The Last Goal [short story]

This is the first of a series of short stories I've done. Similiar to how @HockeyBhoy is doing with his.

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Chapter 1 - The miss

Jimmy Sharpe lived and died by the spot. Never once missing a penalty in his fourteen years as a professional player. Twelve yards. Ball. Keeper. Goal. Him. It was all he ever needed, until now.

He stepped up, looked to his right, leant back, swung his foot and….....slipped. The miss played on repeat on Sky Sports News and was one of Youtube's most watched shorts of the year. One kick, one miss and one slip into oblivion. The stakes of that miss? Promotion to the Premier League. The chance to finally, after nine years in The Championship and seven straight play off finishes, claw out of the second division. Leave the grind of fourtysix games a year behind, get paid some real money.

The goal was yawning wide open. To make matters worse the West Brom keeper went the other way to where Sharpe was going to hit the ball. The ball flew right over the bar, the keeper rushing to retrieve it quickly while Bristol heads were in hands, players in disbelief. The keeper releasing the ball long to Jones who was wide open in the Bristol City half while Bristol were still coming to terms with the miss, onside as the ball was played from his own half, to dribble alone towards the goal where he slotted it in to win the game 1-0.

Heartbreaking stuff. West Brom celebrated like hyenas tearing into a fresh kill. Jimmy stood frozen, a statue on scorched Earth. His teammates consoled and patted him on the back, the West Brom keeper even coming over and saying ‘I got away with that, you had me wrong footed’ but it was all for nothing. The fans and even the managers eyes said it without saying it, ‘he bottled it’

That summer stretched on long and mean. The usually welcoming city of Bristol had turned on Jimmy. One newspaper ran the headline ‘Jimmy Sharpe? More like Jimmy Blunt’. He couldn’t step into a pub, restaurant or shop without feeling the weight of the stares and the whispers. At one corner shop a kid mimicked his slip by skidding on a can of peas along the floor.

The boss, Austrian Mark Jaulk, called him regularly. His voice gruff, worn and tinged with a hint of desperation ‘we need you back Jim. Pre seasons starting early this time. You’re still my main man’. But was he? Jimmy hadn’t laced up his boots or even worked out since that miss, he couldn’t bring himself to.

He’d lived his life like a ghost. Curtains drawn, only one light on at a time and a bottle of cheap Scotch his only team mate. He’d watched the pundits dissect the miss time and time again that summer. ‘Pressure’s a killer’ one pundit remarked, himself never making it to the Premier League and another quipped ‘Sharpe crumbled under the pressure’ a former player that retired due to injury in his twenties, also never getting a game in the Premier League. His name became a shorthand word for failure, a punchline for people who’d never set foot on a football pitch.

But the pitch haunted him. The penalty spot, a spot that had brought up to that miss a one hundred percent accuracy rate, now a black hole that sucked him in, chewed him and spat him back out. In his dreams he’d be standing over the penalty spot at Wembley again and again, same focus, same flicker of the eyes, same run up, same nervous energy. Same miss. Every time.

The night after the call from the boss, drunk and desperate he dragged himself to the local park where there were a couple of standard sized goals. The grass was horrible, the ground bumpy, the moon hanging low as if mocking him. He brought a ball with him that was scuffed, deflated and stained, much like how his mind had turned out. He lined it up toughly twelve yards, stepped back and readied himself. Imaginary crowd roared in his head. Imaginary team mates in hushed anticipation. He took the shot, missed. Set it up again, missed. Both times the ball clipped the bar as it sailed harmlessly over.

His breath came in short sharp gasps. The weight of failure was pressing down on his chest like a ton of bricks. He dropped to his knees, clutching the ball and screaming, pleading with it. As if it had any answers.

He looked to the sky and muttered to himself ‘Sharpe, what the fuck has happened to you?’

Chapter 2 - Ghosts of penalties past

Jimmy Sharpe. The name rang out in Bristol like that of a God, a hero in the red side of the city. The Gas, the nickname from the other side of Bristol, the Bristol Rovers side, were loving the fact that the man that had scored over 200 goals for City couldn't be relied upon when it mattered most. Rovers had already secured promotion to the Premier League two seasons ago and managed to survive both times by the skin of their teeth.

They didn’t have a player the calibre of Jimmy Sharpe though. His fourteen years of blood, sweat, goals and glory will go down in the Bristol history books. He’s the fox in the box defenders hate. A killer instinct, a predator he’d been called regularly. Before the West Brom game at Wembley. Before promotion yet again slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass.

He couldn’t feel it anymore, the hunger, fire, desire, energy and determination, gone. All gone in an instant in the ninetieth minute in the play off final. He sat slumped on the sofa in his living in his house in Bristol, opening another bottle of whisky with the tv muted. Sky Sports was on and they showed another promotional video for the upcoming Premier League season. Faces of players flashed across the screen. The Bristol Rovers badge was shown, and it felt to Jimmy it was shown for a lot longer than the other teams on there. Newcastle, Chelsea, the Manchesters, Arsenal, Liverpool all got time in the video. Even West Brom were there smiling away. Young up and coming players mixed with world class veterans all posed for the video, except Jimmy Sharpe wasn’t one of them.

The manager called again, always the same gravely optimism, same energetic words wanting his star forward back for the season. ‘Jimmy, you’ve still got it. The defenders in this league absolutely sh*t it when you’re on the pitch. You’ve had worse games than Wembley. Get yourself in gear ready to go next Monday’

Jimmy muttered a half arsed ‘yeah boss, sure thing’ but his heart wasn’t in it. What was the point any more? He’d done this for fourteen years, a one club man, got the team to the last seven play offs, getting to the final twice and falling short. He’s thirtythree now, running on fumes and past energy, his best days behind him. 

Last season he managed twentyone league goals, the season before twentyfour, and every season bar his rookie season he scored no less than twenty two league goals. The young defenders were starting to eat him alive, picking him off with ease. The young forwards at the club already were faster, flashier, could dribble, do tricks and score screamers regularly. Jimmy was a relic, a sit on the last man forward, a poacher in every sense. But he was a goal poacher in a game that didn’t need poachers anymore.

But like any good manager, the Bristol City manager, Mark Jalk, himself a hero in Bristol having guided them to the 7 straight play off appearances wouldn’t give up. He’d seen Jimmy in his prime, seen the magic, the goals at the most important of times. ‘Sharpe as a balde’ Mark had wrote in his program notes many times over the last nine years. He could bury half chances blindfolded. Headers, volleys, first time shots and tap ins. Jimmy Sharpe did the lot with ease. But now? Now he couldn't even look at a goal without breaking into a cold sweat.

The house was a mausoleum, dut on the shelves, spiders walking around like they owned the place. The trophies he’d won over the years, Championship top scorer six seasons in a row, Championship player of the season four times, the key to the city of Bristol, plus many more all lined up like tombstones. He picked up a picture frame, him and Mark celebrating Jimmy's player of the season and Marks manager of the season awards. He stared at his younger self smiling back at him, hair slicked back, brimming with confidence and pride, his nose still straight and confidence just oozing from him. Who was that guy? Or better yet, where was that guy?

He heard the roar of the crowd in his head. The chants - ‘Jimmy Shapre, scores when he wants’ and ‘Jimmys on fire, your defence is terrified, JIMMYS ON FIRE’. The red side of Bristol used to sing it with pride, he’d hear the songs randomly in supermarkets, in restaurants, they even sang it at the darts tournament which was picked up by Sky Sports. Now it was a cruel joke. He couldn’t score if his life depended on it.

The knock at the door came sudden and sharp. The raps, loud and quick. He ignored it but they came again, louder and quicker this time KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. This time he got up and went across the room.

He opened it up and there was Mark Jaulk, in a Nike tracksuit wearing a big fedora cap, big sunglasses and bringing his big personality with him. ‘Morning sunshine’ he said and barged his way in without being invited. He looked around the room, smelt the stink of sweat and stale booze, noticed the empty takeaway boxes and whisky bottles. ‘Jesus H fucking Christ James, is this what retirement looks like?’ he didn’t wait for an answer before adding ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead yet, kid’

‘Feels like it’ Jimmy said with a shrug

Mark grabbed the remote and turned the telly off, tunered to Jimmy and said ‘Listen to me you big self loathing pr*ck. I’ve got twenty lads, all raring to go, all working their bollocks off just to get selected in the squad never mind stepping on the pitch. I’ve got three young strikers who are gold, and I mean absolute mustard that are gonna terrorise the league this year’ he held a hand up as Jimmy tried to speak but Mark continued ‘but not one of them, or even all three combined is Jimmy Shapre. None are gonna get anywhere near your record, none have got your instinct, your mental ability to break the line, hell none of got your fucking fight lad! I don’t care what you think, I don’t care what people say in the streets, you are coming back. You’re coming back because this team needs, I need you’

Jimmy stared at him but the words escaped him. Mark then said ‘I need you, because if we don’t either win the league or we don’t win the play offs and get promoted, I’m stepping down’

‘Why? You’re the reason I’ve ever played well’

‘But I hear the whispers too lad, I hear them say it all the time, that I can’t take the next step, I can’t get a team promoted. And without you this season I definitely won’t be getting us promoted’

Words were bouncing in Jimmy's head, they were bouncing around like the water off an umbrella. Bet deep down something stirred. Something under the hood started knocking but below that was the doubt creeping back in, the fear and the shame was there.

‘You don’t get it boss, that miss, Wembley, I can’t shake it’

‘You missed, so what. Big deal. Ask any kid right now if they never had a chance of playing pro but were given that one chance, just one opportunity to take a penalty at Wembley and they missed, what would they say?’

Jimmy just shrugged, Mark continued ‘You’ve missed before, you’ll miss again and so will every other striker in the league. But what they won’t have is that they won’t score more than they miss, like Jimmy Sharpe does. You’re gonna score again lad, we’ve got Cardiff at home and I know your record against them is unreal. You will score, you always do. Now get your miserable ar*e into gear and show me, show the young lads, show fucking Bristol that you’ve still got at least a tiny bit of fight left in you!’

Jimmy watched him leave and sat back down on the sofa. The TV still turned off but he turned it back on. He sat staring at the screen but nothing was registering in his head, other than Mark believing in him. But did Jimmy Sharpe, two hundred goals plus for Bristol City, believe in himself?

Chapter 3 - Back to the grind

05:30, and as usual the training ground was a graveyard. The early sun was starting to bleed through the mist, the scent of freshly cut grass sharp in the air. The loud bang of the closing gate echoed like a gunshot going off in the distance. Jimmy Sharpe stood at the edge of the entrance to the Robins High Performance Center, boots tied up tight, his stomach even tighter

Mark Jaulk was already there, walking the touchlines of one of the training pitches, barking orders at a couple of younger players Jimmy didn’t recognise. Built like an Austrian tank and voice like a hammer, Jaulk was the kind of manager that could turn a scrapheap into a war machine. He glanced at Jimmy, told the youngsters to carry on and walked over to his star player, and the hero of Bristol ‘you’re here then lad’ not waiting for Jimmy to say anything he continued ‘show me, and these you’ve still got it’. Jimmy nodded back, not even sure if he did still have it or not.

The drills were brutal on his aging and unfit body. Full length sprints, passing triangles and one touch rondos. Jimmy felt his legs burn, his ankles ache and stitches aplenty, the weight of months spent rotting on the sofa, wallowing in self pity. The younger lads were quicker, sharper and eager to impress. Jimmy was chasing shadows, lungs screaming for respite.

But then late on in the day came the shooting and attacking movement drills. Mark Jaulk knew what paid Jimmys wages. He ordered two of the younger forwards, when paired with Jimmy, to create the space for him to run into. Jimmy didn’t even need to think when and where to move to. Then came the through balls and crosses from the wide areas. The first came in like a rocket to Jimmys feet, he swung his leg out and fired the ball high, wide and not very handsome. The second, a low ball from the left, just quick enough for Jimmy to take a touch, steady himself form fourteen yards and hit the shot agonisingly past the post, the keeper was beaten. The third and easiest chance was a through ball between the defenders, Jimmy ran onto it, stopped, and looked up at the advancing keeper, all he had to do was tap it in, but he scuffed it and the keeper just held onto it, the easiest shot he’d ever had to save. Snickers from the younger forwards that weren’t even tried to be hidden, he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

Then finally it happened. Ball into feet his killer instinct kicking in. He hit the ball first time, a low, hard and clean daisy cutter that veered into the far post, the kind of shots keepers hate. A ripple in the net. It took Jimmy a moment to realise he’d finally scored. Mark Jaulk clapped once and not wanting to draw much attention to the finish he said ‘there it is Jimmy, took you long enough’. Tough love.

The two young forwards turned to look at Jimmy with a smirk. The other senior players doing the drill simply nodded, a show of respect for their talisman, or was it even respect at all, or pity? Respect for a comrades fallen confidence? Begrudging or not, Jimmy felt a flicker in his chest, a flicker he’d not felt for a few months. The predator wasn’t dead yet, just sleeping

The session ended in a six v six scrimmage, red bibs against blue on a half pitch. Jimmy played up top in a sea of midfielders. He watched the game unfold, as was the norm for this back to goal striker, waiting for a chance. Eventually one did come, a through ball right in the middle of the defence, just like a threaded needle. Jimmy ran onto it, heart pounding in his chest as the clubs first major signing of the season, keeper Jans Dmitry on a free from Zenit Saint Petersburg, came rushing off his line. He took a touch to steady himself, big mistake, as the experienced Czech international covered the angle with his body and Jimmys venomous hit went sailing toward the near post and Dmitry's hands.

Another miss. The groan from his team mates behind and shouts which didn’t register in his mind. ‘Unlucky Sharpie’ one teammate yelled, another followed with ‘you’ll get another chance, head up’ but he saw it in their eyes. Doubt, unmistakable doubt. He jogged back, head not wanting to meet any eyes.

Mark Jaulk caught up with him afterward, his face like granite. ‘You’re rusty, Jim, that’s all’ he said, voice low. ‘Shake it off. You’re still our main man."

With a shake of his head Jimmy said ‘doesn’t feel like it boss’ and headed off to the changing room, but before he could get away Mark grabbed his arm

‘You don’t need to feel like it. You need to BE it. Be the man you’ve always been, a goal a game forward. Come Saturday, away at Cardiff, you’re leading the line. I aren’t asking if you’re ready, I’m fucking telling you, you’re ready and you’re playing!

Jimmy drove home that evening after a video session at the club, the bright lights of downtown Bristol shining through the windshield. His core ached, his ankles throbbed and the stitch he has had all day didn’t feel like it would be leaving any time soon. His mind raced, was Mark right, could he do it?

The miss at Wembley still haunted him, the multiple misses in training racing through his mind but something else flickered in the shadows of his minds eye as he walked into his house. A spark was trying to get through the shadows, and with it a sliver of hope.

Saturday loomed large. The Championship opener. A fresh start, or the same old nightmare? Jimmy Sharpe wasn’t sure yet.

Chapter 4 - The season opener

‘And what better way to kick off the Championship season  than with the Severnside Derby between Cardiff City and Bristol City. Bristol of course have reached the playoffs seven seasons in a row, getting to the final twice and losing both. Cardiff however have had a…..’

The radio that was playing on the coach was turned off as Bristol City arrived in Cardiff for the season opener. ‘Listen, there’s a couple new players here this season, but let me be frank’ Mark Jaul, Bristol's long serving manager said ‘our club and its fans hate Cardiff as much as they hate Rovers. They hate the city, the stadium and those god awful blue Rovers like kits they wear. They also hate the Welsh for the way they hurl abuse like it’s the national sport of Wales’.

There were a few murmurs to Marks speech, which was intended to brace the new players for what was coming.

Jimmy Sharpe was the first off the bus at the Cardiff City Stadium. The fans waiting outside booed and jeered as the doors opened, the cauldron of noise almost like that it itself would be walking down the tunnel for kick off. ‘Hey Sharpe, over the bar again lad, over the bar’ a voice bellowed, mocking him before they all  started chanting ‘over the bar, over the bar, Jimmy SHAAARRRPPPPEE, he hits it over the bar’. They hadn’t forgotten the penalty miss, neither had Jimmy.

Kick off came fast and brutal. Bristol as the away team but playing in the kit of red shirt and shorts with white trim, Cardiff in all blue, the pitch a battleground of anger and emotion. Jimmy led the line, his number nineteen, his age when he signed his first professional contract with Bristol fourteen long years ago, clinging to his back like a target. Marks words echoed in his head, like they had a million times before ‘BE IT Jimmy, don’t feel it, you’re our main man’

The first chance fell to Bristol in the twelfth minute. A cross whipped in from the left hand side, Jackson finding space perfectly, the ball curling towards the two center halves like fate didn’t know what to do, but Jimmy Sharpe did. Running into the space between the defenders he rose before the defenders did, met the ball with his forehead, sent the ball towards goal, but it flew harmlessly over the bar. Groans from the away fans, cheers from the Cardiff fans.

‘A warning shot from Sharpe there, letting the defenders know he’s not dead yet’ came the words from the Sky Sports commentator. A warning shot maybe, but would there be any more?

The second chance was worse. A perfectly weighted and timed through ball down the middle, an impeccably timed run from Jimmy met it as he broke the offside trap, something he’d made a career out of. He let the ball come across him, took a touch on his left, only the keeper to beat who had committed himself by coming off his line early, Jimmy opened his body up, the full goal just about to aim for, he swung hard and fierce with his right pulling the trigger, but fate wasn’t having it. 

The ball bobbled as he hit it and went high into the stands. The biggest cheer from the Cardiff fans so far. It was a horrendous miss, and Jimmy knew it.

Marks words from earlier in the week playing in his mind ‘you’re rusty Jim’ but the rust was thicker than he thought

The chances Jimmy scuffed, Cardiff took and struck first, a bullet header from a cross, the type of goal Jimmy used to score with his eyes closed came just before half time. The worst time to concede. The whistle went and the boos rained down from the away end as Jimmy trudged off the pitch and into the away dressing room with his team mates. Slumped into his seat, shoulders sagged and his legs heavy, Mark started talking ‘The chances are coming, we’re just not clinical’ he said looking over to Jimmy. He continued ‘we’re not done yet. Jacko, Aarons, you two keep pumping that ball into the box. They’ve had one chance and taken it, we’ve had three and not taken them’ he took a mouthful of his drink and finished up by saying ‘Sharpe, keep your head up, your moment will come’

But Jimmy, as much of the footballing world did, didn’t believe it.

The second half started like a bad dream. Cardiff pressed and Bristol dropped deeper and faltered, and Jimmy was a shadow of himself. He was isolated up top as Cardiff kept the ball well out of his reach, but the ball did make its way to the final third.

A long hopeful ball from Shaw in the middle found Jimmy, who held it up, played it to the left to Rolando Aarons who’s got pace to burn. He skimmed the full back, and then the covering defender was also wrong footed by Aarons, he then cut on to his right foot and hit an inswinging cross to the far post. Jimmy was covered by the other center half but was goal side of him as the ball came in. A fifty-fifty challenge in the area as Jimmy jumped for the ball a split second quicker than the defender, but the defender went in to the back of Jimmy with the force of freight train.

Jimmy hit the deck feet first and as he did his ankle twisted, sending pain right up his leg like a bolt of lightning. He clutched his foot as the jeers rained down but he didn't hear them, just like he didn’t hear the roar from the away end as the referee blew for a penalty for the foul as the Bristol physio ran on.

As he was checking over Jimmy he said they’d got a penalty for the foul on him. Jimmy sat up now, thinking this was the chance to right the wrong of Wembley, to show he’s still got it, but the physio had other ideas. He spoke into his mic as well as relaying it to Jimmy shaking his head ‘you’re done Jimmy, you’re coming off’

Mark Jaulk stood on the sideline next to Sean Targett, the young forward who would be replacing Jimmy, giving instructions. Mark's face didn’t give any hint of his frustration as Jimmy limped down the tunnel.

When he was sitting in the physio room he heard the roar coming from the away end of the stadium, Rolando Aarons had scored from the spot to tie the game at one each. But it didn’t matter as the game ended 3-1 to Cardiff and Bristol never looked like scoring once Jimmy was off the pitch. The players all walked like zombies into the away dressing room, as Jimmy sat with his ankle taped up and propped on a crate, both his and the teams pride shattered.

The bus ride home was silent. Mark Jaulk didn’t speak to Jimmy or any player separately or as a group, and no one dared speak to him. Jimmy thought Marks not speaking to him meant he’d lost his faith in Jimmy, and after those glaring misses and now a broken ankle, Jimmy had also stopped believing in himself.

As the city lights of Bristol came into view Jimmy just stared out the window not really paying attention to anything going on around him. Who was he now, anyway? A washed up striker with a broken ankle and nothing left to give?

But was there just a sliver of hope, a small piece of the old Jimmy Sharpe in there, buried beneath all the rust and regret? Or was he just imagining that, hoping beyond hope that there was still some life left in him?

Chapter 5 - Watching from the Sidelines

Jimmy was sat in the dugout with the subs, still walking gingerly after getting the all clear to resume light training. The floodlights at Ashton Gate bathed the pitch in a harsh white, the kind that made everything seem raw and exposed. Bristol were winning 1-0 over a sub par Aston Villa team, themselves looking for a play off spot and just two points behind Bristol before the evening kick off. Daka was on the move again, all pace and swagger, darting around the Villa defence like a fox in a chicken coup. His strike partner Sean Targett wasn’t far behind, making another late run into the box waiting for another perfect ball to be delivered from Daka

It was the kind of strike partnership Jimmy used to dream about leading. Now he sat there, chewing on the bitter taste of irrelevance.

The crowd made more noise as Daka made light work of the double team from Villa and sent the ball over the top into the onrushing Targett who hit it on the volley and slammed the ball into the net, sending Ashton Gate in cheers. Jimmy barely reacted, his face looking as if carved from stone.

‘Sharpe, did you see that?’ Grant Jones, one of the attacking coaches said nudging him ‘textbook stuff, just like we’ve been working on’

Jimmy just smiled and nodded his head, he’d seen it all right, seen it too many times this season. Daka on fifteen and seven assists, Target with twelve before this game just added his thirteenth of the season, the young guns picking up where he’d left off, or where he’d failed to finish.

The broken ankle had been a blessing and a curse. The time off meant he’d be away from the noise, the jeers, the laughter and headlines about ‘Jimmy Sharpe’s decline needs to be studied’, but it also meant weeks of watching these young kids, graduates from the academy just like he was years ago, running the show and hearing fans and pundits rave about the ‘future of Bristol City’

He didn’t hate them, not at all. He himself had taken the palace of striker Leon Simms all those years ago. Daka was lightning in a bottle, full of raw talent mixed with anger and charm. Targett was like Jimmy, a thinking mans player, a clinical finisher with ice in his veins. They were both good committed kids, both nineteen just like Jimmy was, always worked hard, listened and deserved their success. Each goal or assist felt like another nail in Jimmys coffin.

He’d tried to be part of the team by offering advice, shared tips, offered techniques and so on, acting the veteran player that he is. But they didn’t need him, not any more. Targett would nod and in his Geordie accent say ‘aye pal, smashing’ and then do things his own way, scoring more often than not. Daka was all business, just nodding to the words from Jimmy and create chances in a way Jimmy never could.

The physios had said he was ready. The ankle would still ache but it was strong and repaired enough to play, and his body fit. But his mind? That was another story still. Seven games left to go, the play off race wide open and even a chance of grabbing second place and automatic promotion. Plymouth Argyle had all but secured first place, a whopping sixteen points separated them from second. Mark had hinted Jimmy might see some minutes yet, but he knew they’d just be scraps, see the game out kind of thing. Token gestures to keep the old dog happy, and for the fans to cheer him being back on the pitch. The truth gnawed at him. He wasn’t jealous of Daka and Targett at all, he loved to see kids breaking through and taking their chances. But he was jealous of their belief, their momentum and the fact that they both could easily out score him. Jimmy Sharpe used to be unstoppable, a name that struck fear into defenders. Now? Now he was a relic, a memory, a name fans bring up when they’re reminiscing about times gone.

The ref blew the whistle. Another win for Bristol City, Daka and Targett playing the full game and each getting a goal and assisting each other. It was the type of strike partnership managers dreamed about. The chemistry between them is so good it should be taught in schools. Both jogged off the pitch to the applause of the fans. Jimmy sat still on the bench, waiting for the players to leave the pitch, letting the cold air creep into his bones.

‘Lad’ Mark Jaulks voice boomed from his left. He looked over to him, nodded and stood up as Mark said ‘good to have you back on the bench, even if you weren’t in the team today’

Jimmy just smiled and picked his bag up, as he did Mark said ‘we’ve got a free week, Burton are in the cup up at Birmingham, so this week we train every day. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance’

He looked at the remaining fixtures, Burton Albion away next, already relegated to League One, a meaningless game in which Bristol won’t even need to show up to get the win. Would this be his chance to start? Or would he get a 5 minute cameo in injury time after Daka scored a hat trick in the game?

As the rest of the players and staff filed into the dressing room Jimmy stayed behind and stared out at the stands. He looked over at the Atyeo stand, named after Bristols leading goalscorer ever, John Atyeo, Jimmy a close second behind wondering would he get a stand named after him, or would that be renamed the Daka stand before it’s named the Sharpe end? The few fans that were left made their way out didn’t even notice Jimmy wandering the touchline, and they didn’t chant his name anymore.

He clenched his fists feeling the scars of a season lost. The fire wasn’t completely gone, it was there, just, smoldering slightly and waiting patiently. The question wasn’t if he’d play again and get his chance. The question was would he take his chance or not?

Seven games left. Seven chances to remind them just who in the hell Jimmy Sharpe really was.

Chapter 6 - Boiling Point

The away dressing was a furnace of frustration and anger. Boots thrown across the room, locker doors slammed and hanging on hinges by a thread, striker Daka’s personal vendetta against a water bottle carrier still going despite protests from the staff. The stench of sweat and defeat clung in the air like a bad dream. Bristol City, third in the league, unbeaten in fifteen winning eight on the spin and looking unplayable had just ruined a lot of acca’s by losing to Burton Albion, with nothing to play for having already been relegated to League One.

Mark Jaulk stood in the center of the room, his fist throbbing from ensuring the fold up table had seen its last days, his face a mask of fury. He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to, the silence was worse.

After the prolonged silence, the awkwardness was just starting to creep in, he picked up a water bottle, one of the ones punted by Daka, and spoke in a low and venomous tone ‘complacency has been the killer of many a teams run, it’s hard to spot, as I’ve just found out’ he took a swig, no one dared speak

‘Bottom of the league, they’ve got seven points all season, and four, FUCKING FOUR OF THOSE YOU LOT HAVE GIFTED THEM!! Could’t beat them at home, they played with ten behind the ball, I said at that time it was frustrating, but to come here, get outplayed, outfought and taught a lesson by this lot isn’t just unacceptable, it’s down right embarrassing!’ The words hung in the air, glances were exchanged between the players, still no one dared speak. Mark continued ‘there’s a mirror over there, I should line you all up and force to you have a fucking word with yourselves. You lot think you’re getting promoted to the Premier League playing like that?!? Not a chance. Absolutely no fight, no spirit no pride at all’

Apologies boss, it’s….’ Sean Targett had started to say before Mark cut him off

‘Apologies?! Fucking apologies?? Apologies don’t win games, don’t get us promoted. This is a cut throat sport lad, and you’ve just cost us a fortune there. We would’ve been second if we won that, now we’re down to fourth, Wigan and Bournemouth are above us now’ he said before throwing the bottle at the door. ‘You think this is easy? You think I enjoy this? I spend hours upon hours going over every little detail, tactics, analysing results, coming up with plans to win games and giving you gutless twats every tool to win the game. Last week you destroyed Villa like it was nothing, every week you take the pi*s out of every team but Burton Albion, who the fuvk are Burton Albion?!? Pathetic, the lot of ya’

‘You won’t give me anything now anyway but I am telling you I want answers. I’ve got to answer to the press, the fans and I need to know what the hell happened out there. Did you lose your bottle, is it the pressure getting to you all? Or dare I say it, are you shit scared of actually getting to the Premier League cos you’re not good enough? You will be reminded of this feeling, mark my words, every game from now on’

Jimmy Sharpe just stood at the end of the bench, still in his match kit under his tracksuit, ankle still strapped and his head down. He didn’t play a minute, despite Targett and Daka fluffing their lines, jogged when they should’ve sprinted, didn’t even think about tracking back and combining for a total of three shots in the game, none so much as making their way to the Burton keeper. Mark hadn’t even looked at Jimmy through the game at all despite the forwards doing nothing. He didn’t feel vindicated or angry, he just felt hollow.

Daka was now sitting scrolling on his phone like the loss was no more than a minor inconvenience. Targett was at least showing some emotion, going over the errors with Aarons and Martinez and his face red from all the shouting. These were young, gifted players, full of potential, but they were just that, young, inexperienced. And tonight they’d been wasteful.

Jimmy had conflicted thoughts. He should be angry with the two youngsters who’ve taken his place, but instead it was envy that he felt. Daka and Targett could afford to have the odd bad game, they had a number of years in front of them to make amends. Jimmy’s clock was ticking.

The penalty from the play off final last year replayed in his head yet again, the miss that started this spiral. The moment that turned him from the main man into a ghost. Every time he laced his boots he felt its weight. It wasn’t just his ankle that was shattered, it was his confidence, his identity. He started replaying the misses from the first game of the season at rivals Cardiff City when Marks voice cut through his thoughts

‘Sharpe’ his voice loud enough to be heard back in Bristol ‘how’s the ankle?’

‘Good boss’

‘Good to hear lad, good, because I am done with passengers and pretenders. If you’ve got anything left in the tank, I need it. Six to go and we’ve got to gain ground on second, I cannot have another play off failure, and neither can you’

Jimmy just nodded, this would be the eighth play offs they’d have gotten to. Mark then said loud enough so everyone could hear it ‘and you’re starting next week. I won’t be telling either of you two pissants who’s getting dropped or if we're going with a lone striker until the game at home to Sheffield United. I no longer need your attention, dismissed’

Jimmy felt the familiar feeling of doubt creeping in. What if he had another poor game at home next week, what if his ankle or another body part failed him on the day?

They all filed out of the room in drips and drabs and the mood didn’t lighten. Daka passed Jimmy without a glance, still glued to his phone. Targett offered a small nod, but it was a weak gesture of solidarity.

Jimmy lingered in the room staring at himself in a mirror on the wall. The face staring back was older, harder, more worn out. The eyes carried fourteen years and over two hundred goals for one club, but they also carried fear.

In the quiet of the empty room Jimmy clenched his fists and screamed at the mirror. Mark Jaulk believed in him even if he didn’t believe in himself. Six games to go, six chances to impress, six games to show that Jimmy Sharpe might be down, but he’s not out of it just yet

Chapter 7 - Teach an old dog new tricks

The crowd at Ashton Gate was restless, the low hum of anticipation buzzing through the stands. Bristol had been the better team and had pressed hard against Sheffield United, also looking for a play off place but were solid in their defending. The clock ticked to the sixtieth minute, the game locked at nil-nil, and every pass that didn’t go forward, every time Sheffield got the ball just added to the tension

The ball eventually found its way to Rolando Aarons on the Bristol left. The inside forward took a touch, glanced up and saw Jimmy Sharpe making a diagonal run into the box, a run he’d made a million times before. Aarons inswinging ball was a beauty, a long looping delivery with just enough whip on it to tempt the defenders but still aimed squarely for Bristols longest serving player

Sharpe was sandwiched between the two center halves, both as tall, both younger and both desperate to keep him quiet. But this was the moment of the game he was waiting for.

He timed his leap to perfection, rising above the two defenders, his body twisting to meet the ball with his forehead. He didn’t try to score, the keeper was positioned too close to him, and the odds were against him. Poor form, low confidence, he’d never bury this. Instead he aimed to lay it back across goal to make something happen.

It wasn’t a powerful header, it wasn't intended to be, but it was precise. The ball dropped like an early Christmas present to Sean Targett, who had made a late run, unmarked into the six yard box

He didn’t hesitate. He swung his right foot up and into the ball in one fluid motion, catching it as clean as you like. The volley screamed past Saunders in the Sheffield goal, rippling the net before the keeper could react.

Ashton Gate erupted. A wall of noise rolled out of the stadium and through the streets of Bristol, drowning out everything else. Targett wheeled away, arms aloft in celebration towards the man that made it happen.

The eyes of the fans weren’t just on Targett, they were on Sharpe. He stood there, hands on his hips with a rare grin breaking across his face. He’d done it, not the goal but the assist. He’d been a part of the breakthrough that ignited the fire. Targett reached Sharpe and jumped in his arms. The old head and the young lion in unison.

Mark Jaulk punched the air on the touchline knowing his gamble to drop top scorer Daka in favour of Jimmy Sharpe had worked. He was shouting instructions as the players jogged back to their half, ready to resume the game, and ready for the inevitable Sheffield United attack. Target might have scored but the fans were chanting ‘SHARPIE! SHARPIE! SHARPIE!

Jimmy heard them, and for the first time in a long time he let himself feel it. Pride, relief and a flicker of belief. He waved to the fans behind the dugout as Sheffield made a change. The fans all cheered at this as the chants continued.

From the restart Bristol were buzzing after breaking the deadlock. Sheffield United with one the toughest defences in the league look rattled as Bristol pressed for another

Sharpe had dropped deep to snuff out a Sheffield counter attack, and picked the ball up just by the center circle. A quick turn and glance forward showed Targett making a run on Jimmys left, taking the defender with him leaving a gap where younger Jimmy would’ve run with the ball right into. But his mind worked faster than his legs nowadays.

With a measured touch he slid a perfect through ball in the gap as Targett made the outside run back inside. The pass was like a needle into thread, curling just enough for Targett’s exquisite touch. Opening his body before the second defender could react, he curled the ball to the far post, way beyond the keepers reach. Ice cold, precise, no looking back now.

Ashton Gate had just settled down from the opener a mere minute ago but the roar from Targetts second goal was deafening. Target turned around and pointed right at Sharpe, acknowledging his work in the goal. 

They both jogged back to the center circle, with Jimmy trying and failing to hide the grin tugging at his lips. Two assists, and the old instincts were starting to feel razor sharp again.

With five minutes left in the game Bristol had been in complete control, Sheffield United had gone with three up top and gone all out attack in desperation, they needed the points to keep their own playoff hopes alive, but it was all in vain, as the gaps left at the back were just begging to be exploited.

A counterattack began deep in the Bristol half. Left full back Tommy Neil sprinted up the pitch and easily beat his man before stopping, and cutting back to play the ball in field to Sharpe, who was hovering unmarked outside the area. The covering defenders panicked, a motivated Jimmy Shapre unmarked on the edge of the box is the last thing any defender wants to see, so the three converged on him, wary of his ability and the two assists he’d already got. But Jimmy, mind still racing and one step ahead, let the ball roll across his body. With a deft side foot pass he redirected the ball into the path of Targett who was running into the box.

Targett, as with the first two didn’t hesitate. His left foot first time shot connected sweetly, sending the ball soaring up and into the net. The net bulged, the stadium erupted into the loudest cheers so far.

Target again ran right up to Jimmy Shapre pulling him into a bear hug as team mates swarmed them both. The scoreline was now three to Bristol, Ashton Gate was electric.

As the final whistle blew the fans chanted Sharpes name again. Three valuable points, three assists and a vintage performance from the veteran. Jimmy was the last to leave the pitch, his head held high. He might not be the main man, Targett was now pushing for twenty for the season, but tonight he’d been a catalyst. The fire inside wasn’t roaring just yet, but it was there, steady and warm.

Chapter 8 - The Weight of a Season
 

The days leading up to the final game of the season, a home tie against second placed Ipswich Town, were a blur of tension and routine. Ashton Gate had been a fortress of sorts for Bristol City and was always full of confidence, but these last few days it felt more like a pressure cooker. The city buzzed with nervous energy, could the city of Bristol be home to not one but two Premier League teams? Rovers had been promoted two long seasons ago at City’s expense. But the city on this day had fans donned in red and white, faces hopeful but lined with anxiety. Despite seven straight play off finishes, this was the best chance for City to get promoted at long last.

Jimmy Sharpe felt it too. Five wins on the spin since getting back into the starting line up and he’d been a big part of that run. Not the goal a game forward he used to be, no, that Jimmy seemed like a relic of past times now, but this Jimmy Sharpe, the rejuvenated and confident one was now a provider of goals for young upstart Sean Targett. Of Targetts nine goals in those five games, Sharpe assisted all but one, which was a penalty Sharpe had won away at Yeovil. Jimmy was the forward who could read the game two steps ahead. His passes had been the keys that unlocked the defences of Blackpool, Fulham, Everton, Leeds and the aforementioned Yeovil. His presence had steadied the team after a shocking loss at Burton Albion.

But assists, as key as they are, weren’t goals and Jimmy knew it. He could feel the unspoken question in the air from the fans, team mates, pundits and even himself. ‘Can he still do it? Can Jimmy Sharpe, a one club man still deliver for Bristol City when it matters most?

Mark Jaulk had been careful with his words in the week up to Ipswich at home. In team meetings, video reviews and even in warm down sessions he focussed more on Ipswich’s tactics, their composure off the ball and their belief that they only need to avoid defeat to be promoted as runners up. But in private, his voice carried a sharper more serious edge.

‘Sharpie, these last five games have just been what I wanted to see from you’ Mark had said after Yeovil away, when the rest of the team had left the dressing room, with a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder ‘we’ve been through it, me and you. These lads, they look up to you, Targett idolises you, and Daka even though you’ve kicked him out of the team is watching your every move. Just keep it up for one more game, and we’ll reap the rewards’

Jimmy nodded, but inside the doubt flickered. That penalty miss still haunted him, a shadow that clung to every decision, every touch. He hadn’t scored at all this season, what if his moment came in the Ipswich game and he missed again?

The younger players seemed oblivious to it all. Daka and Targett joked in the dressing room, Aarons, Howe and Murphy the victims of their pranks, and their laughter cut through the tension. Sean Targett, twenty three goals for the season, was Sharpes new strike partner, had a quiet confidence about him, the kind Jimmy envied.

The training sessions were harsh and relentless, the mood a strange mix of focus and nerve. Every player in the Bristol City first team knew what was at stake. Ipswich are no pushover, handing Bristol their first loss of the season which seemed an age ago now, but Bristol would be at a packed Ashton Gate, riding a wave of momentum from five wins in a row, conceding just twice in the process.

Jimmy stayed late on the Thursday, the penultimate session before the last game of the season, working on his touch and finishing with Rick Dawson, the teams attacking coach. Doing one on one drills with a youth keeper, taking first time shots from outside the box and headers from Ricks crosses. The ball hit the net more often than not, and Jimmy had nice words for the youth keeper, the keepers first taste of training with a first teamer, and club legend to boot. But it wasn’t easy, the keeper made Jimmy work, and it never felt like it used to

That night he laid in bed staring at the ceiling, the noise of Bristol town center just about creeping into the room. His mind replayed the penalty miss again and again, the ball blazing over the bar, the silence of the sold out Wembley before the jeers and groans began. But then other moments came into his minds eye. The header to set up Targett against Sheffield United, the defence splitting through ball against Fulham, the one two with Aarons inside the box to chip it to the far post for yet another Targett close range finish against Leeds. The roar of the Bristol fans as they solidified third in the table, setting up the biggest game of the season.

He wasn’t the same Jimmy Sharpe who had on average twenty goals a season, but that didn’t matter in this moment. What mattered was being here, being a part of this run, being a part of finally, maybe, getting Bristol into the Premier League.

As matchday approached the tension in the squad became palpable. Mark Jaulk kept his words short and to the point ‘this is our moment’ he told the players as they left on Friday evening ‘play football like we have been, leave everything out there and we’ll be fine’

Jimmy listened, he’d heard this man speak and give confidence for the last nine years, Mark Jaulk and Jimmy Sharpe were synonymous with Bristol City. Marks words were settling over him and with a slight nod from him to Jimmy, ever so slight only Jimmy noticed it, telling him he’d be starting the game, knowing he’d be a part of it one way or another.

But now, standing on the edge of glory, the edge of something they’d dreamed about and came so close enough times, he felt a strange calm. He wasn’t the hero any more, he wasn’t the man they all looked to for inspiration, but he was still Jimmy Sharpe dammit! And that, he decided, was good enough.

Chapter 9 - Last roll of the dice

14:45. Fifteen minutes to kick off, and the home dressing room hummed with a nervous energy that felt alive, buzzing in the air and with a hint of sweat and expectation. Ashton Gate, packed to the rafters, no empty seat to be seen which has been the case all season in fairness. The roar of the crowd already vibrating through the walls. The cheers and chants before kick off was a reminder of what is at stake. One last game, one last chance at automatic promotion or confirmation of yet another play off run.

Mark Jaulk paced the room as he spoke, voice steady and shape with the usual hint of pre match tension ‘You’ve earned this, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. No team gave us the win, every team made it hard for us to win and get to within one match of promotion. One game, one win, and it’s the Premier League. Trust each other, communicate and play how you’ve played so far’

Jimmy Sharpe sat in his usual spot, the same seat he’d had for fourteen years at the club, third from the right, taping his shin pads in place, starting at his ankle, the ankle he broke in the first game of the season. Around him the younger players were buzzing with adrenaline and energy. Daka and Targett had been seen slapping each other on the back as if promotion was a given. A couple cracked jokes to break the tension, but Jimmy didn’t need noise to focus, he needed quiet.

This season had been a storm of self doubt, an endless question of whether he still had it, and still belonged in a professional football team. But eight assists in the last five games, all to Sean Targett had quieted the whispers, at least for now. Now the question was did Jimmy Sharpe still have enough in the tank for the last push, the biggest push of the season so far? The ghost of the Wembley penalty miss still lingered. That penalty miss still replaying in his mind, the ball sailing over the bar and taking the dream of the Premier League with it.

Mark stopped in front of him as the players got up to head to the pitch and said ‘this is your day Jim, trust yourself as much as I trust you’

Jimmy nodded, swallowed hard and fist bumped Mark as he made his own way to the pitch. His hands were steady as he laced his boots up at the door, his own pre game ritual he’d done countless times over the years, and his heart pounded like a war drum.

== == ==

From the whistle Bristol pressed the advantage and took the game to Ipswich Town, the noise and energy of the crowd pushing the full team forward. While the game was tight both teams were cautious in the tackle and dangerous on the break.

In the thirty third minute Bristol struck first. Rolando Aarons, finding himself on the right wing, whipped in a cross from deep towards the penalty spot, and as he’d done expertly well these last five games, Jimmy read the play better than anyone else on the pitch. He drifted from in between the center halves to being goal side of the full back without anyone in defence picking up his run. He jumped above the full back and instead of going for goal he cushioned a perfect header down into the path of Sean Targett, who himself had ghosted in between the center halves exactly where Jimmy was three seconds earlier. The youngster didn’t hesitate, smashing the ball into the bottom corner. 

Scenes at Ashton Gate. The sound was deafening, a wave of joy crashing over the pitch. Some fans had spilled onto the pitch but the Bristol players didn’t celebrate much. Targett high fiving Jimmy as they made their way to the center circle. They all knew there was a lot of the game left to go, the job wasn’t done, yet.

== == ==

Ipswich weren’t going down without a fight and Bristol just made it to half time still in the lead. Ten minutes into the second half they struck back. A quick counter attack with surgical precision ending in a slick one-two inside the box and a neat finish saw Ipswich level the game. The stadium, for the first time today, fell silent, the only noise being the handful of away fans housed in the far corner.

The weight of the game was pressing down on everyone involved like a lead blanket. The equaliser took some of the swagger out of Bristol but they pushed on looking for a second goal. The Ipswich keeper denying Targett twice from close range and a Rolando Aarons effort from thirty yards tipped for a corner. Ipswich had chacnes of thier own, but the Bristol defence and keeper were equal to everything thrown their way. Heading into the last ten minutes, they'd held firm and were now happy to sit deep and play on the counter. A draw suits them as they’d be promoted, but a draw meant another playoff run for Bristol.

But just then, the moment came. It came out of nowhere really, a loose ball from the Bristol defence from a desperate clearance to thwart a rare Ipswich attack found it’s way to O’Niell in the middle, who in turned played it forward from his central midfield position, and suddenly Jimmy Sharpe had run onto the ball and found himself thirty five yards from goal.

The crowd, just like Jimmy, held its breath as he turned so the ball was on his now fully repaired right foot, his instincts taking over. He glanced up, saw the keeper off his line still and unsure whether to retreat back or advance on Jimmy. The keeper decided Jimmy was closer so rushed forward, and Jimmy didn’t think, he just put his foot under the ball, to lift it over the keeper, the kind of shot you do in training, the kind of lob he’d not tried in years.

Time seemed to slow down as the ball arced through the air, rising and rising, but then dipping and slicing the air as the keeper made a futile attempt to touch it, his outstretched arms nowhere near the ball. The ball fell calmly, smoothly into the net, and Ashton Gate exploded.

Jimmy stood frozen for a moment, the noise hitting him like a wave. Then, almost involuntarily he ran. Arms wide, face alight with emotion, tears almost coming out as he ran screaming to the corner flag and dived into the fans. His team mates swarmed him, the fans all jumped on the mass of humans piled in the corner of the Dolman Stand. Security didn’t try and restore calm. The yellow card for the celebration was worth it Jimmy thought.

When the final whistle came it felt like salvation. The roar of the crowd was unending, the stands a sea of red and white. They chanted his name, Bristol City were Premier League bound, and Jimmy Sharpe, like old times, was the hero.

He sank to his knees as teammates all rushed to him, the weight of the season falling away there on the grass. Fans rushed to the pitch all wanting to be near the man that won the game. Rolando Aarons and Sean Targett pulled him up, slapping his back, hugging it out and making noises no one had ever heard from either man before.

Mark Jaulk was hoisted on the shoulders of some fans and let the last nine years of frustration out as he embraced the chaos.

When some calm and order was restored Mark and Jimmy found each other on the pitch amidst all the fans and Bristol players and staff, and Jimmy hugged Mark and lifted him off his feet. As he did Mark whispered ‘that’s the Jimmy Sharpe I knew was still in there. No one else in this team would have scored that goal’ his voice horse but full of pride.

Jimmy just hugged him tighter, tears now coming down his face. The ghosts of last season, the Wembley miss, the doubts, the fears, they’d all gone. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole.

Cameras caught up with the pair and as he was asked what this meant for him, and he could only utter one word

‘Redemption’