The Legacy of Josh Dixon

Mike

Mike

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I woke to the sweet, sweet sound of the birds singing outside my window. I smiled as I stretched my stiff, aching arms and legs. I pulled apart the curtains, opened the window and took in the beautiful summer air.

“Aaah!” I let out a big sigh of happiness. It was Saturday. Today felt like a good day. It was odd – it’s the second week of school summer holidays and I’m up at half past six in the morning, and I felt great. I usually look like a slapped **** on the school bus after rolling out of bed, but I felt great. And I couldn’t think why.

“Josh!” My mother called me from the bottom of the stairs. “Josh? Are you up yet?”

She always does this. Whenever she leaves the house, be it for work, or getting a pint of milk, she calls me to make sure that I know she’s out of the house. She probably thinks she has to, living with just me. My dad passed away when I was ten, and I don’t really remember the situation, but it left my mother in pieces. Tragically, only six months later, my older sister was in an office that was terrorised in south London (there was only one survivor, a close family friend called Ray who unbelievably managed to call for help).

“Josh!” She was right outside my bedroom door. Not only did I know this because her voice was really nearby, but I could feel her. Feel her waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, I’m up, mum,” I replied, quickly throwing on a pair of pants to save myself from embarrassment. “I’m decent.”

She opened the door. She’d been crying. Her eyes were red, as if sore. “Josh, I’ve got some bad news.” She couldn’t hold the back the tears. She never was able to, to be fair, much like me.

‘Oh God, not again!’ I thought. My eyes starting bubbling, bottom lip trembling. I looked past my mum and gazed at the empty wall behind her.

“I’ve lost my job. Things are going to be a bit different from now on.” And just like that, my mood swung from high to low. Thank God it wasn’t another death, but lost your job? People lose their jobs every day; just get another one.

That afternoon, Alex came to call for me. Alex and I have been friends since primary school. We both love football and both support the same football team: Arsenal Football Club. The Gunners. Our passion for the club was enormous, and we dreamt one day of going to the Emirates Stadium to watch them play, but my mother didn’t like football nor did Alex’s parents.

“Fancy a kickaround?” he asked, ball in armpit. He was leaning against the door frame.

“Sure, come in.” I jumped up the stairs to find my old football boots at the bottom of my wardrobe, caked in dry mud. I gathered a shirt, a pair of shorts and a couple of socks and placed them neatly in a backpack. I turned around and my mother was standing in the doorway.

“Going anywhere nice?” My mother’s always been nosey. She says that when I go to school sometimes; I’m sure she’s losing it!

“Just to play footy with Alex. Have you seen my sock tape?” I couldn’t play without sock tape. I’m not superstitious or anything like that, I just feel naked without sock tape, much like some footballers do without sweatbands, or gloves.

“No,” she said, turning around. “There’s elastic bands in the drawer downstairs.”

There was always an alternative. An elastic band? Around a sock? Get real. I’d rather use sellotape, blu tack even. Despite that, I exited my room without tape. And without an elastic band. I shouted up to my mother, grabbed the house keys, and left.
 
Thanks mate, will have an update up soon.
 
After a sweaty run around, I returned home. I was greeted at the front door by my mother. She explained briefly that her sister, my aunty, had rung. She then went onto another subject, but I wasn’t listening. I tend to pan in and out of stories, especially those boring ones. But then she stopped and smiled, raised her eyebrows and excitedly said, “Hey – there was an advert on the radio not long ago, there’s an open trial day for locals next weekend; you should go.”

My mother always stood by my side. She compliments my performances every time I play football, saying what a ‘wonderful son’ I am (she does it in front of my friends – not cool!). I’m average height and scrawny build but I was always good at the 100m sprint in school; my personal best is 12.1 seconds!

Sucking the air through my teeth, I was unsure. “I don’t know. London’s a big place, and everybody’s going to be there. They’re probably only looking for one or two boys.” Although I love football, I really didn’t think I stood a chance. I had bags of pace, but that is probably all I have to go by. I brushed that thought aside and made myself a sandwich – ham and cheese, my all time favourite!
 
Sitting at the edge of my bedside, I finished the last mouthful of sandwich. I was staring at the floor, with gravity seemingly pulling my eyebrows to the floor, as if I was angry. I wasn’t; it was as if I was confused, maybe that look where I was sitting a Physics exam and didn’t understand the question. Breadcrumbs were dotted on the ground where I was gazing. The words ‘football trial’ filled my head, though I knew it was more a football open day than a trial. Should I go for it? I’ve got nothing to lose, so maybe it’s worth a shot.

I cleaned up the remainder of the long-gone sandwich from the floor and brushed them off the palm of my hand into the little plastic bin in the corner of my room. In there was a Tesco Finest package for a ham and cheese sandwich I had yesterday. If I keep this up I won’t be able to run soon!

Knocking at the door, my mother called me. She entered slowly – you know that entrance they make if you’ve had bad news – and stood in the doorway. “Well?” she asked, expecting an answer. I said nothing. “Josh? Football – are you doing it?” I shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” she said calmly, putting her arm on my shoulder. “You’re really, really quick.”

“Football’s not all about pace,” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to have skills, strength.. I have speed, but that’s about it!” As you can probably tell, I’m not really confident about my ability, which may hold me back.

“Show some enthusiasm! I thought this was what you wanted to do in life?” Yes. It was. I wanted to be a footballer ever since I can remember, and still, I do now. Either that, or an IT teacher.

I know, don’t ask.

“Fine – I’ll do it.” I caved in to sheer peer pressure. From my mother.

Great!
 
It’s Friday. I’m feeling more and more nervous as each day passes, after agreeing to go to this football try-out. What’s it going to be like? How many are going to be there? Am I going to be a pushover? So many things are going through my mind right now.

Shortly before 11am, I received an email confirming by position in tomorrow’s trials.


‘Dear Joshua Dixon

Thank you for your interest in this year’s annual Scout-athon. This is the best place to get recognised by local scouts, and if you’re talented enough, you could be playing professional football in no time at all!

You should register yourself at Underhill Stadium between 9:30am and 10:00am. If you do not register yourself between these times then you will not be granted entrance to the trials. To register, just bring yourself and state your name and date of birth on entry. Also don’t forget to bring appropriate gear, such as shorts and socks, shinpads and football boots.

The order of the day will be as follows:

9:00-10:00am – Registration
10:00am-10:15am – Sorting of players into positions
10:15:11:15am – Training drills
11:15-11:30am – Mid-morning break
11:30-12:30pm – Fitness test
12:30-1:00pm – Warm down
1:00-1:40pm – Lunch break
1:45-3:00pm – Two 25-minute halves

The trial day will finish at 3:30pm, where you will be thanked and let go. If any of the scouts attending the open day find your football attractive, you may be lucky enough to be contacted shortly, usually within 4-5 days.

Thank you, and see you soon!

David Norton
Head of Scout-athon’


My mood has changed, now: I was nervous, now I’m excited!

This time tomorrow, I’ll be doing what I love the most: playing football!
 
Thanks all, another update in the coming days.
 
Opening a single eye, I gazed at the clock: 8:03am. I lay my head down and smiled. Then I jumped out of bed, quite literally, a stretched wildly. I’m so excited for the day it’s unbelievable.

Everything was set in place: in the kitchen, an empty bowl, an unused spoon and a clean glass cup ready to be filled and consumed; in the porch, cleaned boots, washed shinpads and spacious bag, ready to be filled and taken; and in the bedroom, my most prized possession, folded on the tub-chair – Arsenal’s 2002-04 home kit, signed on the right shoulder by none other than Robert Pires. The thought of everything in place made me warm. All I had to do was eat, change and leave. And I did so with a huge grin on my face.

I live about a 10 minute walk from Underhill – Barnet FC’s football ground – where the trials are taking place. On one particular street, I could make out the back of Alex’s head, so I ran and caught up with him. I slapped my hand against his shoulder, and he turned to me.

“Josh! I didn’t know you were doing this?” he asked, inquisitively.

“Ditto. Didn’t say anything to me.” He tells me everything, and nine times out of ten it was about football. But not this time. It was as if he didn’t want me to know...

“Well, I, just forgot to mention it,” he chuckled nervously. If I wasn’t any more stupid I’d have said he was trying to win a contract before me and without me finding out. He’s such a good friend is Alex. We carried on walking together silently.

As we turned down the final road, crowds of youngsters gather around the main entrance. It’s now 8:54am and already seemingly hundreds of boys and girls surrounded the building, as if waiting for a signal to barge down the doors. As we approached the back of the semi-circle queue, a small figure stood up at the front, facing the trialists.

“Welcome all to Underhill. Thank you for your patien-” And on that exact word, as if by irony, the doors opened very carefully and quietly. Silence fell amongst the try-outs.

Then all **** broke loose.
 
Some great updates here Mike, really enjoying it. Will keep looking in :)
 
Ten minutes have passed since the opening of the doors and the majority of the teenagers are in, though some were less fortunate – three ambulances were called to take care of a few youngsters due to the stampedes. I managed to hold off until I saw a clear gap before I scooted through, leaving Alex in my wake. That would be the last I saw of him for the rest of the morning.

It is now nearing ten o’ clock, and I could see just tens of people now forming a queue behind a table. I gave my name and date of birth to the lovely-looking young adult and she gave me a number. Sadly it wasn’t a phone number, but merely my registration number – 838. With that, I stood in the middle of the pitch, all by myself.

After some time, we were eventually split into various positions – I was filed in the ‘Attacking Winger’ folder. I’ve always been quick but not particularly good in front of goal, so I thought this would be the most suitable role for me. I looked around, and it seemed there were many players younger than me, or at least looked like it. With that in mind, I started running around with a ball, hoping for a kickaround. This came to a very abrupt end as we were ordered to line up for training drills.

‘God, I love training drills...’ I thought, with an unbelievable amount of sarcasm. And as if my mind was being read telepathically, I heard the words “I know you’re all keen to start training drills” from about half a yard behind me. So I jumped in line, waited for the whistle, and worked my scrawny little **** off.
 
Time has been called on training drills. The incapability of most of these youngsters is actually making me laugh, though I know I shouldn’t. Looking around, half of them are lying on the floor, gasping for air. I was stood, leaning to one side, hands on hips as if waiting to take a penalty kick.

As we all dragged ourselves indoors for our first break, I caught sight of a few people leaving the stadium, all together. They were approached by a short, nerdy man wearing a tweed suit. They babbled on for a good twenty seconds, then proceeded to exit the building with glum faces. As the tweed-wearing person turned around, he tutted and raised his eyebrows, clearly in disappointment. It seems the gang walked out after realising how poor they were in comparison to some of players.

Stretching out the last of my aches, I prepared for the fitness test. I swallowed the final mini Jaffa Cake I bought from the vending machine and gulped water, maybe too quickly. We all headed outside together and once more lined up on the half way line.

“This will be a test of endurance, of stamina,” the coach said, walking slowly along the line with his arms folded. “We shall be partaking in a multi-stage test, a bleep test. Shuttle runs of 20 metres, we’ve all done this before, yes?” We all nodded. “You will be split into 10 groups; hopefully that will be enough time to get everyone’s measurements.”

Last year, in a PE lesson in school, I was recorded at 13.1 on the bleep test – you see, I’m more of a sprinter than a long distance runner. I hated cross-country running, especially after being picked to run for the school in a competition.

“After the three beeps,” he continued, “you will all run to that line of cones. Then you will turn around and run back. If you’ve timed it correctly, you will reach the cones and turn the exact moment you hear the next beep.”

We stood, waiting for the dreaded beeps. And then they came.
 
Great stuff and I'm looking forward to the next part of your trials.
 
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