One Shot at Glory

  Chapter Six

  Life is sweet in Dave Shaw’s world.

  Tottenham had been a watershed moment, like someone removing the blinkers and allowing me to see everything in sharp focus.

  I plunder twelve goals in the next ten academy matches. Everything I hit or head seems to fly in. Mark Peacock’s side steadies the ship in the Championship as well. Rovers are clear of a relegation scrap by Easter. The Lodge is a great place to go to work every morning.

  Blue skies with just one big black cloud - my driving test.

  Before a match I am always a bundle of energy, Most coaches tell you butterflies are a good sign. That is the problem. Mine only kick in halfway through when a cyclist nearly flies over my front bonnet.

  Never mind his life flashing before his eyes, what about poor, old me sitting next to the examiner?

  ‘At the next junction, please turn left.’

  We didn’t exactly strike up an instant rapport, even though things start well. Three-point turn, reverse parking, hill start. All good. Then it happens. Just as the indictor blinks on my dashboard this cyclist decides he fancies turning right and veers into the middle of the road.

  Butterflies? Never mind butterflies. Panic sets in.

  I’m running out of room as I reach the end of the road. The left indicator continues flashing but I’m in the wrong position approaching the junction. A desperate late turn of the wheel means the cyclist practically rams the passenger side of my vehicle, which is now stalled in my frazzled state.

  If looks good kill.

  Not him, me. I glare at the old bloke who has come between me and my teenage rite of passage as the examiner scribbles my fate on his notepad.

  The cyclist pulls himself upright before tottering away, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

  That isn’t the fatal blow. Oh no. That probably comes when the examiner head-butts the windscreen a couple of minutes later after my scrambled brain selects first instead of third gear on a busy roundabout.

  Damage done as the test certificate failure is thrust into my sweaty right palm.

  The lads back at the academy think the whole thing is hilarious. Any attempt to keep it quiet goes out of the window when Bop clocks me climbing out of the passenger seat of Dad’s car at The Lodge the following morning.

  Football banter can be brutal.

  For the next however many training sessions my kit comes with ‘L’ plate accessories attached and a mysterious bicycle with my name scrawled on the frame appears outside our house. I take my medicine and count the days until my re-test.

  It wasn’t brown suit, brown loafers man second time around.

  No, I get the good cop, putting me at ease as we wander out to the car on that beautiful April morning, just like heading for a Sunday practice with Dad around the quiet back streets of Wolston.

  ‘Mr Shaw, when you go around a big island like that always look over your left shoulder when you edge across the lanes.’

  ‘Will do,’ I nod, as I clutch my pass and get ready for my triumphant return to the lads.

  The sleek sports car can wait. In fact the ‘old banger’ can wait, not on scholarship wages.

  A match-winning penalty at Colchester to keep us in the top six is a perfect way to mark my new-found freedom.

  A near post header the following week salvages a late home draw against table-topping Coventry, my 20th goal of a season that had started out as one, long miserable slog.

  You just never know what can happen in this game.

  ‘Shawsy, Charlie McGovern wants a word before you head off home. In his office.’

  ‘You what, gaffer?’

  I was mid-massage after getting a kick on my calf, with the cans on flicking through an inbox of congratulatory text messages, when Dooley disappears again before I get the chance to confront him. Luckily the Wolston masseur repeats his instructions.

  Charlie McGovern is Rovers’ senior development chief in charge of the club’s under-21s squad. By all accounts one of Mark Peacock’s trusted guys.

  I don’t recall ever speaking directly to McGovern, although I had clocked him on the training pitches plenty of times and talking with Peacock around The Lodge. Occasionally he observed our sessions from a distance.

  Now he wants to see me.

  My mind starts racing as I swing my legs over the treatment table and pull myself upright.

  Good or bad news for Dave Shaw? The way things were going since the turn of the year it has to be all good. Surely?

  I linger a touch longer than usual in the shower trying to collect my thoughts.

  The rest of the lads are discussing where to watch the England qualifier later that afternoon. I keep quiet about McGovern’s meeting.

  Maybe he just wants to introduce himself properly?

  It’s in McGovern’s interests to know all the scholars on Rovers’ books, especially first years like me nearly halfway through their scholarship.

  That’ll be it, just a nice, informal chat about how things are going, maybe point out a few areas to work on, probably set some targets for next season. Perhaps if I’m lucky dangle a carrot of featuring for his under-21s if I continue to make progress, like Burty and some of the others.

  Yeah. That all makes sense. Dooley hasn’t made a big song or dance about it so what else can it be?

  ‘Mr McGovern. It’s David Shaw. Terry Dooley said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘David, come in son, and drop the ‘Mr McGovern’. You make me sound like a teacher. It’s Charlie.’

  He motions to the empty seat opposite him. I take up the offer. McGovern is a lean figure with piercing blue eyes sitting behind a desk that reminds me of Rob Duncan’s, just two doors along the same corridor. It’s full of clutter and crammed with paperwork and pictures.

  There is a team photograph of McGovern, sitting in the front row, flanked by lads wearing black and gold tops.

  I knew he’d been a Wolves team mate of Peacock’s before following him to Lowfield Road.

  McGovern seems to be studying footage on his laptop screen.

  ‘Here, you might want to have a look at this young man.’

  He tilts the laptop towards me so I can get a clearer view of our Coventry match from earlier on that afternoon. The analysts had clearly been busy cutting a highlights package for the coaching staff.

  ‘I love the feint to take the defender away for your goal. Here it comes now, great header, brilliant finish.

  ‘David, you’ve got really intelligent movement.’

  Self-analysis was nothing new to me. Dad had practised the old school variety for as long as I can remember and Dooley relished locking us in the video suite at The Lodge, picking out faults, working on our flaws.

  ‘I try and watch all the under-18s games as soon as I can, you know. It’s important to have that strong link between your age group and my development squad. I’m a big believer in using the technology that’s available nowadays to give us a competitive advantage on our rivals.

  ‘We had that at Wolves. A video library for every age group helping us to tailor the training programmes.’

  Through the open window in McGovern’s office I clock Jim and some of the lads laughing and joking heading across the car park.

  Could this chat not wait until Monday morning? This is my free time now.

  ‘Do you know David, that Wolves’ side won back-to-back academy titles at your age group.’

  McGovern reaches for the team photograph on his desk.

  Clearly the guy’s faith in modern techniques did not extend to mind-reading.

  ‘We had England youth internationals, Scots, Welsh, Irish, even some lads from abroad as well. That group was a match for any academy set-up in this country. Only some horrendous injuries at the wrong time prevented us winning the FA Youth Cup as well.

  ‘But here’s the thing, David. How many do you think have gone on to play in either of the top two divisions?’

  I’d only cast a brief
glance at the group shot in question upon entering his room. Now studying the picture in greater detail I instantly recognise a couple of grinning lads sat together in the front row.

  ‘That’s Mark Miller, who plays for West Ham, and James Davison at Aston Villa.’

  ‘Correct. Both sold for big money, both now regulars in the Premier League. Him, him and those two play in League One and he is still on Wolves’ books. The rest either play in League Two or have dropped out of the professional game.

  ‘Three players out of a talented squad of 16 or so who currently play in either the Premier League or the Championship. From the best youth group I ever worked with. Let me tell you, David, to push even that small number through is a huge success.

  ‘My job here at Wolston is to turn potential at your age into professional footballers. It is so difficult. Anyone who ever went to watch that Wolves’ academy side in full flow would never have believed only a few might make it at the top level.

  ‘See the skipper, him sitting next to me, he’s playing semi-professional football. Works shifts erecting bus shelters. He is a million miles from cracking the big time.’

  Fascinating stuff, only at this rate I’ll miss the England game.

  McGovern’s trip down memory lane sounded more and more like the pep talk I expected. Another speech from a well-rehearsed script, the ones Duncan and Dooley were so fond of as well.

  Maybe they’d all decided the time had come to take this brash young striker down a peg or two. You might be doing the business at academy level but look how far you have to go if you slack off again.

  ‘David, I’m a great believer in exposing young players as early as possible in their development. It’s my sink or swim mantra. I’ve had discussions with your academy coaches over these last few weeks and spoken at length to the first team gaffer. In our opinion you’re ready to have a run at a higher level.’

  England who? I can watch the highlights later, anyway.

  This definitely wasn’t in my script.

  ‘Spoken to the first team gaffer?’ As in Mark Peacock, first team gaffer?’

  Have some of that. No need to wait until my 18th birthday later this year to sign the professional contract. Pass me the gold pen on your desk, Charlie. I’ll sign today. We can worry about the finer details in due course, like the sponsored car, four-figure salary, goal bonuses, image rights.

  McGovern was practically saying I am ready for the first team. Or at worst one small step away. That’s the message I’m hearing.

  ‘Playing for the academy and working hard next year at scholarship level must still be your number one priority, David.’

  Hold the party poppers. Take down the bunting. Drop the pen.

  ‘We’ve only got a handful of development games left this season and depending on the first team situation with injuries and suspensions we’ll look to draft in some of the first year scholars, just to give you boys a taste of it.’

  What was that sound? Ah, yes, the desk drawer slamming shut with my professional contract inside. So much for being singled out as the special one, so much for being fast-tracked. I feel stupid for getting carried away. Worse, I’m beginning to blush. I edge towards the door desperately tying to hide my rising embarrassment.

  ‘Okay Charlie, I understand. Thanks for your time.’

  I was practically out in the corridor before he calls me back.

  ‘Hold on David, not so fast. The first team has a few injuries for next week’s league game at Ipswich so you’ll be involved this coming Tuesday. We’re playing Didsbury at home. Train with us on Monday and report to Lowfield Road for 6pm the following night. Understood?’

  I mumble something in reply. Anything. Gibberish. McGovern’s door swings shut and I’m outside, leaning against the wall for support.

  The guy has just detonated an explosion inside my head with one trigger word. Didsbury.

  I doubt McGovern’s detailed, scientific analysis stretches as far my family tree.

  Didsbury, at home, in my first Wolston game on the hallowed turf against our bitterest enemy. The only other chance a scholar like me would get to play at our stadium is if we manage a good FA Youth Cup run, and that particular ship had already sailed this season.

  Listen, I’m not stupid or naive. I know it isn’t going to be a 25,000 sell out but that doesn’t matter. Just to wear the famous ‘Sky Blue’ shirt in front of my family at the place I’d fallen in love with as a child is going to be a special night.

  You can forget the professional contract, the money and the fame. Being a footballer was about one thing and walking down that corridor in a daze I’m experiencing it; living the dream.

  Dad waits patiently in the car park. For once the post-match debrief can hold. There is only one topic of conversation on our drive home. I let my old man get behind the wheel. I’m in no fit state.

  ‘What time do we have to be there? Who else is in the squad? How many complimentary tickets can we get? When will you pick them up? Because don’t forget David there’s me, your Mum and what about your Aunt and Uncle Derek? Will they make it back in time from Cyprus?’

  The man is like a rapid fire machine gun. Whether Auntie and Uncle Derek’s flight would be delayed next Tuesday was hardly top of my agenda.

  Revenge is on my mind.

  I hadn’t forgotten Boxing Day and those taunts from the away end. Two days feels more like two weeks, but walking towards the players’ entrance just before 6pm on Tuesday night I want time to stand still. Or tick backwards; like being strapped into the seat of a fairground ride going way too fast.

  ‘Are you David Shaw?’ Three young lads rush up to me, thrusting a pen into my hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Can you sign my autograph book please, David?’

  ‘Dave, call me Dave,’ as I scribble my name on a fresh, cream-coloured page in the embossed book. I had signed the odd autograph here and there for the loyalists down The Lodge on Saturday mornings but this feels totally different.

  You never know lads, that scrawl might be worth having in a few years when I’m an England international in the Premier League.

  Recognition is just another part of the puzzle; along with the media attention. That night’s local paper mentioned me in a preview of the Didsbury game, just a line towards the bottom of the article.

  ‘…and alongside midfielder Jim Cornforth, McGovern drafts in fellow academy youngster David Shaw to his depleted squad. The 17-year-old striker is a prolific scorer at youth team level.’

  Like I say, just a line at the bottom of the page.

  A steward waves me on as I flash my pass and wander through the doors marked ‘players and officials only.’

  I peer down at the polished marble floors with a huge mosaic of the club’s crest in the centre. The Main Stand foyer at Lowfield Road is more like a plush shopping mall with its oak-panelled walls and big, glass-fronted windows. I’m drawn towards the display cabinet in the far corner. Something I have gazed at it many times before but can’t resist a look tonight.

  It is a shrine to the club’s only major domestic honour in their 120-year history. A replica of the FA Cup is on show. The playing strip from that superb day and a rosette are mounted behind the trophy, along with the team sheet from an epic Wembley afternoon and the pictures of skipper Brian Killen being held shoulder-high by exhausted team mates. There is a young Mark Peacock as well, socks rolled down to his ankles, bottle of bubbly in one hand wearing a ‘Sky Blue’ scarf and jumbo hat.

  I touch the glass.

  Snap out it son. This is no time to dwell on the past.

  Heavy beats bounce off the walls as I enter the home changing room.

  Jimbo and Justin Burt sit side by side in Rovers’ tracksuits. I squeeze in between them.

  ‘Look Burty. It’s the prolific scorer from youth team level,’ says Jim.

  ‘Well, can I help it if the press love me? It must be true if it’s in the paper,’ I laugh. ‘You’re
looking a bit nervous to me James.’

  This is Jimbo’s first development appearance too.

  ‘Nae bother pal. I’ve played in bigger crowds than this on international duty for Scotland. I just hope he gives us a good go tonight.’

  Ray Slater strolls in and brushes past the three of us, headphones around his neck, mobile to his ear, jewellery jangling. He nods in Justin’s direction but carries on talking into his handset.

  ‘If McGovern sees that it’ll be a fine,’ whispers Burty.

  Slater saunters over to a peg on the opposite side of the room, well away from anyone else.

  Now I know I have a reputation for being arrogant but this guy seems to think he is something special.

  Slater must be three or four years older. A striker, like me, brought in from non league who had been nowhere near the first team this season.

  Radek Raszi’s revival since Christmas was pushing him even further down the pecking order. The Czech still needed to convince me he has the temperament to go with the talent, but he was winning over many of the doubters.

  Slater’s biggest asset is his pace but sadly for him he just looked out of his depth in the Championship when he had a brief run last season.

  Don Rogers stands in the doorway.

  Now it is me searching for the autograph book. For as long as I’d watched Rovers, I’d watched Don Rogers clatter opposition strikers. The guy is a cult figure amongst the fans. Tonight I am his team mate.

  Dad always reckoned his heart was big as a bucket. Maybe carrying that around the park explained why his legs had gone over these past couple of seasons. Peacock rarely called on him nowadays but perhaps he felt the veteran was a great professional to have around the place.

  Rogers ambles towards the physio and lies on a bench in the middle of the dressing room for a stretch. It doesn’t matter whether it is Didsbury in front of a few hundred on a Tuesday night or the FA Cup final, you just sensed this man played every game like it is his last. I look across again at Slater, still on his phone, chewing gum, going through the motions.

  ‘Hey lads,’ says Jim. ‘Do you fancy a quick walk on the pitch?’

  I crouch to pat the surface when we emerge from the tunnel. It has a sheen to it that glistens under the floodlights.

  It suddenly dawns on me this is the first night game I had ever played under lights.

  I turn 360 degrees to take in the full, panoramic beauty of Lowfield Road. At pitch level it seems cavernous, even though it is a tight, compact ground compared to your Old Trafford’s or Celtic Park’s of this world.

  I’d eaten nothing all day. My stomach feels tight, my throat dry.

  Is it just big night nerves or something much, much deeper? Like having nowhere to hide and being found out. This is the night when I would discover if I can really cut it.

  I am so far out of my comfort zone it’s scary. A proper stadium with proper professionals in front of a decent crowd of paying spectators, not just family and friends.

  For Ray Slater, development football is a necessary evil, trotting out at virtually empty grounds with nothing at stake but picking up your money at the end of the week.

  Not for me.

  I’d been playing with my school mates barely 12 months earlier. Four months ago I couldn’t even make an academy squad. Now I am getting a chance to play with Don Rogers. It is mental.

  Charlie McGovern is deep in conversation with the officials in the mouth of the tunnel as we head back inside.

  ‘Hey, you two, don’t be overawed,’ he calls after me and Jim. ‘It’s still just a piece of grass with two goals at either end. Enjoy it.’

  Enjoy it. Fat chance of that. This feels like I’m on death row.

  ‘You’re both starting on the bench, but be ready because anything can happen.’

  It’s a relief to hear that. I’ll be totally honest.

  Mentally I’m not right to start. The focus isn’t there. I’d got myself so keyed up, so tight with nerves that I feel exhausted, shot, like I’m operating on auto pilot.

  Right shin pad on first, left shin pad second, right sock, left sock, right boot, left boot. Shirt on then shorts last.

  I’m sitting here inside Wolston’s home dressing room but I not really here, if that makes any sense. Just going through the pre-match motions like a passenger on a flight rather than the captain or the crew.

  Rovers’ ‘Sky Blue’ anthem booms out over the tannoy, splitting the air within the empty stadium as both teams emerge. I look up into the Main Stand, the only part of the ground open to fans. It is barely a third full. The Shaw clan is sitting in the directors’ box as I walk along the touchline in my tracksuit. Auntie and Uncle Derek have made it back in time from Cyprus. Panic over. Mum and Dad perched next to them. Mum waving frantically. Embarrassing.

  Don Rogers would hardly be waving at his nearest and dearest.

  Rovers’ skipper is a man on a mission.

  Maybe this might be his last chance to kick some Didsbury players up in the air before he retires.

  Rogers’ booming voice provides a non-stop soundtrack to the early skirmishes, constantly talking to his fellow defenders, organising midfielders, badgering officials.

  The pace of the game feels a million miles faster than what I am used to, sat watching from the dugout. Every block, every tackle, every pass appears to take place at warp speed. I don’t know whether it is the surroundings, the slick surface or the floodlights, but I’m an awfully long way from The Lodge.

  Didsbury’s number nine fires a free kick high into the West Stand.

  Dad would’ve had to dive for cover if we’d been sitting in our usual seats on a Saturday afternoon.

  The same player isn’t so wasteful the next time as he reacts quicker than Rogers to bundle home a corner.

  Didsbury is full value for the goal. The visitors have settled quicker. Most of the early play is in our half. Rogers punts another relieving clearance away. Slater moves through the gears but a defender comes across and wipes out the Wolston striker with a crude lunge. You can almost taste the thudding impact from where I’m sitting as he slams the turf.

  Slater thrusts his hand into the air immediately and stays down clutching his shin as the Wolston physio races on.

  ‘David, David, DAVID, go and warm up.’

  Whoa, he means me, I’m actually involved here. McGovern is shouting to go and get ready.

  I look at Jimbo. It’s like being back in the driving test centre when the nasty examiner appears from behind his glass partition; a moment of sheer terror.

  I sprint down the touchline as the physio crouches over Slater.

  I was too busy taking everything in like a tourist. All I’d been missing since arriving at the ground was my camera.

  Wolston’s physio is talking into a headset and crossing his hands in McGovern’s direction. I know what that means. Slater’s a goner.

  I jog back, trying to delay the inevitable.

  I can feel my pre-match headache coming back.

  Wolston’s kitman is practically undressing me to remove my tracksuit top as McGovern issues some final instructions.

  ‘David, time to switch on now, son. You’ve got a job to do. Just go and play your normal game. You’re good enough or you wouldn’t be here. Remember what I said before the game – enjoy it. Do your best. That’s all I want.’

  Slater hobbles past me on the touchline with two members of the medical team propping him up. I can see the gash down his shin bone and the frayed, blood-spattered sock. Ben Sheldon’s calling card.

  This is like being thrown to the lions.

  Sheldon is City’s very own old school defender. He’d kept Radek quiet on Boxing Day but was on the comeback trail himself after a bad injury, building up his match fitness with some gentle runouts against young, gullible cannon fodder.

  I leap for my first aerial challenge and feel a nudge in my lower back knock me off-balance. Sheldon rises to head clear.

/>   He’s done me.

  We both know it’s a foul, but the referee and his near side assistant miss it.

  Another ball bounces over the top. Perfect.

  He’s got no chance in a leg race.

  Wrong. Sheldon’s sliding tackle puts me on my backside before he hauls me to my feet.

  What’s going on here? I have 15 years plus, at least, on this guy. He’s an old man and he’s bullying me.

  Sheldon nips in again to win the ball at my expense. Gets it, gives it simple to his full-back before I can even swivel to react.

  The half-time whistle goes. Hallelujah. I’d totally lost the plot, running around like a complete novice. The pool is a lot deeper at this end. Get me back in the shallow end, please.

  McGovern stands waiting for me as I trudge off.

  ‘David, you’re trying to get us back in the game on your own,’ he smiles.

  I didn’t quite see the funny side.

  ‘…just relax. What did I say? Play your normal game. You don’t have to do anything different. It’s not about impressing anyone. We know your qualities and that’s inside the penalty box, that’s where we want you to be at your most effective, across the width of the 18 yard line and inside the area. Don’t play Sheldon at his own game.’

  McGovern taps me on the head to ram home the message. I know it is sound advice. This is about Wolston winning a match, not me, not my family. They are mere side issues. It’s a huge occasion for the Shaws, but I’m not doing either them or myself justice.

  Mark Pounchett forces an early second half corner. Pounc is one of the academy’s greatest success stories of recent seasons. A first team squad regular nowadays and another I had been keen to avoid eye-contact with before the game; another name for my autograph collection. His delivery arrows towards the near post, I feel a sharp tug on my shirt. Sheldon makes sure I can’t jump as he pins me under the flight of the ball.

  It drifts over my shoulder across the face of the six yard box and out of play on the opposite side of the pitch.

  ‘Referee, he’s grabbing my shirt.’

  ‘Play on.’

  ‘Referee, you must have seen that? It’s a penalty.’ I run back with the official all the way into midfield. Sheldon has conned him twice in my book now.

  ‘Stop your whining, you little upstart.’

  Sheldon leers at me as his keeper prepares to restart. I spot two old scars on the top of his forehead as he comes closer; war wounds for your average centre half.

  The physical battle was all part of the challenge, but Sheldon’s battery of sly tricks is all new to me.

  ‘What planet are you on, you clown?’ I chip back. ‘That’s twice you’ve grabbed my shirt.’

  ‘Not according to the referee, son.’

  He laughs as he moves his head towards mine.

  I can play that game, tumble inside the penalty box and make up the referee’s mind for him. I’ve been too honest, or too naïve. Truth is I’d sniffed a chance of a goal from the corner and I wasn’t going to pass it up.

  I’ll show you, Sheldon.

  I can feel the red mist rising.

  Just forget where you are, who you are playing against or even who is watching. This is a game of football, and I’ve played hundreds of those before.

  Jimbo gets his chance as the derby ticks into the final quarter. Straight from the off he demands the ball in midfield from the senior pros around him; the guy must have no nerves in his body. One trademark burst ends with Jim getting chopped by a Didsbury player.

  Another cynical act. Typical City.

  Sheldon races over to put an arm around the official, I can hear the pleas for clemency on behalf of a mate.

  Pounchett calls me across.

  ‘Shawsy, go and stand on the end of Didsbury’s wall and spin off as soon as I clip it.’

  We’d practised a few set pieces the previous day at the end of the session but this wasn’t in the repertoire. Not that I need telling to gamble inside the box. I had made a living out of it in the academy.

  Jimbo runs over the ball as a decoy, Pounc curls it up over the wall. I turn on his signal and see City’s keeper already in mid-air and the ball dipping behind his body.

  It’s in. Yes.

  No.

  Pounc’s shot strikes the inside of the right-hand post and cannons back into play. I’m there first, sliding in full length like a baseball player to bundle it back over the goal line.

  Didsbury, debut, Lowfield, GOAL.

  I tear towards the Main Stand. Scoring the winner in a World Cup Final can’t feel any better than this.

  The sneaky goal routine where Jimbo pulls out a corner flag for me to limbo under can wait

  another day. In the midst of such pure ecstasy I am struggling to remember my own name, never mind our rehearsed celebration.

  Pounc pulls me back towards the pitch as I pick out my old man jumping on top of Uncle Derek. The rest of the lads have raced back into position. He has the match ball under his arm.

  The match. There’s still a game to be won. This might be the greatest moment of my life right here but I still have time to top it.

  Didsbury restart, Sheldon has his hands on his hips as I burst past him trying to put the away keeper under pressure. I’m still buzzing. I can’t resist a taunt.

  ‘Where were you old man in the penalty box? Time to retire,’ I laugh.

  ‘You what?’

  It’s puerile but deserved in my book. The look on his face as play goes on around us says it all. Sheldon does not see the funny side of some young punk trying to humiliate him.

  Rogers breaks up a Didsbury counter at the opposite end. I show for the ball on halfway, back to goal, ready to spring another attack when Sheldon clatters through the back of me a split-second before the pass arrives.

  My face smashes into the wet turf as I’m catapulted forward by the full force of his challenge. I can feel studs raking down my Achilles. The same ankle I’d broken two years earlier.

  Forget conning the ref. There is nothing snide about this assault. He’s tried to do me in full view of everyone inside Lowfield Road. I’ve really got under his skin and he’s lost his rag. Big time.

  The stabbing pain is intense. I reach down and rub my heel. He crouches over me and starts ruffling my hair. Sat hundreds of yards away in the Main Stand it probably looks like a picture of concern, a consoling gesture from the old professional.

  ‘Not laughing now son,’ he sneers. ‘I’ve been playing this game since you were in nappies. There’s life in this old dog yet. Next time show me some respect.’

  He presses his face to the side of my temple, words laced with venom. Right in this intense confrontational moment I suddenly don’t feel any pain. Or fear. Just anger, hatred even. A surge of adrenaline lifts me to my feet.

  With all the force left in my body I grab Sheldon around the throat with both hands and shove him to the turf.

  Bedlam. All hell breaks loose.

  ‘David, calm down, calm down.’

  Don Rogers has me in a head lock. Hours and days could have passed for all I know. Everything is out of focus. Words and fragments of pictures are all jumbled. Wolston’s stalwart is leading me away from the crime scene as backroom staff from both clubs race onto the pitch trying to restore order, separating the warring local factions.

  Intense pain returns to my leg, tinged with rising dread.

  The referee is striding towards me, reaching into his back pocket.

  Red card.

  Not a word, just pointing to the tunnel. Madness.

  Is that for me? What about Sheldon? The thug deserves to go.

  Rogers pushes me towards the touch line. I’m in deep enough trouble now without confronting the official.

  Not that I can speak. I feel like throwing up on the pitch as the tears start streaming down my face.

  I rip off my shirt and bury my head deep inside it. Like some baby’s comfort blanket.

  I risk a g
lance towards the directors’ box as I get nearer the tunnel. I know exactly where the family is sitting but I can’t bring myself to look.

  I feel ashamed.

  My eyes settle on someone else, sitting a couple of rows in front of my parents. Mark Peacock.

  Wolston’s first team gaffer looks straight at me. Everyone left in the ground is probably looking straight at me.

  What did he make of this head case? A young hot head, all the talent in the world but a complete lack of discipline?

  There’s a flashback to our very first meeting a few months earlier, day one of my scholarship. Me having to introduce myself; peeved Wolston’s boss didn’t already know who I was.

  Not any more. Dave Shaw had well and truly introduced himself now.

  First game, first goal, first sending off at Lowfield Road.

  My dream was turning into a sickening nightmare.