The Legacy of Josh Dixon

All of the inexperienced players burst from one line to the one opposite, ending up standing around for 5 seconds which is totally the wrong way to go about it. Me and around 20 others jogged, and reached the target line in time with the first beep. We turned, and repeated.

Eventually, the majority of our group dropped like dogs, leaving a tall and rather large character, a completely opposite lad in which he was short and really, really thin, and myself. By now we are on level 13, with me looking to surpass my personal best. I jogged past my record and onto a further one level, opting to end my run at 14.0; the little lad held on until 15.6! I was happy with my score.

Panting and sweating, the final group’s run ended with a very fit boy recording an incredible 17.5. Immediately after stopping and dropping to his knees, he and everyone else were called for a jog around the pitch once in a single file. After moaning and groaning the whole way around, we were called indoors for our second and last break of the day. I sat on a vacant chair beside the front doors and whipped out my phone from my backpack. No new messages, no new emails, no missed phone calls; I’m so Mr. Popular!

Bowing my head over my mobile like a child, somebody tapped my head. I looked up and over me stood Alex.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you, mate,” he started. “I wish I’d have told you, I’m not really enjoying it anymore.” He glared around at everybody sitting and even lying down. “There’s too many good kids in here and I’m empty; another jog and I’ll keel!”

“It’s okay, just thought you were trying to prove that you’re a better footballer than me,” I replied with a small grin. He shook his head and tutted.

“Come off it – you know you’re better than me, and that’s why I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave now! We’re about have a game of footy on a flat and even pitch; isn’t that what you’ve always wanted to do?” Wherever we’ve played on the same team, the fields seem to be sloped, or warped in one corner.

“You’re right, I’m just being stupid. See you back out there.” He turned, and walked into the distance.

Soon after, a tracksuit-clad woman stood in the doorway. In her hand was a sheet of paper, a rather small one. She shouted, “Okay, listen up everybody. Thank you all for taking part in today’s trial day, and for your patience. We’re sorry to inform that only 22 of you will go onto the final stage of the try-out, therefore can everybody who is NOT on the following list please exit onto the pitch, thank you.”

That was a twist in the tale. Nobody was expecting that. Well, I mean, someone must have suspected something as there was about 800 kids here, and only an hour to play two 25 minute halves of football.

“Andrew Proctor,” she began. “Oly Markham, Sam Surrey, Rhys McAndrew...” There were three names left, and everybody was getting restless. “Alex Breathstead, Joshua Dixon, and finally Zachary Eiffel. Could you all please wait here and the rest, thank you but your day is over. Please make your way onto the football pitch.”

I can’t believe it. ‘I’m in the final 22!’ I thought. Alex jumped on my back, and smiled from one ear to the other.
 
Split into two groups of 11 players – standard 4-4-2 formation – we began our match. Alex and I are on opposite teams, so hopefully there will be good competition for a place.

Throughout the whole of the first half, I was constantly being kicked, thrown and barged to the ground. I didn’t like this: I’m not really a physical character, not much strength in me. Despite this, I managed to score a goal and assist. Nearing the end of the first half, my team were 3-2 up.

Soon enough, the half-time whistle was blown. We all gathered around for an analysis and were given complimentary orange and pineapple slices and a couple of Jaffa Cakes each. I took on a lot of water and spat it out, much like an overhyped Premier League player. I was patted on the back and winked at. I knew I had a good first half. With that in mind, I thought I’d try some skill moves in the second; I’ve never tried them before, not in a match anyway.

The whistle sounded and away we went, kicking off from the centre circle. The ball was instantly played to me, but I gave it straight back and sprinted down the line. I was never one to give up; I was so determined to get myself noticed. The ball didn’t come back to me, so I jogged slowly back towards the half way line. I wandered lonely until three minutes later when the ball was played to my feet. Cristiano Ronaldo-style, I took one look at the opposite winger’s feet and started curling and kicking my feet all over the ball. Somehow, I bamboozled him and he tripped backwards onto his rear end. I exited right and continued my run. Another defender tried snatching the ball away from my tangling feet, but failed. With the inside of my right foot, I clawed the ball seemingly through myself and to a teammate, where he slotted the ball right into my path. Now I was in the area. A third defender rushed at me from the left, while at the same time their keeper dashed out. One final stepover and a cheeky ‘****’ later, the ball ended in the corner of the goal. I felt like a true hero: that’s never happened before!

The game ended that way, 4-2, and it turns out I’m more skilful than I thought – I tried Ronaldinho’s ‘flip-flap’, and it worked without fail. I tried Jay-Jay Okocha’s ‘chip-over-the-player-and-run-after-it’, and it happened. I couldn’t believe it, and neither could anyone else from that matter. Mumblings of ‘where did he come from?’ and ‘what happened back there?’ could be heard.

Applauding, the coaches shouted ‘Good game, lads. Hot water is on if you’d like a shower.’ Unsurprisingly, nobody wanted one. But I made my way in from the outside, smiling.

I knew I had a chance.
 
Satisfied with how I trained today, I left the stadium – after a half an hour of talking and thanking. We were told that if you were spotted by a scout attending the trial day and they thought you were good enough, you will be contacted within a few days. There were many people in the stands, watching, like eagles stalking their prey. But throughout the day I never really paid them any attention, so I don’t know whether they were scouts, fans, or weirdos (my money’s on the latter).

As I turned the corner of the first street, faint cries of ‘Josh!’ could be heard, getting louder and louder with each yell. It was Alex.

“Josh, what the **** happened in that stadium? I never knew you had that in the tank!” he said, out of breath, and looking one **** of a lot surprised than I did.

“I really don’t know, I never knew either.” He slapped the back of my head. “You played well anyway. Happy?”

“If there’s anyone going to be signed up next week it’s you; you had a stormer,” he claimed.

We walked home together – he only lived a few houses away from me – and parted at my doorstep. I unlocked the door and strode in, beaming with happiness. I heard the wooden chair scraping the stone tiles of the kitchen floor, followed by an insane mother running out of the room as if being chased by something out of Jurassic Park.

“Well? Did you get a contract?” she asked, always wanting to know first. I explained – again! – what will happen and when I’d get contacted should it happen. She then went on to say how pleased she is of me and how proud she is to be my parent, and quite frankly, I’ve been sick of that for a good few years now.

I ran off upstairs. Still smiling smugly, I threw my kit onto the bed and went for a shower.
 
This is one of the best story's i have ever read, you've got massive talent mate, keep it up!
 
Like any loving mother, she put on the kettle and poured me a cup of tea. I sat down at the kitchen table with my drink and a couple of chocolate digestive biscuits.

“Ooh this is so exciting. My son, he could be a footballer-” I interrupted her.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now,” I started, sounding like a grown adult. “I’ve only just come home and already you’re speaking as if I’ve got a call.” From a young age I’ve learnt never to assume, because it makes an *** out of ‘you and me’ (***-U-ME), so assuming that I’ve already been offered a contract is only going to make things worse should I not get signed.

“But you could be, couldn’t you. Think about it: you get a contract, all our financial problems will be sorted!” What? I’m 15 years old. Even if I get signed by Manchester City I’ll barely make a grand a week. She got up and smiled, then walked off.

So wait, I get money and she lives? I’ve never asked her for money. Okay, maybe the odd pound here or there, but never have I relied on my mother to pay my way, so what makes her think I’ll pay hers? Anyway, I haven’t even got a footballing job, nor will I probably have one this time next week.

So let’s forget all about it.
 
Great story please can you check mine out its called every step along the way-a stoke story really love the plot line to your story as well
 
I was never one to miss football training – it’s been two days since playing at Underhill, and every Monday night, no matter what month of year it is, there’s training. I missed one once as it was my birthday, but aside from injury absences I’ve never missed one. I enjoyed playing football. It’s the one thing where I can do something and nobody could tell me I was doing it wrong, or not giving 100%. I was always committed, and I still am now. Growing up with the same lot of boys for a few years it’s been easy to commit, to be confident.

It’s now three-thirty and with a few hours left until training, I received a phone call from an unknown number. It’s Alex.

“Hey mate, just phoning to let you know I won’t be at training tonight: got a stupid meal with my grandparents or something.”

“No worries, will let the boss know. You heard anything from the trials yet?”

“Nope, nothing. Probably never will either.” We shared a laugh. “You?”

“Nah, same boat. Gotta dash, someone’s at the door. Enjoy tonight!” And with that, I hung up. We never said goodbye to each other; we always try to get in the last word. I’m happy now as it’s mostly always Alex. I ran down the stairs, carefully watching my feet but at the same time increasing in pace with each step. The door swung open. Nobody was there. ‘I ran all the ****** way for nothing!’. Shutting the door, I noticed a little white speck poking out from the letterbox, and addressed on the front was Joshua Dixon.

Hey.. that’s me!

I only tend to receive post on birthdays and Christmases – cards usually. I stood in the hallway for a moment as I glanced puzzlingly at the envelope. Shaking the emotion away, I tore into it like a hyena ripping into its food. It’s from the football trials...
 
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It’s what I expected. In total honesty, it’s quite sad reading it:

“Unfortunately,” I said out aloud, “despite your undoubted skill, none of our watching scouts enquired about you. Therefore, on this occasion, you will not be offered a professional contract.”

I set the paper down on the bureau in the hallway and sighed.

“Oh no,” I heard. I swung my head around and stood in the archway between the hallway and living room was my mother. She was upright, and looking flushed.

“I’m sorry to hear that, especially after all I said the other day. I was just so confident that you’d make it.” She started crying slightly, wiping away the tears as they rolled down her face. “Come here,” she said, arms open. I duly obliged and hugged her.

“It’s okay, I knew I wasn’t going to get a contract mum,” I claimed, secretly crying inside. My emotions weren’t ever shown, and certainly not to my mother. She let me go and smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a sort of nervous, worrying smile.

“Looks like I’ll be finding a job after all,” she blurted. She swivelled on the spot, walked into the living room and slouched on the settee.
 
As if it was a regular occurrence, she fondled under the settee for a little while and scooped out a half-full brown bottle. Upon taking a closer look, it became apparent what the bottle contained.

“Why have you got that?” I asked, confused.

“You don’t understand!” she shouted, eyes fearful. I was never aware of my mother pitying herself, especially with a bottle of alcohol.

“What is there to understand? I give you news that I won’t be getting a contract and you start drinking?” I felt that it was unnecessary that she turned to alcohol after she listened in on my conversation with myself. Oh, and, for the record, I do talk to myself, quite a lot. I imagine myself in the weirdest situations. It’s how I keep myself sane, ironically.

“I was hoping you’d get that contract and offer to help me with bills, the house and other stuff,” she quipped. “But you didn’t get it, so I have to get a job!”

‘Wow. That was strong,’ I thought. I may only be 15 years of age but I know what’s right to say and what’s not in circumstances like this. I raised my eyebrows in shock, and she noticed this.

“Oh, something the matter?” I was silent. “Well? Say something!”

“Well-“ I was interrupted.

“Well what?” she raised her voice even louder.

“Why should I be paying your way? You’ve got bills to pay, get a job to sort them. You expected me to walk my way into a professional football club to earn thousands a week, only to spend my hard earned money on you!? Well, mum, you’ve got it all wrong!” I felt relieved I got it out of me. That was some rant; I hardly ever do that.

“Aaaargh!” She screamed, getting off the floor. She hurried over in my direction, bottle still in hand. She powered up her arm by stretching as far backwards as she could and swung. And she caught me. Right in the face.
 
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