I make it my business to know. This is not just about your son or anyone else’s son. It’s my livelihood at the end of the day.’

  ‘Mr Duncan, I can assure you we didn’t court any interest. Mr Evatt contacted me. I discussed the matter with my wife and we felt it was in David’s interests to listen to what he had to say. Our son’s future is the only thing that matters in all of this.’

  Dad opted to go on t
he defensive. I wasn’t feeling quite so diplomatic. Typical Duncan. He’d stolen my thunder.

  ‘He told me Jack Goddard had signed, and someone else, and that you were talking to four more lads.’

  There. Take that. I feel like repeating the words over and over. Words I’d been waiting to get off my chest for a week.

  ‘Evatt is almost correct, but not quite,’ Duncan was sitting back at his desk. Notice there was no ‘Mr’ in that last reply. I was getting the distinct sense there was no love lost between these two. The decibel level drops to almost a whisper after his earlier rant.

  Maybe the place was being bugged.

  ‘Both Jack and Mike Usher have been offered two year scholarships. Evatt spoke to their families prior to the Arsenal game so as a club we knew it was imperative we moved quickly. We have six other boys that we plan to offer scholarships to but I can assure both of you nothing has yet been signed with anyone else.

  ‘Well David, you still haven’t answered my original question?’

  ‘He’s invited me to go and have a look around the club when my exams are over.’

  No point in holding anything back now. The time had come to put all the cards on the table.

  ‘I told him I wasn’t going to make any decisions until I’d met you.’

  Duncan clasps his fingers together. Like a movie villain pondering what to do next with his helpless prey. My head is starting to pound. I can’t read this man at all. Was he testing or toying with me? If he’s already decided not to offer me a contract then this is his last little mind game.

  But what if a contract offer is in the balance and I was one of the six? Then my lack of loyalty will hardly go down well. I can feel the shirt sticking to my back with sweat.

  ‘Rob, I love this club. I always have, always will,’ my voice was trembling, ‘…but if you don’t think I’m good enough or prepared to work hard enough then I don’t have a choice. I want to be a professional footballer.’

  There is so much more I want to say but I can’t find the words or the composure.

  ‘David, do you know what the hardest part of my job is?’

  Duncan leans forward. His eyes fixed firmly on me.

  ‘…it’s telling a boy he’s not going to make the grade. A young player who has spent eight years here, done everything I and the coaches could ever ask and more and it’s still not good enough. It’s like a permanent, dark cloud hanging over this place. You boys don’t see it but we do, not just me and the coaches, but everyone from the cleaners to the canteen staff who watch young lads grow up before their eyes.

  ‘On days like those you dread going to work, you just want to get it over with so you can go home and try to forget about shattering a family’s dream. This is a tough, tough business where only the best of the best ever stand a slim chance.’

  I feel nauseous again. Light-headed. Tears are beginning to well. This is like a sick flashback to that Arsenal chance I’d fluffed. Here comes the final brush off.

  ‘…which is why it makes the good days so, so special. David, turn down Chapel United’s offer. On behalf of Wolston Rovers it is my pleasure to invite you to join us an academy scholar next season. What do you say?’

  Duncan stands up and starts to thrust his massive hands across the desk.

  I swear his face breaks into a smile, but I’ll need independent verification to confirm it.

  Right at this moment I want to hug the guy I spent most of these past eight years despising.

  I try shaking his outstretched hand but have to grip onto my chair as I can’t feel my legs. Dad slaps me on the back. I can’t hold the tears back any longer. This is the best moment of my life.

  ‘Just tell me where to sign, Mr Duncan.’