 
One Shot at Glory (Dave Shaw: A soccer prodigy)

Copyright Paddy Davitt 2014

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Paddy is currently working on part two in the Dave Shaw series

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

About the Author

Chapter One

Crippling pain shoots through my right ankle. Pain like I have never experienced before in my life. Rising fear replaces the adrenaline surging around my body. One second focusing on scoring a goal, the next trying to avoid looking down at my shattered ankle and the anxious faces of Wolston's medical staff and team mates crowding around me.

I know what the boys are thinking.

Counting their blessings it's me and not them lying there on the turf.

Dad kisses my forehead in the ambulance as paramedics fit the oxygen mask. Mum cries by my hospital bedside a few hours later after I come round from surgery.

Doctors can repair shattered bones and ligaments, but what about the numbness of missing the thing you love? The thing you've done everyday for the previous eleven years of your life.

Playing with a sponge ball in the living room, weaving in and out of cushions, turning the sofa into AC Milan's famous defence for one night, playing with mates in the park, school teams in cup finals, Wolston Rovers in that famous sky blue kit.

Life becomes one endless battle to rebuild my shattered right leg. Weeks on crutches, rehab sessions with club physios and specialists.

Mum and Dad learning the art of walking on eggshells around a timebomb in their midst. Offers of help met with anger and resentment.

It was monotonous. I hated my world and everything in it, from the physical torture to those dark thoughts and black moods. The self-doubt and the sick sensation my dream was over.

Now here I am. 12 months later having to play the game of my life. Eight years in Wolston's academy and it all comes down to the next 90 minutes.

Not that it should have, you understand. No way. I'd been cruising towards that scholarship contract and a giant step towards the big time ever since Rovers first spotted me.

Mighty Rovers. My club, Dad's club. The team I first fell in love with when he took me to watch them play Liverpool as a five-year-old. If I close my eyes I'm back there again. Holding his hand tightly as we weave between the crowds, squeeze through the turnstile to climb those steep steps that seemed to go on forever towards the back of the West Stand.

And there it is. That first sight of the lush football pitch bathed in brilliant sunshine. The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It still is, even now at 16. Wolston's home is like a drug to me and I'm hooked.

'David, for the last time will you get in the car.'

'Don't panic, Dad, we've got plenty of time. Bopper told us to report to The Lodge for one.'

I slam the passenger door shut and pull the headphones over my ears. I'm in no mood for Dad's pre-match pep talk today.

What does Bop always say?

Get yourself mentally right, visualise your runs into channels, springing their offside trap, outwitting their keeper. Now repeat the mantra. Focus. Focus.

Bopper French. Wolston's Under-16s coach. The man guiding Rovers to the brink of an academy league title. The same man who carried me off the pitch last March screaming in agony.

Bop is more than a football coach. He's a mentor.

'Look Shawsy, I believe in you,' I remember him saying after one more average display during my comeback from injury. 'The other coaches believe in you, your team mates still believe in you.'

'My confidence's shot to bits, Bop.'

'You're the most natural goalscorer we've got here in the academy. You don't lose that, injury or no injury. You have to give your body time to adjust, get minutes under your belt. Find your match sharpness.'

Five games without a goal. I'd never fired so many blanks in a row. My brain was sharp as ever, I knew what I had to do and where I needed to be on a pitch, but the signals just weren't getting through to the rest of my body or my wrecked right ankle.

I've never been a streaky striker. I didn't run hot and cold before my world was turned upside down.

The tears and the tantrums start again, rows with my old man over the littlest things, constant atmospheres at home as my dream slipped away.

I know the numbers. All the lads know the numbers. Wolston recruit eight or nine first year scholars each summer. By my age, clubs were on the look out for players from all over, and I mean home and abroad, so what chance a striker with a dodgy ankle who had lost a yard of pace and couldn't score goals anymore?

You know as well as I do.

With each miss the pressure grew. Lads who had been in my shadow were starting to blossom, edging me out of the spotlight.

Now I was getting substituted in matches, having to sit on the bench alongside players who previously looked up to me.

Dave Shaw. Predator, goal machine, the young hotshot with an academy contract tucked in his back pocket destined for the very top.

Except I'm hurtling in the opposite direction, lying awake at night after each misfiring match replaying conversations with Bop and his staff. Searching for clues like some amateur detective, picking through the meaning of every sentence, studying the body language of the coaches; worrying about the growing presence of Rob Duncan.

Wolston's academy chief is a cross between that teacher you hate most and the school bully you steer clear of.

Lads go out of their way to avoid his office window at The Lodge when we wait for lifts home after training.

On Saturday mornings he stares out of that same window down at the pitches below. Wolston's training ground is his manor and he knows everyone and everything. Step out of line and he'd be the first to hear about it. Late for training, late for meeting the minibus to an away match, arguing with referees, nothing escapes his attention.

Duncan compiles dossiers on all the academy players. If you fall foul of the surly Scot your binder is open on the desk as you enter his room; the head teacher pouring over his crime sheet, only occasionally looking up to jab an accusing finger.

The older you get, the more you wise up. The information in those leather folders contains the keys to the door or having it slammed shut in your face; just who has a real chance out of the 100 or so boys progressing through Wolston's academy at any one time, the one or two touched by stardust hurtling towards the top, the possibles, the ones yet to convince or those just making up the numbers.

It was black or white by my age. Stay or go. Cashing in the lottery ticket, earning a two-year scholarship with every advantage going to clear that one final hurdle; the barrier to a privileged world of money, status, hero worship. Or cast into a world of exit trials with others scrambling for a second chance, maybe settling for part-time football and giving up on the dream of being a professional.

Earn the golden academy invite and it was training and playing just like a professional for two more years. There were still no guarantees at 18 you wouldn't be tossed aside, but the odds were in your favour then to at least make a decent living lower down the leagues.

Duncan is driving this gravy train. His brief is to produce first team talent for Wolston Rovers. He had a proven track record. His verdict was final.

Rain lashes across the windscreen as we turn off the main road into The Lodge. My mind drifts back to Ipswich and the game I broke my ankle that was played in similar conditions.

No one could be that unlucky? Not today of all days.

Positive thoughts Dave. This is your time. You're a big game player.

Wolston need a win to clinch the academy league title. The club's first at this level in five years. That was the team of Hamer, Pounchett and Hassall, now first team regulars.

Arsenal stands in our way. One of the best youth set-ups in the country. We were just little rural cousins stuck out in the sticks.

The past few nights I dreamt about repeating my hat-trick against the Gunners in a 5-2 victory last season. That seemed a lifetime ago, when the sky was the limit until a shattered ankle brought me crashing down to earth.

C'mon Dave. Time to live in the present here, not the past.

I'd stumbled on that mantra in a self-help book Dad bought me, when the depression really kicked in. I told him it would come in handy to prop up that wonky snooker table in our extension, but I'd read it cover to cover.

'Shape Your Own Destiny' by some expert in psychology. Typical Dad. He'd grown up in an era when the only scientific thing players did was pop pills to help with hangovers.

Dad had watched every game since I'd first turned out for Rovers eight years ago. The embarrassing picture of his son wearing a sky blue top three sizes too big for him took pride of place in our hallway.

It's always a boost to see him standing there on the touchline but after a shocker I knew it was coming; the post-mortem. Sometimes I'd sit in silence, let his words sink in. He talks plenty of sense and knows my game better than anyone. Other days I'd be spoiling for a fight and the car would turn into a war zone, like two rival managers trading insults in a press conference.

Then silence for the rest of the evening, Mum the mediator, before the Sunday morning thaw.

'How are you feeling son?'

We park in our usual spot. The car park was barely half full on Saturdays with no office staff or senior players about. But we were still in the furthest bay from the changing rooms. It was a superstition of mine. Lesson one about Dave Shaw. I'm superstitious. Big time.

'A bit nervous, Dad. Just want to get out there.'

'That's good. If you didn't have butterflies there'd be something wrong.'

'Dad, what if...'

I hold his gaze for a second and look away. I couldn't quite finish the sentence, but I guess he could see the anxiety on my face.

'David, just do your best. That'll be good enough. Trust me. I know how hard you've worked, the long hours to get fit, the worries about your form and sharpness. Just put those negative thoughts out of your head. I'm proud of you. Whatever happens today, remember that.'

This was big for my old man. He didn't normally do the whole emotional, touchy feely stuff.

I feel an urge to respond but the rain hammering against our car roof is the soundtrack to this tender moment.

'C'mon Shawsy, they'll have kicked off at this rate.'

Bop taps on the car window. Dad gives me a smile, then a nod of re-assurance. I bolt from the car, kit bag over my head as the rain buckets down.

Strains of drum and bass grow louder as I stride through the dressing room door. I don't need any pumping up today. I sit down at my usual peg in the far corner and look across at players I'd grown up with over the last few years. It's like peering in the mirror. Tense faces, no banter, no eye contact, just the thud of the music reverberating around the walls. They were all in the same boat as me. This was more than a game, more than a championship at stake.

Bop strides in and looks around. No need for a rousing team talk. We have plenty of motivation for this one.

The rain eases as we jog out onto the pitch for a warm up.

Maybe it's a sign?

One of the conditioning coaches who'd helped me back to fitness drills us through stretches, shuttle runs, shooting practice, anything to get us loose and get those muscles working.

Arsenal's squad do the same at the opposite end of the pitch. They were out of the title race but still had everything to play for. Earn an academy contract at a club like Arsenal and you'd hit the jackpot.

Even if you never made it anywhere near the Gunners' first team you could count on being picked up by other top flight clubs. Or worst case scenario, drop down a league or two and try to work your way back to the big time.

'Shaw, wake up, laddie. Stop day-dreaming.'

The thick Glaswegian accent was a dead give away. Duncan. Dressed in his favourite three-quarter length raincoat Wolston's academy chief looks every inch the mafia henchman.

'Sorry Rob, miles away.'

He was striding towards me.

Here we go, just what I need, a full on roasting to shatter my fragile confidence.

'I hope your mind's on the job, laddie. This is a big game for you.'

Full marks for stating the obvious, Duncan. You fool.

'I know Rob.'

'Do you remember destroying this shower last time? You had a fantastic match.'

I look into the bloke's grey, colourless eyes. Why should I be surprised? Duncan's instant recall of past academy games was the stuff of legend amongst the rest of the coaches.

'Yeah,' I mumbled.

How could I forget it – it was my last match before Ipswich. The last time I felt like a proper footballer.

'Well, that's the benchmark. That's the player I expect to see this afternoon.'

Duncan walks off in the direction of Jack Goddard, our skipper, centre half and talisman.

Benchmark. What did he mean by that? Did I have to go out and score a hat-trick just to get in his good books again? I hadn't scored more than once in a game since coming back from injury. Did my hopes of a scholarship rest on scoring a hat-trick?

Couldn't this bloke see what I'd been through? The pain, the tears, the self-doubt and now he seems to be demanding perfection.

I jog back towards the changing rooms alone. Head down. Eyes fixed on the grass.

'Good luck David.'

I raise a hand towards a small group of supporters walking from the direction of the car park. I appreciate the backing but there is only one thing I cared about. Showing Duncan.

'Right lads, shut the door.'

Time for Bop's final instructions, one last outing for his flipcharts and diagrams as he reminds us who was zonal on set pieces or who had to mark targets.

Bop's mouth is moving, words tumbling out, but I'm not listening.

Only his parting shot pierces my bubble.

'You know what's at stake.' He was rolling a ball underneath his foot in the centre of the dressing room, pausing for dramatic effect. '...everything we've done, and I don't just mean this season but for the majority of you here who've been with us from the age of eight or nine, well, it comes down to this one game.

'It's in our own hands. Don't blow it. Do it for your families, do it for your team mates, but above all do it for yourself.'

Players embrace and shake hands. Goddard gives it the verbals. All he's missing is steam coming out of his ears. It was like we were in the trenches ready to go over the top, knowing only a few of us would come back.

Jim Cornforth is in the toilet, throwing up. Our midfielder's usual pre-match routine. If only Arsenal could see him in this state.

Once the whistle blew he'd be like a mad dog, snarling at opponents, biting into tackles. Jim loved a tackle. Referees loved to book him, but he was our heartbeat, he set the tone and dragged the rest of the lads along for the ride.

Goddard leads us towards the closed door. He was a powerhouse of a defender. Tough, aggressive, uncompromising. The one player you hoped was on your team whenever the training bibs were handed out.

All those bruises down the back of my Achilles testify to that. He'd been singled out as captaincy material for as long as I could remember.

But the lad can play. And boy is he brave. He's wearing a head bandage to protect a fresh scar above his right eyebrow after getting ten stitches where he'd thrown himself into a ruck of boots at West Ham. We'd been hanging on for dear life in the closing stages, but he held us together.

He'd have stayed on the park that day as well for the final, frantic minutes if the referee was prepared to turn a blind eye to the blood pouring out of his noggin.

Goddard's nasty gash was almost a badge of honour. That and the three points we picked up in London to keep us on Chelsea's heels.

It was the start of our run. We'd gone ten matches unbeaten. I'd scored eight goals since coming back from injury, my worst tally of any academy season.

Wayne Bufton had stepped out of my shadow.

What he lacked in pace, Wazza more than made up for in awkwardness. He was tall and gangly but with great feet and a touch that caught most opponents by surprise. We'd formed a good partnership in the earlier age groups, me gorging on flicks as defenders struggled with flailing arms and legs.

He'd scored 20 goals by the end of last month, the first year he'd ever beaten me in the goalscoring charts.

Don't get me wrong here. I like Wayne. He's a great lad and it seems to work on the pitch. We just knew it could come down to a straight fight between us for a scholarship. The same applied throughout the whole squad. We were going out there to beat Arsenal as a team but we were also rivals waiting for Duncan's final verdict.

I edge to the back of the line up as we file out of the dressing room to occupy my usual spot in the pecking order. Did I mention earlier I'm quite superstitious?

I'm a pretty cool customer, normally, but my stomach is doing somersaults.

Forget about that.

Time for a condition check here, old son. Do you have the talent? Yes. Have you prepared right? Yes. Do you feel fit and sharp? Yes. Are you going to show Duncan? Not sure. How many goals are you going to score today? Don't know. Are you going to score today? Pass.

Scoring goals came so easy in the past. I possessed all the character flaws that marked out the best strikers – arrogance, cockiness, selfishness.

Now I needed to produce on demand. It's a pressure I hadn't felt before. That fear of stepping into the unknown with no reference point to gauge if I can sink or swim.

The rain is heavier as we emerge from the dressing rooms. The surface feels greasy. Perfect for defenders but a nightmare for predatory strikers. The usual suspects are crouching under umbrellas dotted along the touchline. Family and friends and hardcore Roverites who turn up in all weathers to watch any group of lads wearing their colours, just to see the team they love. The team I love, a club struggling to get back into the Premier League.

Wolston used to be called the 'Harry Houdinis' defying the odds every season to survive against the big boys.

Not any more. Now we were stuck in the Championship for the last four years trying and failing to scramble into the top flight.

Mark Peacock had returned as first team manager following relegation. Peacock was one of the club's FA Cup heroes from the greatest day in our history. A day I never get bored of hearing about from Dad, even though I tell him differently to wind him up.

He'd made the trek to Wembley along with 50,000 from the town to watch one of the greatest cup finals ever played. I knew the television commentary backwards I'd watched it so many times.

Dad loves to tell the story about how he and his brothers returned to Wolston the night of the cup final to find people dancing in the public fountains, the water dyed sky blue. Pubs staying open through the night, endless street parties, like peace had broken out after war.

Then the open top bus tour the following day as fans clambered up road signs and traffic lights to grab a glimpse of the squad holding aloft the FA Cup.

Peacock was the youngest member of that special team. A hungry midfielder who covered every blade of Wembley, but the time for basking in reflective glory had long since passed. Now only the future mattered for him and Wolston.

The deadwood was cut, old timers reaching the end of their careers sitting on fat Premier League contracts collecting money to go through the motions. Youth was the way forward, breeding players with the club at heart. Players Duncan was helping to nurture. Players like me.

Goddard is the focal point of our pre-match huddle in the middle of our half. We know this is our time. I had come a long way with the majority of these boys but as we split it feels like a farewell, one last hurrah.

Not that Goddard is one for sentiment. As Arsenal's number nine discovers with an early calling card. The professionals call it a reducer, letting your opposite man know you mean business as early as possible to get inside his head. Sending a signal there's plenty more where that came from.

The ref calls him over but it's a lecture, rather than a yellow card. Result. Arsenal's striker protests as the physio runs back to the bench.

I smile.

Don't take it personally, mate. Goddard is an animal. His own granny would've hit the deck if she had a chance to score against us.

The wet surface is treacherous. I make a couple of early runs into the channels but balls go flying over my head and skid out of play.

I clap our midfielders. I need the supply line like never before today.

Bop barks orders from the dugout. Duncan leans against it. Hands tucked in his overcoat; mind no doubt whirring. Weighing up who stays and who goes.

Jimbo surges forward after mugging one of Arsenal's midfielders. I'm on the move, bending my run trying to stay onside, begging for the ball.

Delay, delay. Finally Jimbo looks up and fires it in my direction. I kill it instantly, ready to test the Gunners' keeper when the whistle blows. I look across at the assistant's flag and hammer the ball away in frustration.

Not a good move, Shawsy.

'Son, come here. Now.'

I know how this ends. The referee might have let Goddard's assault go in the opening skirmishes, but kicking the ball away, wow, that was a heinous crime to be punished.

Typical letter of the law merchant.

'Ref, give me a break.'

'Play had stopped long before you kicked it away. You knew it was offside. I'm booking you for deliberate time wasting.'

Time wasting? Time was one thing I didn't have on my side.

'Ref, we need to win this game. I'd hardly be time wasting at this stage?'

Arguing with your old man was one thing but even an arrogant 16-year-old knows there is only one winner in this situation.

He flashes a yellow card in my face, a brand new one for the occasion, no doubt. 30 minutes gone, not even a sniff of a chance and now a booking.

One rash tackle and I was off – slick surface or not. I'd burnt my bridges with this referee.

You know what they say about first impressions and all that.

'C'mon Jimbo, that ball should've gone first time man. See the play developing.'

Jimbo gives me a thumbs up. Duncan would've reserved a different hand gesture for getting the wrong side of the official. I jog back into position avoiding eye contact with my nemesis.

Wazza tests the Arsenal keeper with a long ranger sighter in the closing stages of the opening period, but the half-time whistle is a blessed relief.

I troop off in the direction of the changing rooms knowing I have contributed nothing of any value. A must-win match had become a defensive stalemate.

It already feels like the type of game with one goal written all over it. I just have to make sure it's my name on the scoresheet.

'That was total and utter rubbish.'

Bop slams the dressing room door so hard I think it's going to fly off its hinges. His face reddens by the second as a water bottle goes flying across the room.

This man was a heart attack victim waiting to happen. I've never seen him so worked up.

'They've come here with nothing to play for and it's you clowns going through the motions. Where's our pattern of play gone? Where's the creativity? It's like eleven strangers in blue shirts. That was embarrassing. I can't remember stringing two passes together.

'And as for you, Shawsy, you're running around like a headless chicken. What's wrong with you man?'

He looks straight at me. All the boys are suddenly looking straight at me, waiting for a reaction. I don't need telling. I bite my lip, take a long sip of energy drink, fiddle with my tie ups hoping he turns on someone else. Quickly.

I could take the bait, kick off about the lack of service to the front players but what good would that do? Just rile Bop and the rest of the boys.

'You really want to be professionals?' Bop is winding up for the big finish now. This isn't a question and answer session, or even a straw poll he's conducting, more like a rallying cry.

'Prove it. Shape up or you'll be sitting next to me on the bench.'

Another water bottle is despatched into orbit before toppling a tactics board.

This was so out of character for the guy. And it has the desired effect. Stung into action, we start on the front foot.

Jimbo begins to link the play as we fizz it about, pinning Arsenal back inside their own half, turning their big defenders, fighting for second balls.

Wayne chases one of Arsenal's full-backs down into the corner flag. You know what the guy is thinking as this giant lumbered towards him. I'd seen it plenty of times over the past few seasons.

Defenders who think they can take liberties because they are too quick or too mobile for Wazza. Big mistake.

I pull off the shoulder of my marker.

Time to gamble Shawsy.

The Arsenal full-back realises he is in danger. Wazza jockeys, waits for him to make the first move. He's pinned right near the corner flag, waiting for Wazza to dive in and concede a free kick.

Without even looking he flicks it back in the direction of his goalkeeper. Result. I'm on the half-turn ready to cash in. Two, three strides forward, now I'm favourite to nick it past the Arsenal goalie.

He goes to ground. I touch the ball with my left. I can tumble, the angle's getting tight but the goal's gaping. Just one more flick, then an agonising look as the ball bobbles the wrong side of the far post.

Off-balance, I slump to the turf. I'd fluffed the best chance of the game. Scuffed it. I feel sick. I smash a clenched fist into the ground. The keeper helps me to my feet.

I'm not hurt but I'm raging inside.

I glance towards our bench and clock Duncan stood next to Bop; hands firmly in his coat, leaning against the dugout. No trace of emotion.

What was he thinking? Please, just tell me. Put me out of my misery.

I usually slot chances like that with my eyes closed in training, maybe a cheeky back heel or a cute sidefoot finish.

But I'd bottled it when it mattered.

Good strikers put misses out of their mind. They know if they keep getting into positions goals will come.

But as Arsenal's keeper launches the ball skywards my brain's scrambled. Those nagging doubts following my ankle injury are flooding back, and no amount of self-help tips can block them out.

Arsenal scoring is the only thing that makes this situation worse.

Right on cue, the Gunners' England schoolboy international, Parnell, rises unchallenged at the near post to power home a corner minutes after my howler.

I stand on the halfway line as our keeper, Mike Usher, fishes the ball out of his net and punts it back towards me for the restart. I feel guilty. Like my miss has deflated the rest of the lads. We'd switched off for the first time inside our penalty box and got punished.

The title is slipping away. The academy contract too. I glance at Wayne as we kick-off again.

Was he thinking the same?

Arsenal retreat back into their defensive shell. We haven't looked like breaking them down for an hour and now we need two goals.

Tom Hamer picks up the ball and drives at his marker. Wolston's winger has all the skills in the book and pace to burn.

I take my man one way, then dive back towards the near post as Hames rides his defender's sliding tackle.

A decent delivery and it'll just need a touch. Hames' cutback sails over my head. I hit the brakes, but an Arsenal defender has a handful of my shirt. I twist my neck in a last ditch effort to make contact; too late, but there's a sky blue shirt behind me. Wazza is already airborne, arriving at the back stick to head home from close range.

Get in.

In that moment I didn't care if Duncan had wandered on in his dirty raincoat to grab us an equaliser. It was a lifeline. For the first time all afternoon, my future can wait. We have a game to win.

Arsenal throws on reinforcements. Bop pushes Goddard up front for his physical presence. It is pure desperation stuff, but his tactics board is not going to get a winner now as crosses rain into the Gunners' penalty box and Arsenal struggle to lift the siege.

One clear-cut chance. Please, just one clear-cut chance.

I knew I'd already had one but figured someone, somewhere was looking down on Dave Shaw.

Surely I was good for another after my injury hell?

Arsenal's striker forces a corner. Respite for the Gunners. Goddard jogs back into familiar territory.

Mike Usher climbs highest in the crowded six-yard box to claim the set piece. That's my signal to leg it. We'd practised the same drill hundreds of times.

I stop dead and spin around ready to control his long throw. Wazza is ten yards further upfield with Arsenal light after piling bodies forward at the corner looking for a winner. Wayne comes short for a wall pass.

Sorry pal, this time I'm flying solo.

It's like someone hits the pause button. Play develops in slow motion. I push the ball out of my feet, crossing the halfway line. I hear Hames' shouting for the ball wide right. Three Arsenal defenders retreat. 25 yards, 20 yards out from goal.

Wait, wait Shawsy. Pick your moment.

Finally two Gunners' defenders break ranks and try to throw up a road block just outside the penalty area.

I drag the ball from right to left. My standing leg starts to buckle. I feel a touch around my ankle but there's no way I'm going down.

I thrust out an arm into the other defender's chest. It's a gamble but there's no whistle. Play on, just the keeper to beat, Arsenal's last line of defence. He decides to rush out again but don't bet on the same outcome this time.

I know exactly what I'm going to do as I lift the ball with the outside of my right. Bang. I'm in mid-air, flying over the grounded keeper, but I know it is perfect contact as I hurdle his body.

My head thuds against the soft pitch. For a split-second, darkness. Then players pile on top of me. Screaming, shouting, Goddard's huge hands wrap around my waist as he drags me to my feet.

Let me guess what you're thinking. Describe how it feels, Dave?

I can't. Sorry. Words don't cut it. Any goalscorer will say the same. That surge of adrenaline pumping through your body, but times it by ten, no, a hundred. This game matters like no other. It was joy and ecstasy tinged with sheer relief.

I kiss the badge on my shirt and point to my old man on the touchline. He's standing with both arms in the air like a fast bowler appealing for a catch.

I look across towards our bench. Duncan is talking to Bop.

Passing on the good news about D Shaw, Wolston academy scholar, I suspect.

Bop motions to the fourth official.

One of our subs is taking off his tracksuit top. A tactical change to see the game out for the final few moments. Like it. Good move.

Hold on. Number nine? Number nine? That can't be right.

I'd just scored a title-winning goal and I'm getting hooked.

Stuff it. I'm staying on here.

I wander back to the centre circle seriously contemplating ignoring the madness unfolding out of the corner of my eye.

Take Wazza off. I'm more mobile than him. I can run the clock down. I'm buzzing. I'm back.

The referee practically pushes me towards the dugout. More time wasting? No chance. I'm just in a total state of shock.

Bravely, perhaps foolishly, I hold Duncan's stare as I grab a training top and slump in the dugout.

More ill-discipline. Do I look bothered, pal?

I score a fantastic goal but it's not enough? Maybe Duncan thinks I'm lucky to conjure a sublime moment in a dreadful display. Maybe there was a better pass onto Wayne in the build up.

Told you, Bop. He's not a team player. He's a wildcard. Selfish.

Rubbish. Who else could have scored a goal like that in our squad? Not even Duncan would be that stubborn. Surely?

The fourth official signals a minimum of two added minutes at the end of the game. I rip off my shin pads. My legs feel sore. I've ran myself daft on a heavy pitch. I reach down and massage my right ankle. For the first time since coming back from injury I played without nagging doubts, the ones saying my body would never be the same.

The only doubts now are about my future.

The referee motions to Goddard to give him the ball. The whistle's in his mouth. It's over. We've won the title.

Energy drinks and fluids get sprayed everywhere. I sit on the bench, trying to wipe my eyes as celebrations erupt all around me.

Bop embraces his coaches. This was as much their triumph as ours. Jimbo slumps to the pitch. Goddard punches the air. Rob Duncan strides out into the centre-circle to shake hands with the match officials. Probably apologise for the antics of Wolston's match-winner while he's there. He looks the calmest man in the melee; seen it all before, expected nothing less.

I break away from the mayhem. I want to share this moment with my old man.

'Not bad, son. Not bad.'

The broad smile is a dead give away. Even he's struggling to hide his emotions as he pulls me closer in a big bear hug.

'Yeah, but is it enough Dad?'

**Chapter Two**

I bail early from the post match title-winning party. I'm in the mood for a wake.

Joy and elation soon dissolve into anger; my hatred for Duncan reaches new levels by the time I wander into one of the hospitality suites at Wolston's stadium, Lowfield Road, for our 'celebration' dinner.

I feel robbed. The euphoria of scoring the winner lasting barely the time it took to reach the centre-circle, right about when the substitutes' board with 'number nine' appeared.

Come in number nine. Your time is up.

Okay. I know what you're thinking.

Poor old Dave Shaw, is that violins I can hear in the background? Look at the bigger picture. Bop wanted to tighten up things in midfield, run the clock down.

Fine. I understand all that. I don't need a refresher from the coaching manual. But why me?

Didn't my goal prove once and for all I was over my ankle injury?

Bopper put his arms around me back in the dressing room, maybe the fact I was sat there forcing a smile through a grimace had given the game away.

I listened as he explained his reasons. We'd won a title. I didn't have a leg to stand on. I was being self-centred and selfish.

Dave Shaw to a tee; the individual in the team.

So be it then, guilty as charged, but sat in the midst of all the bedlam I felt detached. Alone even.

Wolston's hierarchy turns up to mark our achievement. Chairman Bryan Roe, first team manager Mark Peacock and Rob Duncan sit at the top table, the mastermind behind the latest triumph smugly holding court. This is another feather in his cap.

I pick at a five course meal. Mum and Dad probably putting their offspring's dark mood down to sheer exhaustion as the last dregs of adrenaline drain from my body.

Duncan's after-dinner speech is the final straw. Not for me. I make my excuses to Mum and Dad as the Scot stands to address the gathering and tell them I need some air. A favourite bolt hole beckons.

I manage to sweet talk a security guard into letting me wander out of the function room and through an emergency exit door leading to the stadium concourse. He buys the same cover story as my parents. I make my way down one of the gangways from the Sky Blue Stand, across the gravel track that borders the pitch and up the emergency steps into the West Stand behind one of the goals.

I want to sit in our family seats at the front of the upper tier. The same place Dad took me to watch Liverpool. The place we had season tickets practically every year since.

All those happy memories, maybe the odd bad one as well, this was Wolston after all. Those classic games, goals, songs, celebrations.

It was nearly midnight. The pitch is in total darkness. Only the lights from the hospitality suite in the Sky Blue Stand illuminate the ground on the near side.

Just me and 25,000 empty seats with my thoughts for company. I look down at my watch as the old day disappears.

A new dawn. A fresh start. I tried so hard not to let anything distract me in the build up to Arsenal, but now what? I peer out into the vast darkness. Right then I just don't know if I'll ever get the chance to run out on that beautiful pitch, to live the dream and emulate my idols. It was within touching distance but still a million miles away. I bury my head in my hands to try and block out the bad thoughts.

Rob Duncan has all the answers and he isn't telling. He told us that prior to Arsenal. No distractions. Just concentrate on the football.

Well, that was easier said than done, chief.

Dad tried to catch Bop off guard over the previous month or so in a bid to stop the badgering from his anxious son. All the academy coaches were well-versed in swerving interrogations from loved ones. Vows of silence just fuelled the rumours.

Rovers were looking at bringing in a couple of Welsh lads, three young Danes, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. The club did have strong Scandinavian links. I knew that much myself after playing junior tours over there most summers, but I couldn't remember any stand out strikers.

Certainly none better than me.

It was pointless even trying to second guess Duncan. Wolston could look anywhere across Britain and abroad. Competition was fierce. The fact they were a Championship club competing against the bigger boys was actually a strength not a weakness. The facilities at The Lodge are second to none; every academy side we'd ever played at our place says the same. Wolston's training complex was built when the club pushed the boat out to be more than just mere Premier League cannon fodder.

That gamble backfired but the infrastructure is still in place and Peacock was prepared to give youth a chance. How many teenagers can break into Man United's or Liverpool's first team squad? Elbow aside Premier League winners, Champions League winners, full internationals, players at the very top of the tree?

One or two exceptional talents, maybe, but not many. Any 16-year-old with his feet on the ground and parents prepared to look at the bigger picture may get their heads turned by a scholarship offer from Wolston.

Come and learn your trade out of the limelight, get an early first team chance and plenty of senior games to develop before the Premier League clubs come knocking. That's if you hadn't already got there with Wolston.

I had no interest in playing for the big boys. Dave Shaw wants to star at Lowfield Road, in front of his family, in that sky blue shirt and score bagfuls of goals at the West End.

A shaft of light appears from the same emergency door in the Sky Blue Stand. I'd been out here for a good hour. The title party must be coming to an end and someone is embarking on a search and rescue mission.

The earlier rain had returned, swirling around the deserted stands as I make my way down the steps.

I feel strangely optimistic for the first and only time this evening, like I've forced myself to accept the worst.

Wolston don't want you? Okay, someone will.

I proved I can be a professional footballer and whatever Duncan, Bopper or anyone else thinks of my Arsenal performance, I made the difference. Title or no title, party or no party, it was all down to me.

I was deluding myself to think I could flick a switch and be the player I was before my injury, scoring goals like they were going out of fashion. Stupid really, pure bravado on my part.

When it didn't happen instantly I panicked, but I delivered yesterday when it mattered, when the pressure was on.

The final make-or-break showdown with Duncan is weeks away. Wolston's academy chief needs time to pour over his dossiers and meet Bop and the rest of the academy coaches. For me there is another priority. Exam revision.

I can't believe I've just thought that.

With Arsenal out of the way I promise Mum no more football. Since Christmas it was a struggle to get the balance right between school, training, homework, bed, then playing matches at the weekends. Press repeat and go again on my own personal treadmill.

Maths and Chemistry were going to be tough subjects but I planned to cream German. My teacher, Frau Lewent, was good at convincing me I had to learn the language for when her beloved Hamburg got in touch. Personally I was hoping for Bayern Munich.

Welcome to my new reality. A twilight world with no football and no fun. School during the day. Study at night.

Tonight it was History. I glance up from a text book on World War Two, reach across my bedside table and flick the calendar over a page. April 30, Duncan, The Lodge. Next to the message I'd scrawled a question mark in red felt tip. In my mind it should've been a tick.

Just over a week away now and my mind is drifting from the Battle of Britain to Sergeant Major Duncan.

My Rovers' FA Cup-winning screensaver pops up. Peacock, skipper Brian Killen, Burrows, Peake and the rest with the trophy at Wembley, exhausted but ecstatic as they pose for pictures.

I lie back on my bed, close my eyes and indulge in my favourite fantasy. Me in that team photo with a winner's medal clutched tightly in my right-hand.

'David, can you come down a minute.'

My old man's voice pulls me away from the lads. I'll catch up with them on the open top bus tour. The Blitz can wait for another 30 minutes as well.

I move my laptop to one side, swing my legs over the bed, open the bedroom door, and head across the landing.

Did I forget to leave the recycling bin out that morning? Again. No, no, I definitely remember seeing that fit neighbour heading to work first thing.

I catch sight of the back of a guy being ushered into our living room by Dad as I reach the top of the stairs.

'Hello, young man,' says the stranger who hauls himself out of Dad's favourite armchair to greet me after I bolt down the staircase.

'Hello.'

'My name's Nigel Evatt. I work for Chapel United football club.'

Chapel United. A Championship team, like Rovers, based in the north-east. United had made the play-offs last season. I watched them win at Lowfield Road to clinch a play-off spot. Their travelling fans celebrated by spilling onto the pitch. The East Terrace was always packed when they came here.

Why was someone from Chapel United sitting in our living room?

'David, I've been speaking to your father over the past few weeks and he kindly invited me to come and speak to you in person this evening...to talk about the future. Your future.'

I half-turn to glare at Dad. I'm sure I'd just heard the words 'spoken over the last few weeks'.

Have I missed something here?

'David, your mother wanted you to concentrate on your exam revision.'

My scowl clearly produced the desired effect.

I perch on the arm of our sofa. Maybe Dad was right. I hardly needed this grenade thrown into my exam prep.

'How's the study?'

'I'll be glad when I get the first one over. Maths in a fortnight. I hate maths.'

'You and me both,' laughs the imposter in our midst. 'I can just about use a calculator but when my children want help with algebra I tell them to ask Mrs Evatt.

'Good luck with the exams, David. They really are every bit as important as football at this moment in your life. That's my biggest regret. I wish I'd seen mine through.'

Evatt looks over at my old man.

'Left school before taking my 'O' levels you see, Mr Shaw. That's what they were called in those days. I'm afraid I was in too much of a rush to turn professional.'

Dad had been the same, straight into work at 16 with no qualifications. Shaw senior appears firmly onside as the conversation heads down memory lane about their shared life experiences. Evatt was a regular in Everton's first team, capped by Northern Ireland in his teens, like his son a centre forward with his whole career ahead of him, until a bad knee injury on the eve of the World Cup in Spain.

Now there's one problem with my old man's football memories. They always contain Wolston as a reference point. Get him on something that happened to an obscure South American football team and the story would somehow end up back at Rovers.

Dad is recalling a goal Evatt smashed in from the halfway line against Rovers at Lowfield. One of the best he'd ever seen.

Evatt edges forward in his seat. The guy looks almost embarrassed. It's going to take more than that to impress me. I've never heard of him, way before my time. He's just some grey-haired old man sat in our living room.

'You're too kind, Mrs Shaw.'

Mum appears with a tray of biscuits and tea. The best china, the stuff we only used at Christmas or for special occasions. This was a bit much.

He's not royalty, is he?

Evatt is being welcomed into our house like a long lost relative.

'Well David, I'm sure you're more than a little puzzled as to the purpose of my visit?'

Evatt rests a digestive on his saucer and gently places his cup on the coffee table.

Too right, fella. Why don't you cut to the chase here?

'I work for Chapel United's academy as the club's head of recruitment. We have local chaps out and about watching junior matches every week, every season basically, and they file reports to me which get fed into our database.'

Still not impressed. Rob Duncan probably has spies spread far and wide as well. Every club needs a scouting network. The only difference is where you looked.

Clubs like Wolston and Chapel will focus on talent closer to home rather than trying to compete with bigger rivals casting their nets worldwide.

'We've known about you for quite a while. We've been monitoring your progress at Wolston. How's the ankle by the way?'

Whoa. Now he definitely has my attention.

'Yeah. No problem, Mr Evatt. Thanks for asking,' I mumble in reply.

'Good. I know from my own career what bad injuries can do. As your Dad rightly says it robbed me of a chance to play in a World Cup. Back then the medical treatment was nowhere near as advanced as it is today.'

Fascinating stuff Mr Evatt, sorry about that and all, but can we move this back to me?

I was beginning to lose my patience.

'What a fantastic goal against Arsenal the other week; such an epic game. Take it from someone who knows, you're a natural finisher.'

'You were there?'

'Oh yes. There were quite a few of us at that game. Some very talented lads on show that day.

'Now tell me. David. Is it right you haven't been offered a scholarship contract yet by Wolston?'

Bingo. It took a while but we finally get there after the tea and biscuits and small talk.

So many questions were bouncing around me head but I realise one thing, Evatt had did his homework. He knew about my injury, my goals, even my contract situation; or lack of.

Hang on. Duncan. Should I be having this conversation?

What would Wolston think if they knew I was talking to another Championship club, or any other club for that matter? Not that this little gathering was my idea, you understand, Rob. What the hell was my old man thinking inviting him into our house in the first place? Without even consulting me?

'It's okay, David. I know it must be a lot to take in. Don't worry.'

Evatt senses my awkwardness. Or maybe it was the grinding noise from my brain.

'My understanding of the current situation at Wolston is some of your team mates have already been offered academy deals.'

That snippet was like letting a water cannon off inside my head. Carnage.

'Sorry Mr Evatt,' I say. I can hear my voice wavering. 'Could you repeat that?'

I must have misheard. It sounded distinctly like he'd just said Duncan had already started cherry picking his assets?

'The captain, Goddard, along with another boy, I believe have already signed. I spoke to the Goddard family after the Arsenal match and they told me Rovers had already offered their son a scholarship.'

Dad, kick this joker out of our house now and get straight on the phone to Rob Duncan.

What was happening here? Was Duncan selecting his chosen few from Wolston's championship-winning squad before sifting through the rejects bin?

'It's my understanding the club is close to signing at least three or four more.'

Four. Maths might not have been my favourite subject, but even I could work out that left only a small number of scholarships. Wolston had never taken on more than nine new scholars each intake since winning their last academy title.

Trivia like that was colliding for space inside my throbbing head over recent weeks alongside Periodic tables and the Allied air war. This guy appears to have a hot line to the Glaswegian.

More uncomfortable pauses, Evatt is obviously used to silent impasses in his line of work.

'Don't be surprised David. It's a very small pool of talent with a lot of clubs fighting for the same young players every year. I'm afraid at our level the game is terribly cut-throat. The old saying is so true, information equals power. People talk. Everybody knows everybody's business in this day and age with all the technology available.

'It's not like the old times. When I first started after hanging up my boots you could still unearth gems playing in the back streets. Less and less boys and girls play the game nowadays. I know from my own children's lives there are far too many other distractions.'

Dad was nodding in agreement. He'd struck a chord on that particular topic.

'Your father tells me how much it means for you to play for Rovers. I know because I had the same feeling towards my club.'

Evatt is opting for another dip into nostalgia to break the impasse.

The former Evertonian grew up a red on Merseyside, the first team I'd ever watched at Lowfield Road.

I can hear the passion in his voice. He speaks from the heart. I can feel that. He understands what it means to have a deep love for your club. It doesn't matter he played in a different era, he knew exactly how I am feeling and what a huge wrench it would be to turn my back on Rovers.

The truth is I want to be a professional footballer, but I'm greedy, I want to be a Wolston player. It isn't about the money, the cars, the fame, not even medals.

Okay, I'm lying. It wasn't only about the material things that come with being a footballer. There's something much deeper driving me on.

Wolston will never challenge the big boys. I know that even at 16. A club of our size can only hope to tread water in the Premier League, maybe enjoy a decent cup run now and again - like the best day in our history.

The establishment can dream of winning Premier League titles, mixing it every year in the Champions League with Europe's finest.

None of that matters to me. Wolston is my world, my life.

'David, Chapel United wants you.'

Evatt's offer jolts me back into the present.

'I think you have great potential. The club I work for wants to get back in the Premier League but, like many, many others, we can only do that by investing in young players. We'd like to offer you a two year scholarship contract.'

I look at Mum and Dad for reassurance.

Do I need to answer right here and now? Was I going to make the biggest decision of my life perched on our sofa in front of a bloke who 45 minutes ago I didn't know from Adam?

They both smile back. I should be elated. This guy, who I'd never set eyes on before, never even heard of, is offering me the chance of a first step on the ladder. The problem is it's not the right ladder.

'Mr Evatt I've got a meeting next week with Wolston's academy chief and...'

'Yes, I understand that David,' Evatt cuts me off, probably afraid of what he is about to hear, 'the last thing I want tonight is to rush you or your family into a snap decision. Take your time. Weigh up your options. I'd do exactly the same in your situation. I just felt it was important to come and meet you in person before that meeting to make it clear how much we want you to be part of Chapel's future.

'Football is still my life after all these decades. I played to a decent level, coached some good players and scouted many more who have gone on to enjoy fantastic careers. I believe I know the game, I know what it takes to be a footballer and in my humble opinion you have the raw ingredients to make it.'

Man, I am loving this. Okay, he is laying it on a bit thick with the salesman's pitch but I would have had to put a gun to Duncan's head to get even a 'well done, laddie.' At least that's how it felt.

Maybe Evatt is telling me what I want to hear. He knew about my upcoming Wolston meeting and was pulling out all the stops, but it is a great delivery.

Mum looks ready to stand up and applaud. Not that she's biased when it comes to her son.

Mr Evatt seems the total opposite to Rob Duncan. He had turned up with the carrot rather than the stick to persuade me. Just to hear I am talented enough to become a professional is great. I'm not kidding myself, there is a long road ahead but Chapel United is prepared to take a punt.

Evatt is morphing from a complete stranger to a mentor with each warm eulogy about Dave Shaw.

Now he moves onto the small print with Mum and Dad. Chapel's scholars live in purpose-built lodgings at the club's training base. He's talking about educational opportunities, tie ups with a local sports college. All the right buttons to press with Mrs Shaw.

Then the invite to tour the club and academy facilities after my exams. It all sounds too good to be true.

Hold on a second. Just rewind that last bit.

Did he say 'living in purpose-built lodgings?' Until that moment it never even dawned on me. Playing for Chapel means moving home, leaving family and friends behind, heading to the opposite end of the country where I know no one and no one knows me.

The only time I'd been away before was on short summer tours with Rovers or school trips; like that Swiss school exchange a couple of years ago when I got into trouble with Ray Yap for breaking our curfew and was grounded for the last two days.

Or the football tour to Blackpool one Easter when Marcus Fox broke his bed diving off the wardrobe in the guesthouse and slept on the floor rather than own up to the coach. Great trips, cracking stories, but boy I was always glad to get home to Mum's cooking, my own bed and our television remote.

Now my safe, secure bubble was in danger of bursting. Like going from being the big fish to small fry at a new school.

Evatt indulges in polite small talk about places to visit around Wolston as he shakes hands with my parents in the hallway.

He's slick, I'll give him that.

The guy hands Dad a business card.

'Young man, it's been a pleasure to meet you and your family tonight. Thanks for inviting me into your home.'

'Thank you Mr Evatt.' It was nothing. No, really, it was nothing, as I try to suppress the sarcasm in my voice.

'David, you've got one of the biggest decisions of your life to make. I've given your Dad my contact numbers. Ring or email any time – day or night – if you want to chat. I'm sure there are a million and one things racing through your mind right now. Just sleep on it for a few days and whatever you do, don't make any hasty decisions. Sit down and talk with your parents but, remember, at the end of the day it's your life, your career. Don't forget that. You need to do what you feel is right.'

I shake his hand. Now I had another date to circle on my bedside calendar. July 1. The start of Chapel United's new scholarship programme. I stand there with the front door slightly ajar as he strides down our garden path.

Lights flash on a smart, black estate car, one of those expensive German jobs. Evatt smiles and gives me a final wave as he climbs inside.

I watch him pull away, brake at the end of our cul-de-sac and turn out of sight.

Life was obviously very good at Chapel United football club.

**Chapter Three**

Dad gets the silent treatment for the rest of the night. If I'm being honest the initial shock while he plots my career doesn't last long.

I have other things to think about, like the biggest decision of my life. Tales of RAF heroism can wait as I lie on my bed well into the early hours.

Mum and Dad just want the best for their only son, like any parent. I know that. They want to see me run out in that sky blue shirt as badly as I do, but this was the real world, not some comic book fantasy. I was a teenager in a small town. The football universe didn't begin and end at Lowfield Road.

Face it, Wolston don't want me. Or at least that's how it felt even before Mr Evatt's surprise visit. If Rob Duncan doesn't think I can cut it then what next? Now I have a Plan B.

Rejection from Rovers is going to sting every bit as much as being carried off that pitch with a broken ankle.

Give me the tears, the self-doubt, the hurt, anything but a lifetime of regrets knowing the only club I ever wanted to play for doesn't want me. But at least Chapel's offer can take the edge off that pain, better than giving up on the dream.

It means I can aim higher than running around with my mates on a Sunday morning. I don't want university and all that entails. Mum probably does, but she knows me well enough to realise that constitutes failure; a kick in the stomach, an admission her son is settling for second best.

Even before Evatt turned my world upside down I was starting to confront the alternatives. The nearest professional club to Wolston is a good 40 miles away, a lower league outfit with lower league resources and their own youth side to pick from.

There are exit trials for other cast-offs, lads who have been released like me. Thrust together in makeshift teams full of boys desperate to impress watching coaches who turn up hoping to find a gem that has fallen through the net. It was a lottery and I didn't fancy my chances of holding a winning ticket.

Non league football is another option, training twice a week alongside college, hoping to get spotted by a professional team. Some hope. Clubs all across the country churn out hundreds of teenage rejects like me. How many take a punt on someone released by Wolston now scoring the odd goal in front of a handful of fans?

Dad discovers me the following morning still fully-dressed lying on top of my bed after finally drifting off to sleep.

'Restless night, lad?'

'It's a lot to take in.'

I wanted answers but he couldn't really give me any. Duncan is the only man who could and that meeting isn't for another week. At least we can make our peace over Evatt's bombshell visit.

'I'll be honest David, before your ankle injury I'd have told him not to even bother, but that changed everything.'

Dad tries to avoid eye contact. A classic tactic in the Shaw household between father and son. I doubt he wants to open up those mental wounds again, but he's right. Things were different now for me and him; Dad more than anyone in my selfish, self-centred world had suffered the fallout from my tantrums and emotional distress over these past 12 months.

Right at this moment I realise it isn't only Dave Shaw who has been in so much pain. Mum and Dad carried the same scars; only they were powerless to make things better for their only child.

Why me?

It is a question I had asked so many times since the injury. Life had been easy. I just went out, played games and scored goals. There was nothing more to it. It was simple, fun and I'd never understood why others were unable to do the same just as well.

But this past year had been brutal.

Where was the fun in hours of gym work to re-build a shattered right ankle to reach a point where it was now strong enough to contemplate doing something I had taken for granted in the past? Never mind try and master it.

Then you had the mental rigours of re-programming the brain, learning where to run, where to find space again on a football field and the huge, intense pressure to perform straight away. No gentle pre-season build ups, no defenders pulling out of tackles or keepers jumping out of the way of shots, or Duncan offering a soothing word, a protective arm.

'Do you think I should tell Rovers about Chapel's approach, Dad?'

'You could speak to Bopper. Why don't you see if he is up at The Lodge tonight? He's bound to be helping out coaching some of the younger age groups. You know he'll offer you sound advice.'

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

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

Let me level with you here, I felt cheated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mr Shaw, David, follow me please.'

It's Wolston's very own headmaster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'We did win the academy title, Rob.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did this guy ever smile?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Evatt had used exactly the same phrase, 'natural finisher'. Maybe the two exchanged crib sheets?

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

Now this was going well, too well.

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

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

'But you're lazy. Really lazy.'

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

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

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

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

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

Note the exaggerated emphasis on 'frontmen' just for my benefit.

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

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

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

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

'Then of course you injured your ankle and things changed.'

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

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

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

'Rob, I was always going to come back.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I thought you said I was lazy, Rob.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe the place was being bugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duncan leans forward. His eyes fixed firmly on me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Just tell me where to sign, Mr Duncan.'

**Chapter Four**

Fair play to Evatt, he takes his brush off well.

Chapel United's head of recruitment probably knew he was on a loser the moment Rob Duncan was ready to play ball. I still felt I owed him an explanation. I'd been grateful for his lifeline when I thought Wolston were not interested.

Evatt admitted he would have done exactly the same in my shoes. Maybe an hour sat in the Shaw living room was enough to convince him of one thing - our family were Wolston daft.

That affinity to my hometown club was clear. From my pleas to Mum digging out photo albums full of my goalscoring exploits in the junior ranks to Dad stumbling down memory lane recalling classic Wolston matches.

We both knew the prospect of me heading north was a consolation prize.

But Nigel Evatt is not a man to take rejection personally. If he can't have Dave Shaw, he'll settle for Wayne Bufton, my old academy strike partner who did so much to help us win the title - probably more than me if truth be told.

News leaks out over the coming days. Who was in and who wasn't at Wolston. From my showdown with Duncan it seemed pretty clear he didn't think Wayne could cut it.

Evatt felt differently. Wazza might have been his fall back option but he'd added goals to his nuisance value and was bound to attract interest.

I am going to miss playing with him but in a straight fight between us there is only one winner. Luckily it's me.

Duncan had no room for sentiment. The offer of an academy scholarship is in Wolston's best interests. I'm just a commodity he can develop.

That's not being cynical, more realistic. Duncan is right about one thing. The injury has made me mature a lot faster. I'm still chasing the same hopes and dreams as that five-year-old who went to his first Wolston game. But this is a cut-throat business. For smaller clubs like Wolston or Chapel United it is a high stakes gamble. Find a gem, polish him up and hopefully when the time comes, cash in. Sell for millions and you make enough money to keep an academy running for the next five, maybe ten years until the next prospect comes along.

Talent is not enough. You have to unearth the right characters, not cocky teenagers who think they've made it. I was selfish on the pitch, too outspoken for my own good off it at times, but I wasn't deluded.

The previous eight years were all about getting me to the start line. Now I had a real shot at making it.

Duncan's 'lazy' jibe cut deep. Another entry on his crime sheet, another reason to stick two fingers up to prove him wrong. All summer I tell myself the only way to change his opinion is to knuckle down.

That means no partying after my exams were over.

Dad's lectures were not worth the hassle if I did get the urge to go out with my mates. Partying and the life of a wannabe footballer don't mix. Friday nights during the season were spent at home while they hit the bars, then listening to all the best bits about their drunken antics at school on Monday mornings.

It was tough. There were times I craved a normal life, just having fun, not worrying abut the consequences, but that'll come later, along with the nice motor, designer threads and loft apartment.

Yes, I'd already spent the first professional contract, and the one after that.

School and junior football were behind me but it still feels like my first day all over again as Dad pulls off the main road through the big wrought iron gates at the entrance to The Lodge on a beautiful July morning.

I'm rubbing shoulders with the bigger boys and desperate to keep my head down.

The place looks the same but there is a different vibe, a different energy during the day. Before when I was part of the academy you came up here in the evenings after school to train, or at weekends to play.

This is for real now.

There is a big, black gleaming 4x4 parked in our usual spot on the far side of what now resembles a car showroom. Wolston's first team squad must be back as well for pre-season judging by the number of personalised number plates, tinted windows and sharp alloys.

I unclip my seat belt and feel a tingle down my spine. I'm no longer in a mad rush to leave the security of Dad's motor. It hits me I am part of this circus, albeit a small, insignificant part. And it feels scary.

'Go on David, or you'll be late.'

Dad seems just as nervous. Or maybe he is late for work, like his son.

'...and don't forget your packed lunch,' he laughs. 'Remember to do what the teacher tells you. And one final thing, don't let the big boys bully you.'

I slam the passenger door shut and give him a mocking wave as he pulls away across the shale car park past the freshly-cut pitches.

The double doors to the single storey main building slide smoothly open as I approach. I'd been told to report to reception for 9.30am.

I look down at my watch. 9.36am. Not a good start. There is nobody in reception, but I can hear a woman talking from behind a half-closed door.

Do I shout? Do I wait for her to come out? What is Duncan going to say about my time keeping?

'Morning, young man.'

I spin round in the direction of the voice coming from over my left shoulder. Mark Peacock, Wolston's first team manager, is striding towards me with a mug of tea in his right hand and a bundle of envelopes tucked under his other arm.

'Mr Peacock. Hello.'

The top man at Rovers is now standing in front of me. This chance meeting is doing nothing for my first day nerves.

'And what's your name, son? You look a little lost.'

Lost? More like crushed.

I admit I'm disappointed he doesn't know who I am. Dave Shaw, the young hotshot who single-handedly clinched Wolston's first academy title in years. Okay. Maybe not single-handedly but you get my drift.

We'd met briefly at the championship party at Lowfield Road after the Arsenal win. Very briefly it seems.

'David Shaw. I'm one of the club's new academy scholars. I was told to report here this morning for my induction.'

'What position do you play, David?'

'Striker. I'm from Wolston.'

'Ah, yes. Rob Duncan mentioned we have some local talent in our latest intake. Are you the lad whose family are lifelong Wolston supporters?'

Correct. Now he was warming up. Just wait until I tell Dad about this tonight. No. On second thoughts I'll tease him for the ribbing he just gave me outside in the car park. Peacock, the FA Cup-winning player, had been one of his idols.

Peacock, the manager, was preparing for his third season at the club after a mid-table Championship finish last year. Dad renewed our season tickets this summer more in hope than expectation. When he first started taking me I watched the likes of Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal at Lowfield and thought it would always be that way.

Peacock had returned promising to restore those glory days. He was taller in the flesh and tanned. I doubt he'd spent his summer in some Majorcan timeshare like the Shaw clan, probably an expensive Caribbean bolthole.

'Yes, that's me.'

That's me. Have a word. Is that all you can say to the man?

Talk about making a good first impression. I'm desperate to avoid eye contact and incapable of stringing a sentence together.

Now, you should know me well enough by now. I don't normally lack for self-confidence. But I'd only really watched Wolston's manager from a distance; maybe on television or patrolling the touchline at Lowfield Road or on the rare occasion at the odd academy game if he happened to be here and the first team was not playing.

Now I'm having a conversation. Of sorts. Bopper had told us stories about what a brilliant coach he was, how he trusted his players, how he respected them and they respected him.

After the Premier League money dried up he'd guided Rovers away from relegation in his first full season.

Last year the club had been right in the play-off mix until injuries and suspensions hit after Christmas. The local media and all the fans that I knew loved this guy. You could sense a growing optimism maybe the club was finally on the up again.

'Well David, I'd better keep tabs on you then. Supporters love nothing better than to see one of their own wearing the sky blue shirt. Best of luck and do what your coaches tell you. Above everything else, work hard.'

I watch him walk towards the far end of the reception before disappearing through another set of double doors. It felt real now. I was here. I could reach out and touch the dream.

'Shaw, you're late. Not a good start eh, laddie?'

Rob Duncan motions me towards him with his finger. The Scot is standing at the entrance to a corridor on the opposite side of the plush reception area. This was our first contact since his scholarship offer. The usual scowl replacing that collector's item of a smile from a memorable day in his office.

Or maybe I imagined that rare sighting during my out-of-body experience?

I follow Rovers' academy chief back into what looks at first sight like a home cinema room. I swiftly discover it's where Peacock and his squad watch footage of the opposition, analyse set pieces or sift through match statistics on work-rate, number of kilometres covered, successful entries in the final third. Vast amounts of data produced by our sports science department.

A large widescreen projector is mounted on the opposite wall. Two rows of comfy, black leather chairs dominate the floor space. It looks like a scene straight out of those television programmes I love to watch touring the cribs of famous rappers or sporting icons; mansions with palm trees in the garden and swimming pools with fancy inscribed tiles. Gaffes that scream money and fame.

Jack Goddard, Mike Usher and Jim Cornforth are already sitting in the second row behind four faces I don't recognise. Duncan makes his way to the front after telling me to sit on the end of the row next to Jim. He is flanked by two other guys wearing Rovers tracksuits.

'Right gentlemen. Time for some introductions now Shaw has kindly decided to show up.'

Yep, normal service definitely resumed.

'On my left is Matt Kearns, who runs the educational side of the scholarship. On my right, Terry Dooley, the academy Under-18s coach.'

I had seen Dooley around The Lodge in the past. He was a short, squat guy who didn't look like he'd ever been a footballer. For me, he had a tough act to follow after Bopper French.

Kearns talks us through a presentation covering our apprenticeship in sporting excellence qualification. This is like being back at school. We'll attend a local college during the week and spend Friday afternoons at The Lodge in one of the classrooms, with him monitoring our progress. Everything from diet and nutrition to media training.

Goddard tries stifling a yawn.

Don't set me off, man. The only classroom I want to spend time in is the other side of these walls out on those beautiful pitches.

'Right, you four need no introductions to me but for the benefit of these new lads.'

Duncan points in my direction.

'Hi, my name's David Shaw.'

I pause for a second, then sit back down again as I don't know what else to say. Goddard and the rest of my former academy team mates snigger at my embarrassment.

The new boys turn to look at me. I love being centre of attention on the football pitch but not here in this environment.

'Hey Kearnsy, I think he could do with some public speaking, never mind media training.'

Even Duncan sees the funny side of Jim's wisecrack. I fix Jimmy with the death stare but it doesn't last long. He is my best pal at the club.

Jim moved down from Scotland a couple of years ago. I think his Dad came to work in the offshore gas industry. He enrolled at my school with his younger sister and we'd hit it off straight away, or to be precise once I'd seen him play. You didn't need Rob Duncan's gift for talent spotting to realise he was a prospect, a Scottish schoolboy international who was part of the Hearts' junior set-up.

Our age group at Wolston had always been competitive, but Jimbo was the one who made the difference.

Over the summer he told me about interest from a few top flight clubs back up in Scotland but Jim wasn't keen on going home. He might not have shared my deep love for Wolston, but both of us knew Rovers is a fantastic place to learn your trade.

Jimmy was the sort of lad everyone likes. Funny, warm, would do anything for anyone. Qualities I had in short supply if I'm honest. Maybe that was it; a case of opposites attract.

Goddard stands up followed by our academy keeper, Mike Usher. I wasn't big mates with Goddard but there is a mutual respect from coming through the ranks together. Mike was part of it for a good few years as well. He was a great shot stopper. Perhaps his decision-making let him down at times.

'Now then, you four have an extra responsibility to show these newer boys the ropes,' Duncan jabs that finger again in my direction. 'You know how I work and how we do things here at Wolston.'

At last, the only interesting bit of this whole charade as Duncan beckons forward the fresh meat.

The first lad is a serious unit, broad as Goddard, dark-haired and thick-set.

'I know him. He's an Irish schoolboy international,' whispers Jim, clearly recalling a previous derby meeting or two between Celtic rivals.

Joe Louisburgh was a midfielder from Dublin. The quiet voice belied the guy's powerful physique. He smiles nervously before sinking back into his chair. He seems a shy lad on first impression. This whole experience can't be easy. There I was fretting about moving north to join Chapel and Joe pitches up from a different country far away from his family and friends.

Duncan had obviously cast his net wide. Steve Bolder and Jamie Green rise almost in tandem. Both recruited from the same Swansea suburb in South Wales.

I glance at Goddard who edges forward in his chair. Hours spent in Kearns' classes were never going to hold his attention like a threat posed by two new defensive rivals.

Wolston traditionally tapped into talent from that part of the world. Brain Killen – Rovers' legendary FA Cup-winning skipper – had been a Welsh international centre-back.

That left just one more unidentified target; a tall, blond lad who is up out of his chair before the two Welsh boys even sit down.

'Good morning everybody. My name's Olaf Thin. I'm a striker from Denmark and I look forward to getting to know you all.'

Olaf smiles broadly before moving a couple of paces towards our row and shaking every hand in turn. The Dane's self-confidence slightly unnerves me as I feel his firm grip.

'Hello, my name's David Shaw.'

'Hello David. Very nice to meet you.'

The guy's English is perfect. It blows my German out of the water.

Duncan places a protective arm around him as he wrestles back control of proceedings.

'Olaf is someone we've monitored for a few years. We have good scouting links in Denmark and he is a prolific scorer for youth sides in Copenhagen. He's already a Danish Under-18 international, but I'm pleased to say we've managed to convince him his future lies in England.'

Thin flashes another gleaming smile towards Duncan.

'But Mr Duncan, you didn't need to convince me. Not after I'd toured the stadium, the training facilities here at The Lodge, and of course met Mr Peacock.'

Peacock. I slump further into my leather seat. That'll teach me to mock Goddard as the upholstery begins to feel strangely lumpy and uncomfortable.

Duncan had enlisted the club's first team manager as part of the bait; the full red carpet treatment. No insults or lazy jibes directed at this young forward.

Let's get one thing straight here. Competition doesn't scare me. I'd had it all the way through. The difference was I knew I was better than any other rivals. That's an arrogant thing to say but it was a fact. I hadn't seen anyone in Rovers' academy ranks to fear, and I include the second year scholars we were now about to join up with as well, those operating a year above me in the pecking order.

Olaf Thin is an unknown quantity. An outsider, and a bit special, judging by Duncan's body language.

Just in case I needed an extra spark to combat my natural aversion to training, this is it.

Three evening sessions a week after school is one thing, but double shifts Monday to Friday with a game at the weekend is a painful introduction to the professional ranks.

I lift more weights in the first month than I had done my entire life. Every muscle aches as I drag myself through the front door each night, barely having enough energy to force down a meal and crawl upstairs to bed.

Our house had never been so quiet; Dad probably yearning for the regular arguments.

The new boys, along with Goddard and Usher, were housed in digs at the club's hostel based a mile or so from The Lodge, along with most of the second year scholars. I plumped for home comforts after my Chapel near-miss, but was soon regretting the decision.

Now I feel like the outsider. Bar me and Jimbo, everyone else is training together, studying together or spending time at the hostel. There I am sitting with Mum and Dad in our living room every night as some savage banter kicks off on social media over games of Fifa or tastes in music. Jim was a natural mixer. He was able to bridge the growing divide. I wasn't.

Bonds were forming. I'd arrive at The Lodge in the mornings, head for the changing rooms and they'd already be there, the jibes and the jokes flowing all the way from their digs to training.

I try making an effort but console myself it is about performing on the pitch and impressing Dooley and Duncan.

The long, cross-country coach trip to Norwich for the opening game of our season gives me plenty of time to ponder if I am in the first starting line up.

Dooley mixed and matched during the friendlies; a half here, a half there. No chance to try and forge a partnership with Thin. Just enough time to know the Dane is pure class. His touch and movement and eye for goal are there for all to see in pre-season. My initial fears were well-founded. I know already it's going to be who Dooley feels can operate with Olaf if he goes two up front.

First I have to get past Phil Warwick. A second year scholar, one year older, one year more experienced but nowhere near as good as me.

Not from what I'd seen in training or heard about his struggles this time last year making the same leap from promising junior to budding professional.

Time is running out. Phil has this season to convince the big cheeses or he'll be cut adrift, dropping through the leagues or even into part-time football. For me it was a big, fat thumb's down all the way. He's another Wayne Bufton.

Stop doubting yourself, Dave. Relax. It has to be you partnering the Danish boy wonder.

'Right lads, listen up.' Dooley casually leans against a noticeboard in the away changing room at Norwich's smart training complex. 'I want us to lay down a marker today. This is the team I believe can get us off to winning ways.'

He starts scribbling names from back to front. It's like waiting for your lottery numbers.

'Usher, Goddard, Bolder, Green...'

Goddard is sitting opposite me. He never even looks up, just continues tying his laces, like he already knew. Cocky so-and-so.

'...Jimbo and Louisburgh in the centre of midfield, strikers Warwick and Thinny.'

I'm gutted. I stare at the whiteboard for a few seconds focusing on those last two names.

This has a sick symmetry to it. I finish one season on the bench and start the next \- on the bench. Like all those hours pumping iron in the gym, all those laps running around pitches, staying behind for extra work on my game count for nothing.

Dooley is Duncan-lite, another paid-up member of the jury still out on Dave Shaw, another who doesn't trust me.

Well, trust is a two-way thing and right at this minute the feeling is mutual as I trudge to my seat in the away dugout.

Bopper made you want to play for him. You never wanted to let him down. He didn't see me as some loose cannon, a maverick, a selfish individual. He saw someone who could make a difference.

Dooley's team selection errs on the side of caution. Safety-first from a coach favouring hard work over flair. Phil Warwick is a water carrier, a whole-hearted player who will do a job for the team. He might not win too many games on his own but he's reliable and for Dooley that seems the perfect foil to his Danish starlet.

Maybe he sees me as too much like Thinny? Only an inferior product. That hurts.

Mentally I'm not in a good place as Norwich kick off the new season.

The Canaries have two speed merchants down the flanks and a canny operator pulling the strings in the hole behind the front two.

Jimbo looks leggy in the heat. Not that he's alone. The pace of the game rapidly drops as players try conserving energy in the sticky, summer conditions.

Just before the interval Norwich's number nine pounces on Goddard's weak back pass to bury a clinical shot underneath Mike Usher.

Mike is beaten again from a good 20 yards in first-half stoppage time by the same lad.

I'd never come across him before; he must be a second year scholar for the Canaries. It's all I can do to stop myself applauding from my perch in the away dugout.

Surely Dooley is going to change things at the break? We need goals to get back into this.

Here I am boss. Ready when you are. No? Start the second half on the bench? Okay, if you insist. You know what you're doing. I suppose.

Dooley gives the lads who started the game a chance to dig themselves out of this hole. Good for them, bad for me. The match slips back into the same depressing pattern. Norwich retain possession as we toil in the heat. It must be 30 degrees at pitch level.

Maybe this is a good one to miss after all.

I go for a little stretch by the corner flag. My frustration is rising at Dooley's cautious approach. Jimbo floats a pass to Thinny who controls it with his left on the edge of the Norwich box before slamming a right-footed volley into the top corner with his other foot.

Norwich's keeper makes a desperate attempt to claw it out but only ends up tangled in his netting.

What a fantastic goal. It had everything; balance, technique, power. I knew better than most the degree of difficulty.

Olaf races into the Norwich goal to retrieve the ball as the home keeper tries to untangle himself. No time for celebrations as he sprints back towards the centre circle, places the ball on the spot and the urges his team mates to up the intensity.

The lads respond. Jimbo and Joe start gaining the upper hand in midfield for the first time this afternoon. Warwick rifles well over before Jimbo's curling free kick thuds against the outside of a post. For the next 10 minutes or so it's like the boys are tapping into our Danish power source. Now it's Norwich starting to look weary, running on empty.

Dooley turns around at the front of the technical area and points at me.

'Go and get loose again, Shawsy. You're going on.'

At last. I reckon a handful of minutes, plus time added on, was better than nothing.

I just need one chance. That's all, one chance, one goal and I'll do my talking on the pitch.

Thinny chases Joe's raking pass deep into the left-hand channel as I rip off my training bib.

He cuts back onto his right and unleashes another instinctive strike that veers up and over the sprawling Norwich keeper.

Dooley punches the air as some of the Wolston subs surge onto the pitch to celebrate.

This guy is pure dynamite. He's scored two beauties to drag us level after we'd looked dead and buried.

I jog back to the dugout. I can't wait to finally strut my stuff alongside our superstar-in-the-making. No wonder Duncan was keen to launch a charm offensive to get him to Wolston, maybe that's why he'd enlisted Peacock's help.

I'd already seen what he could do in training and pre-season. Now he was turning on the style in the first real game that mattered. Duncan must have snatched him from under the noses of some Premier League clubs. On this display he looks unplayable.

Dooley puts an arm around me.

Time for some final instructions, time for Dave Shaw to win another game for his boyhood club.

'Right Dave. We're taking Phil off. I want you to play wide on the right in a five-man midfield. We need to shore things up behind Olaf to see this game out.'

Wide right? I look down at the guy. No, he was having a laugh. We've just got back in the game, Norwich is hanging on, we have the momentum, and Dooley wants to run down the clock. Worse, he feels the best way to do that is by sticking me in midfield.

'You want me to push on and support Olaf, gaffer?'

I was clutching for a straw or two here to make sense of it.

'...no, tuck in and track back with their wide man.'

So, let me get this straight. You are throwing on a proven goalscorer to do a shut up shop job? That's ridiculous, Dooley.

We have other lads in the squad who can fulfil that brief better than me. Maybe something else was going on here. Maybe this wasn't about Norwich and protecting a point at all.

Is the guy trying to put me in my place? Show Dave Shaw, his team mates and anyone else who cared that Thinny is the star and I'm strictly the support act? The sooner I get used to it the better.

I tap Phil on the shoulder as I race onto the pitch. I feel like tapping Dooley a good deal harder, then ripping up my scholarship contract and getting on the next train to Chapel.

I slam on the brakes when I reach the opposite flank. It's still not far enough away from Dooley for me. Norwich's head coach throws on two defensive subs of his own. Dooley's tactical switch seems to have triggered an end to hostilities.

Let's play out time and we'll both go home with a point apiece and something to build on.

I burst forward, crossing the halfway line, but Jamie Green takes the ball into the corner to win us a throw-in.

Dooley must be so proud.

It's more precious seconds killed and I've not even had a kick as the referee glances at his watch to see how much stoppage time to play.

Norwich easily deal with our throw-in. Their keeper retrieves the ball and smashes it forward as I amble back towards my own goal. For someone who had spent his entire career timing runs into opposition penalty boxes, the art of defending is an alien concept to me.

Pity no-one told Dooley that.

Norwich's blond-haired midfielder gathers the ball, looks up and whips in a cross to the far post.

Just out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of yellow, then a nudge as he brushes past me on the edge of our penalty area.

A growing, rancid feeling stirs in my stomach. He's got the run on me here and I'm slow to react. I can see the ball's flight as I turn and this guy is the clear favourite to get there first.

It's got 'goal' written all over it as it drops towards the back stick. If it's me latching onto this cross at the other end of the pitch I bury it. In desperation I lunge forward, he tumbles, I land on top of him in a heap.

The whistle blows.

Ref, tell me it's for full-time. Please. I look up and Mike Usher has the ball but the referee is standing on the spot pointing towards our goal.

Penalty.

I've practically assaulted the Norwich player. I peer down at the ground and then at my team mates in the vicinity. No-one is complaining to the official. That's damning. The Norwich player hauls himself to his feet as I troop to the edge of the penalty area, praying for a miracle.

The whistle blows again.

Goal.

Norwich's keeper runs all the way to the halfway line to celebrate with his skipper after he sends Ush the wrong way. A ripple of applause breaks out from the small gathering of home supporters.

Last night when I couldn't sleep for excitement and nerves I kept telling myself to make an impact. Well, I'd done that alright, and then some.

There's barely time to kick-off before Norwich can celebrate again.

I've blown it. Big time. Not just for me but the team, the club, I even feel guilty for letting down my folks back in Wolston. But I'm seething with Dooley for putting me in this position.

Wait until Rob Duncan gets his match report, then he'll have some explaining to do.

Yes, Shaw was involved in the winning goal. Yes, it was a penalty. Did he take it? Err, no. He gave it away. Come again? What was Shaw doing there in the first place?

Don't worry, Rob. I am prepared to file my own version if it helps at the inquest.

Right now I just want to get home, go to bed, pull the duvet over my head and wake up tomorrow realising it was all a bad dream.

Except home for us is a five-hour coach journey away. I dive in the shower, change in total silence and head straight to the team coach.

No big bust ups with Dooley or the other lads. This isn't the time or the place.

'Sorry gaffer,' I mutter boarding the bus. Dooley is sitting in the front row behind the driver.

The guy blanks me.

Worse, he turns his head the other way and stares out of the window as Wolston support staff load the last crates of kit onto our coach.

Five hours? It was going to feel more like ten.

**Chapter Five**

'Slow down David, this isn't an F1 car.'

Glancing at the speedometer. Dad, as usual, is correct in stating the blindingly obvious.

I put it down to the fact he is adjusting to being a passenger as we head to Lowfield Road on that crisp, Boxing Day morning.

I can't get enough of my new found 'freedom' – even with a nagging babysitter for company and a set of learner plates.

I pestered him for lessons as soon as I turned 17 last month. Just like my football career, I don't want to sit in the slow lane. For me it is taking my theory and passing my driving test. Simple.

Dad's favourite phrase at the minute revolves around learning to run before I can walk.

Point taken.

At least I can walk, run, play football. Go back 20 months or so and my life was on hold as I hobbled to my usual West Stand seat, broken ankle in plaster, crutches resting in the gangway.

Wolston won that day but for the first and only time I hadn't wanted to be anywhere near the most magical place in the world.

Now I feel an uneasy sense of déjà vu as Dad shoves me out of the driver's seat so he can squeeze into a tight parking space about five minutes walk from Lowfield Road.

The ankle is fine. The first few weeks of the new season were tough but the hard work had paid off. I was training every day like a full-time footballer. I feel fit and strong.

My body is okay. The head? Well, that is a different matter.

Christmas at least means a break from the grind. A time of year when people reflect on the good and bad moments, the monster news stories, the funniest social media virals, biggest-selling records. For me, it's an effort not to keep dwelling on how I salvage a disastrous start to my Wolston scholarship.

Every road leads back to Norwich. The fallout had been brutal. My backside and various dugouts across the country became well-acquainted in the weeks that followed.

I train every day like my life depends on it and all for a few minutes on the pitch if I am lucky.

Olaf Thin's star continued to rise as mine dipped over the horizon. Thinny is pure class. Duncan labels him the 'Great Dane', zero points for originality, but he was well into double figures in goals by the time he returned home to Denmark for the holidays.

I'd notched a pitiful four. My worst ever tally at this stage, including the spell when I was recovering from injury. It isn't just the lack of goals or starts. Now I'm skulking around in Thinny's ever-growing shadow.

Strikers are a breed apart. We're selfish, vain and arrogant. We live to score goals because goals earn wins, wins earn headlines, pats on the back, a professional contract.

I still have 18 months left to impress but the clock is ticking. This is no kickabout in the park or playing at school with my mates anymore, when the result didn't matter and arguments over whether the ball went over the coats raged for days.

Every second on the pitch as a scholar is precious, Wolston's coaches constantly monitoring everything you did or didn't do; each match, each training session a battle for survival, trying to prove you belong or watch a rival grab your spot.

My self-confidence had taken a battering.

I won't lie, I'm happy to watch this Boxing Day derby against Didsbury from the sidelines rather than think I could or even should be out there.

There's still some jealousy on my part as I study the likes of Mark Pounchett, Bobby Hassall and Ryan Hamer go through their pre-match warm ups down below my West Stand seat.

All three had come through the academy. They were living proof it worked. After another bad day I only had to look across the training pitches to the first team squad and watch those lads who had survived the same torture as me.

Duncan's rants, Dooley's burning fitness tests, Kearns' classroom drills. They must have had similar periods of self-doubt, when it seemed you couldn't do right for wrong, but they all came out the other side.

Now they were part of a Wolston team badly in need of a win, not for local bragging rights, just to climb up the Championship table.

Mark Peacock is refusing to speak to the local press at present. They've been critical of recent performances and he's taken major offence, which they in turn take as a sign the pressure is getting to him. He can't win in my eyes.

Matt Kearns had already warned us about the pitfalls of dealing with the media. Supporters only care about what they see on the pitch every weekend but, trust me, there is a lot more to being a footballer. Like the dangers from bad publicity or saying the wrong thing to the wrong people who will twist your words in print or social media.

I already knew enough to realise the media hunt in a pack.

We would see them on Thursday mornings in the canteen at The Lodge huddling in a corner waiting for the weekly press conference to preview Saturday's game, ready to grill Peacock or his first team players, desperate for a headline and a soundbite.

Most of them have never played the game but they were experts, ready to tell anyone who would listen where Peacock is going wrong.

Then again, he needs all the help he can get. Rovers are in a dogfight at the bottom.

Didsbury had always been the poor relations compared to us. Never once in the top flight, a solid, smaller club punching above their weight. Now they were coming to Lowfield Road comfortably in mid-table. It was a tough role reversal for us 'Sky Blue' followers.

The stadium is bursting at the seams in the bright, wintry sunshine.

A massive cheer greets the players. For a split-second I feel like a fan again – trying to cope with that nervous sensation welling in the pit of my stomach, the heart pounding, the rising sense of anticipation.

City's experienced centre forward, Rennie, blazes wide from 12 yards after controlling Hassall's rushed clearance.

Never mind the fans, the home players seem to be struggling with their nerves.

Dad gets more and more agitated. I try to do what Bopper has always told me - watch the game within the game. My focus is on Wolston's big-money summer import.

Radek Raszi had arrived with an impressive pedigree and a glut of goals over the past two seasons, a Czech Republic under-21 international striker.

Peacock said it was the best £750,000 he'd ever spent when Wolston pushed the boat out before the start of the season.

The touch and technique are there for all to see. Even in the midst of a full-blooded English derby you can tell he has the raw materials, but his lack of goals to this point in a Wolston shirt paint a different story. Of a guy struggling for confidence.

Just before the interval he miscues horribly inside the Didsbury penalty area and the ball balloons high into the East Terrace. It is the shot of a striker with two goals to his name all season.

Raszi troops down the tunnel at half-time looking like a condemned man.

I'm watching a mirror image of myself.

'Peacock has a major job on his hands here, Dad,' as me and my old man begin our usual half-time inquest.

'This crowd is ready to turn, David. They can't buy a goal at the minute. He needs his experienced players to stand up.'

Just one problem, the majority were unfit for duty. I saw the depressing evidence with my own eyes every day at The Lodge. The medical suite might as well have been fitted with revolving doors. The physiotherapy staff and Wolston's club doctor were rapidly becoming more important to Peacock than his crocked players.

I look across to the tunnel area as players start to emerge.

Raszi is now wearing a tracksuit. I follow his path as he walks, head bowed, along the touchline and buries himself out of sight in the back row of the home dugout.

Robbed of any chance to set the record straight after his earlier howler, or the chance to avoid a sleepless night. Now he has to sit through the same dross as the rest of us.

The lack of quality on both sides is painful. The second half drifts aimlessly to its inevitable conclusion. Rovers force a corner to ironic cheers.

Dad is right. The natives are definitely getting restless.

Wolston have loyal supporters but playing so poorly against arch rivals seems beyond the pale even for the West Terrace hardcore.

City's keeper clutches Pounchett's tame strike and launches a booming goal kick towards Rennie. The veteran forward may have lost any pace he had, but his touch hasn't deserted him.

Rovers still have defenders trudging back from the corner. Rennie turns and lays the ball off.

Didsbury's winger takes two touches, looks up, and picks out his near post dart. The bald-headed striker doesn't even break stride as his clever looping flick arcs over Wolston's diving keeper into the far corner of the goal.

One pocket of Lowfield Road erupts. For the other three sides of the ground this is the stuff of nightmares.

Two old boys sitting in our row jump up and shuffle towards the gangway.

'Rubbish. Sack Peacock. He's clueless,' shouts the white-haired ring leader.

A trickle of disgruntled punters turns into a steady stream as each, suffocating minute slips by with no sign of any home comeback.

The more Rovers try the more passes go astray. Peacock stands alone with his arms folded in the technical area. A visible target for the boo boys.

'Going down, going down, going down,' taunt the Didsbury fans.

I can't remember the last time they'd won here. Even Dad is scratching his head for the answer as the fourth official emerges with the time added on board.

Rovers are going to ring in the New Year in the bottom three. So much for raising my spirits, I'm heading home even more depressed.

My mobile starts to vibrate. I reach inside my coat pocket. Jim Cornforth's name is on the dash.

'Jimbo, how's tricks?'

'Aye not bad Davie. You at the game?'

'Yeah boss. Absolute shocker. One down going into stoppage time. Their keeper hasn't had a decent save to make all game. Peacock's getting some serious stick off the crowd around me.'

'Can you blame them? That'll be ten without a win, proper relegation form.'

'I know, I know, son. How's your Christmas. Are you snowed in up there?'

Jimbo was back in Scotland visiting his extended family. A loud chorus of boos greets the full-time whistle.

'All over Jim.'

'Peacock will be out of a job at this rate. Yeah, it's not too bad up here. My brother and sister have gone up to Aviemore for a few days skiing. I'd love to join them but the club would kill me.'

'Take it from me, a plaster cast and crutches is not a good look,' I laugh. 'I can just see Duncan's face when you report back next week.'

I nod to Dad as I follow him out of the stadium, weaving between a throng of glum faces as we head back towards our car.

The old man looks annoyed at not having my undivided attention. Either that or the fact he has some serious flak coming from his Didsbury-supporting work mates after Christmas.

'Duncan's already going to be suicidal after what happened to Thinny.'

'The Great Dane? Why? What's the story there, Jim?'

'You mean you haven't heard, Davie? He's broke his leg in two places.'

I stop dead in my tracks, trying to process Jim's bombshell. Dad moves on a good 50 yards before he turns around and gestures to pull my finger out.

'Dave, Dave, are you still there, pal?'

'...sorry Jim. That's shocking. How did it happen? Who told you? How bad is he? How long is he out for?'

My brain is working overtime. Olaf may have elbowed me out of the limelight over these past few months but I still didn't wish this on him or anyone else.

'I just rang him earlier to wish the lad Happy Christmas and his Dad answered. He told me Olaf is in hospital in Copenhagen. They were in a car accident. The smash happened a couple of days ago and they operated yesterday.

'All I know is he was a passenger. His Dad says they were waiting at a junction and another vehicle slammed into the side. Brake failure, apparently.'

'That's terrible. But he's going to be alright?'

I feel guilty asking Jim the question as soon as the words leave my mouth.

'The doctors have pinned his right leg. Olaf's Dad thinks he'll probably need another operation or two as well. It's serious stuff, Davie, a double fracture.'

Suddenly derby defeat doesn't seem to matter. Or the pressure Peacock is under. Or even my old man's hacked-off expression as he turns the engine. I just can't get this image of Olaf laid up in a hospital bed out of my head, looking down at his shattered right leg when the painkillers start to wear off.

I knew that pain. The mental torture, the dark place he is about to enter.

Maybe I should ring him? Tell him he'll get through it and he'll come out the other side?

Behave yourself, Shawsy. It took weeks and months to come to terms with my own injury. I am still struggling now, if truth be told.

The final few days of our festive break drag. Olaf is never far from my thoughts. I decide this is not the right time for rationality or sympathy.

Just leave him alone.

Rovers pick up a vital New Year's Day win.

Perhaps the disgruntled white-haired old boy from Boxing Day will return for the following home game? For me, there were more important things going on in life.

Look, I'd be lying here if I said I'd become good mates with Olaf. My gut instincts after our first meeting in the video suite at The Lodge were bang on. Duncan's charm offensive to get him, those heroics against Norwich and all his goals since - Olaf Thin was a proper player and for however long he was out we were going to miss him.

The rest of the lads clearly feel the same. The training ground is a desolate place that first morning back after the holidays. No laughter, no banter flying about, no tales of festive scrapes and mischief. Everyone knows the score as Duncan gathers us together in the same video suite we were first introduced to each other way back in July.

'Gentlemen, before you go out for training I want to update you on Olaf Thin. Firstly, I've been over to Copenhagen last week and visited him in hospital. He wants me to pass on his thanks for the cards and get well messages of support.

'I think it's fair to say Olaf's become a very popular figure in his short time here. We all know what a gifted player he is, but he's also a great lad – which is why this news comes as such a big shock to everyone.'

For once I couldn't argue with Duncan.

'Olaf's doctors feel it will be at least eight or nine months before he can think about kicking a ball and it goes without saying he'll get all the help he needs from the club to get back playing.'

I look around at the lads. Some of them are visibly upset. Not me. I'd heard the same long sentence when I wrecked my own ankle. I was already hardened to missing something you love.

'Now boys, we have to be professional about this. My message to you all is a simple one.' Duncan's voice rises a few decibels, like he feels the need to grab our attention again. 'However hard it is to take you can't let something like this affect you. I know its tough but injuries, serious ones at that, are part and parcel of football. Maybe not in such terrible circumstances, but that is life.

'Some of you in this room have already experienced that side of being a young footballer.

'We have to re-focus as a group and put Olaf's injury to the back of our minds.'

One selfish thought is already dominating mine. One I can't share with the rest of the lads.

Olaf's car accident leaves a vacancy in Wolston's under-18s strikeforce and I am going to stake my claim. At that moment I don't care if Dooley's hand has been forced. Or that a gifted Danish footballer lies in hospital facing an uncertain future.

Dooley pulls me prior to our first away trip of the new year at Tottenham.

I'd been waiting for this chat.

'David, I'm sure you realise but this is your opportunity now. It's your time. You have to make the most of it.'

Finally, a fair crack of the whip from the sergeant major. That's all I want.

'Gaffer, I've worked my tail off every day since last summer.'

This is a speech in rehearsal for months. I have it word-perfect now and Dooley is going to hear the full version.

'I know I haven't been the best of trainers in the past, when I was younger I mean, before my ankle injury, but I've tried to knuckle down. It might not come across like that but I want to be a professional at this club, just as much as any other lad.

'Maybe the injury helped me grow up a bit, made me realise what I could lose and what I had to do to achieve my dream.

'Whatever you, Rob Duncan or any of the academy coaches think about me, you can't question my work rate or my attitude this season.'

Dooley looks slightly taken aback.

Perhaps he expected a routine 'yes boss' or a shake of the head. Not a full-on plea in mitigation in the case of Wolston versus David Shaw.

This summit meeting is long overdue in my book. All the frustration, all the games sitting on the bench kicking my heels start pouring out of me.

Dooley walks on a few paces in total silence before pausing. One of the ground staff at The Lodge is buzzing away on his small lawnmower cutting the grass on the nearest training pitch.

I get a sinking feeling I've gone too far.

'Do you know Rob Duncan tells me every week application, not ability, is what may hold you back?' he says. 'It was actually touch or go whether we offered you a scholarship deal last summer.'

Fantastic. This is just the confidence booster I need from a man who feels I'm a poor substitute for Thinny.

I don't need reminding of Duncan's 'lazy' jibe either. I can sense the anger bubbling. I'm not in the mood for diplomacy. Not where Rob Duncan is concerned.

'I really rate you David,' Dooley reaches out to put an arm on my shoulder. 'I think Rob is wrong. And I've told him so. I believe you have knuckled down and you can do special things. I've seen it in training many times, but producing in the games is what sets a young footballer apart.

'Olaf and Phil Warwick were obvious starters a few months ago, because you weren't strong enough to cope with the physical demands. That stuck out to me like a sore thumb in pre-season.'

Dooley was right on that score. I did struggle to adjust to the full-time demands of being a footballer.

'You see David, my job is not just about the here and now. It's about the future.' Dooley's consoling arm guides me to one of the dugouts next to the pitch where Peacock and his first team squad are practising set pieces.

'All the academy staff here must work to one goal and that is developing young players to join those professionals over there. You were injured for months at a critical time when your body was still growing and changing.

'To come into this level of football is a huge step. We play the best clubs in the country every week. To do that you need to be at your peak.

'Listen, I know how difficult it is for someone who has been a regular starter to sit and watch games. You probably go home cursing me most weekends.'

I look straight at him. I'm warming to this guy. He's a sharper operator than I gave him credit.

'...but you have to take that on board because it's all part of your education. If you make it, when you make it,' Dooley has Duncan's dramatic pause down to a fine art, 'there'll be times in your career when you will be out of favour, when you won't be an automatic first choice, and it's how you react.

'We, and I mean we, Rob, myself, the other academy staff, we all felt it would perhaps take until after Christmas for you to really come to the fore, alongside Thinny. I haven't seen anything in our league so far this season that would be a better front pair. Now Olaf is out of the picture we need you to step up to the plate. You have to shoulder that extra responsibility.'

Never mind extra responsibility. At that very moment it feels like a huge weight is being lifted. Just to hear Dooley say he believes in me, like Bop had done all those years.

Everything makes sense, the part about holding me back for my own good, not throwing me in before I was ready.

Why couldn't this chat have happened last summer? Saving me a lot of stress in the process.

I can't wait for Spurs. It's a re-arranged game due to Tottenham's FA Youth Cup run.

We'd gone out early before Christmas with me sat in the stands, of course. Tottenham were genuine title challengers at academy level as well. Even with Thinny's goals we were no higher than halfway in our league.

My new strike partner against Spurs has his own agenda. Phil Warwick is running out of time to grab a professional contract at Wolston.

Second years face the cruellest cut of all, falling at the final hurdle. It's a stark choice. Earning a pass to the best job in the world or a decade slogging away in junior football with nothing to show for it at the end. Thanks but no thanks.

I doubt most football fans feel any sympathy when they see the cars, the houses, the bling lifestyle that comes with the high-profile public image.

But for every pro count the thousands who fall by the wayside. No fame and fortune for them, my friends.

For me, Warwick is a dead man walking. Sorry. That's how I feel. Even more so after Dooley's training ground pep talk listening to him rave over the Shaw/Olaf dream team.

Tottenham start the match like a side riding high in the league who fancies an FA Youth Cup double.

Mike Usher tips over a long range effort from Paxton, Spurs' playmaker and Scottish youth international.

'Jimbo, you've got to track him,' I shout across. 'otherwise he'll run off the back of us all day.'

Jimmy doesn't need my advice. Paxton is an international colleague. Jimbo practically hi-jacked Dooley's pre-match team talk warning of the danger in our midst.

Jim was now emerging as the true leader in our group, even with Goddard in the ranks.

'Aye, pipe down. I know.'

Jim cuts Paxton down the next time he receives the ball. No room for sentiment here. He takes a yellow card for his pains, but worse follows when Paxton's floated chip clips the end of our wall and loops up over Usher into the back of the net.

I watch Mike bawl at the lads in the defensive wall as Paxton smirks at Jimbo before being mobbed by his mates.

I roll the ball to Phil Warwick to restart. It's my third touch in 30 minutes, so much for the big statement. I'm a virtual spectator as we get to half-time without any further damage.

'Well done lads, great defensive effort. We're still in this.'

Dooley's calm tone catches me off-guard. Bop would've ripped into us. Spurs had given us the run around.

'Right boys, I want to change the system here. We need to match up with two holding players in midfield.'

I feel a chill from the substitutes' bench down my spine. This sounds like Norwich, away, only in reverse, with me making way for lumbering Warwick to fly solo.

'Paxton is having an armchair ride,' Dooley is doing his best to justify the tactical switch to a disbelieving Dave Shaw, 'he's got two team mates doing his dirty work in the centre of the park where Spurs are out-numbering us. If we can't get hold of the ball then we can't get Shawsy into this game. Phil, off you come son.'

Warwick grabs a Rovers' tracksuit top from a pile in the centre of the dressing room floor. Jack Goddard, sat next to him, whispers something in his ear. He was kitted out in the same dark blue tracksuit, another member of the bomb squad.

I watch Phil pull the top over his head like he's been handed a straightjacket.

It was another nail in the coffin for me.

I keep on staring as he massages the back of his hamstring. I knew he'd had a niggle for the past month or so, but the body language screams this is a player who realises his time is nearly up.

'Shawsy, plenty of intelligent runs along the line,' Dooley is standing over me now, 'you need to keep their defence busy and give us a mobile target that we can play around.'

That isn't my natural game. I prefer to run in behind and do my best work inside the penalty box, but I nod. I know it could easily have been me getting hooked.

I take a long swing on an energy drink. I figure I'm going to need it, this 45 minutes.

Jimmy Cornforth is now Paxton's minder, Joe Louisburgh our creative spark in midfield.

I veer into the left-hand channel a couple of minutes after the interval. Tottenham's big centre-back is in two minds whether to follow. He doesn't fancy being dragged into uncharted waters.

Joe looks up and carves a first time pass with the outside of his left peg.

I pull the ball down.

It's a one-man operation here or wait for the cavalry to arrive.

My marker finally reacts. Too late. I feint left, lurch right with a cute step over. He makes a grab for my shirt but I'm away.

One, two, three paces before I let fly at the edge of the box and watch the ball loop miles over the bar.

Too rushed, too eager, the shot of a man finally let off the leash and desperate to impress.

I could look at the turf and repair the 'mystery' divot that caused my embarrassing slice as the smiling Tottenham keeper retrieves the ball.

'Hey, c'mon. That's better lads.'

I run back into position, clapping the boys. I'd never been the most vocal on the park, never a bawler like Goddard, but I sense it is time to make my voice heard.

Steve Bolder's last-ditch tackle breaks up another Tottenham raid. The counter is on.

Jim pivots in the centre-circle, looks up and pings a crossfield pass to the feet of Justin Burt.

Burty is a year older than me, a second year scholar like Phil Warwick, but that's where the similarity ends. Burty is already a regular at development level; playing one step above us with the older lads on the fringes of the first team. A prime candidate to earn a first professional contract.

Spurs' left-back shows him wide but Burty is comfortable on either foot. He checks back and catches the defender off-balance.

I scream for an early ball, take my marker away to the back post on a diagonal, before a dart in front.

Yes, good lad Burty.

He's seen my run and clips a pass across Tottenham's six yard box. I launch myself forward to power a header underneath the diving keeper.

1-1. Game on.

I haul myself quickly to my feet and barge a Spurs' defender out of the way to race into the goal, grab the ball and run back to the centre-circle.

I look over at Dooley. He has his hands to his temple in the technical area.

Stay concentrated, stay focused.

Tottenham make a double change before the restart in a bid to wrestle back the initiative.

Even at our level they are the big fish. We are small, unfashionable, Wolston. No one cares too much about us outside our remote part of the country.

One of Dad's favourite sayings pops into my head.

It's only 11 against 11, son. Don't play the history or the badge on the shirt.

Tottenham have better players, youth internationals throughout their squad, but we are a unit and we are on top now. Usher barks orders at his defenders, Jim and Joe have the upper hand in midfield as Paxton fades, and Wolston's re-born striker is waging a one-man crusade up top.

Burty's pace earns us another corner. Tottenham's two defensive midfielders are failing to track his runs. The left-back is having a nightmare.

He jogs over to take the set piece. We know our jobs. Dooley is a brute when it comes to set piece drills. Corners, free kicks, re-starts.

Don't tell him but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night practically sweating over his flip charts and positional diagrams.

My role is to disrupt the keeper, stand in front of him, mess him about, anything I can get away with to prevent him coming out to claim a corner cleanly.

Burty raises his left arm, the signal for a big one towards the back post.

Goddard's nemesis, Jamie Green, rises highest. I have my back to goal and the Tottenham keeper for an overcoat as Greeny's glancing header drops towards me.

No chance of a touch in such a confined space.

I stick my backside out to stop him coming around me just to buy a fraction of a second for a cheeky back heel. I look over my shoulder after making contact. It's barely got enough pace on it, but the element of surprise does for the Spurs' keeper as it trickles between his legs and over the goal line.

Get in. Not smiling now, you clown.

Greeny practically throttles me. I stumble forwards with three team mates clambering on my back.

Fluke or finesse? I'll let you choose. Do I care? No chance, but I know it's the type of goal only a poacher scores.

Ask me to explain what just happened and I can't. In that sliver of time, when everything and everyone seems frozen, a natural scorer gets a moment of clarity. You can't coach it, in my opinion. No amount of diagrams can coach that.

Five. Dooley holds up five fingers. Time for cool heads in the remaining minutes. Four. Spurs throw on one final substitute as they pile bodies forward. Three. Dave Shaw's hat-trick.

Oh yes.

It's a pure leg race between me and the defender to gather Greeny's pressure-relieving punt. No contest. I gallop clear, bring the bouncing ball under control with one touch and slot past the advancing keeper from 10 yards.

Sheer elation mixes with sheer relief. Like a pressure valve finally gives way after me pushing against it all these months; straining every sinew to loosen one stubborn nut.

Half an hour or so later, sat in the far corner of the away changing room, it starts to sink in.

My first hat-trick since coming back from the ankle injury. Three goals against Arsenal a week before my world was turned upside down. Three more against their bitter north London rivals to signal I am back in business.

After the hellish journey in between I know life no longer revolves around me. The brilliant Olaf Thin proved that, but this is my moment. I'd overcome every setback, every obstacle, every challenge and I am going to savour it.

'You look how I feel,' laughs Dooley. 'Anyone would think you'd just run yourself into the ground.' Dooley leans in closer, just for my benefit, as the music pumps and the walls vibrate to the sound of happy footballers.

'No looking back now, Dave. You've really come of age with that performance. Well done.'

Dooley pats me on the head before helping to carry a crate into the corridor outside to load back onto our team coach. Both of us were going to enjoy the journey home this time.

**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 glance 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.

**Chapter Seven**

C'mon Dad. Pull me to pieces, like you have done, well, forever after my games.

Please say something. Anything but the silent treatment all the way home.

Not a word. Only the hum of the engine and the whish of the wiper blades as the rain falls outside. We both know what just happened is different. I had never reacted like that before, not on a football field. Come to think of it, I'd never reacted like that ever in my life.

Yeah, I could be annoying. Loved to get under the skin of defenders, but it was as if I'd been possessed.

Even Mum opts to toe the party line sitting quietly in the back seat. Disappointment hangs in the air. One moment of madness from their son had sent a tremor through the Shaw family.

I can't wait to get out of the passenger seat and bolt to my bedroom.

No inquest tonight.

I can hear muffled voices from downstairs as Mum and Dad try making sense of it behind a closed door. Just like me.

Anyone who ever tries telling you again things never seen quite so bad in the morning should have been sat in our kitchen hours after the night from hell.

'Grow up David, for pity's sake.'

Dad had found his voice. And he is fuming. I've barely slept processing every image; pouring over every mouthful of abuse and slyness from Sheldon, my violent response and the recriminations.

Pleas for leniency and mitigation are cutting no ice.

My old man had a long fuse but I haven't seen him this angry since the time I pulled a kitchen cupboard off the wall when I was about seven or eight, climbing up onto a shelf reaching for cookies. I don't know whether it was his son's personal safety or the fact I'd wrecked his DIY handiwork but I never did it again.

'Why do you think he tried winding you up? Well? I'm waiting David.'

I reach for the cereal. Not that I'm hungry, just stalling for time.

'I'll tell you why, shall I?' Off he goes again, barely pausing for breath.

I guess he'd rather have this conversation with himself anyway.

'David, when will the penny drop? This isn't messing about with your friends, or running in and out of cones down The Lodge for a couple of hours after school.

'You're in the real world of professional football. It's not a game, it's a business, and a ruthless one at that. What the hell did you expect? For Sheldon to play nicely and let you do what you wanted out there last night?

Now he was being silly; poking me for a reaction. But I had just learned a brutal lesson over these past 12 hours or so. This time I decide not to bite.

'Son, you have the talent to be a professional footballer. We both know that and so do Wolston. It takes much more than that. If you thought getting a scholarship last year was the be-all and end-all you're deluding yourself. You haven't made it.'

The tone was softer but the words cut just as deeply.

'What do you think Mark Peacock and Charlie McGovern made of that performance last night? Or Rob Duncan and the rest of the academy coaches? You've let a lot of people down. You let me and your mother down. But the real issue here is you're cheating yourself. It's your life. Take some responsibility for it.'

I stare down at the saturated flakes in my breakfast bowl. I can feel tears start to well again; like I haven't cried enough already. Dad's words hurt a thousand times more than the dull pain around my Achilles from Sheldon's wild lunge.

It was the same well-worn speech from McGovern and Duncan. How I always seem to tread a fine line between a football pitch or working in an office or on a building site. How talent alone was no guarantee.

In the early hours as I lay awake last night I tried to take stock. Easier said than done when all you feel is numbness.

But even at my lowest ebb, wandering dazed off that pitch, sobbing in the changing room afterwards, hearing the hum of the car engine, I never questioned I would still make it at Wolston. I'd banished those dark thoughts since becoming a regular in the side after Christmas.

Now Dad is laying it on the line. This is still in the balance.

'Ten-man Rovers hang on in feisty derby draw.'

I nearly choke on my first mouthful of cereal as I clock the headline on the back of the local paper.

Dad had strategically placed it next to me on the kitchen table.

Probably waiting for the paperboy to come up the garden path after his own sleepless night.

I flick inside a couple of pages as Dad gets up from the table, the back door slams shut as he heads down the garden path to his shed. Anywhere but share the same oxygen as me.

I look again at the paper and staring back is a picture of Rogers leading me away from the fracas. I have this mad, demented look while Sheldon, the poor innocent victim, is helped to his feet.

I force myself to read the article as the sickness and shame wash over me again.

'Young goalscorer Dave Shaw was red-carded for an attack on Didsbury's experienced defender Ben Sheldon as the explosive derby boiled to a tense finale.

'Shaw reacted angrily to Sheldon's lunge from behind after earlier drawing Rovers level on his development team debut.

'The volatile 17-year-old grappled Sheldon to the ground, sparking ugly scenes at Lowfield Road as players and club officials squared up to each other.'

It's horrific. Words like 'volatile' and 'attack' have no place on the sports pages. It sounds like I'd hidden down a dark alley with a baseball bat.

Charlie McGovern wants to see me in his office later for a 'chat', only I know who'll be doing the talking. This day was going to get a lot worse before it got better. If it got better. Ever.

Dad offers to come with me. He might not want to be in the same room but he isn't going to cut his son adrift. I turn him down. This is my mess. I don't need anyone holding my hand. Not any more.

The academy squad is training on the far pitches as I pull in to The Lodge car park.

I'm so jealous. Right at this moment in my wretched life I want nothing more than to be back among the boys in familiar surroundings; warm, comfortable, safe.

'So what have you got to say for yourself?'

McGovern's laptop is out of sight. But a copy of the local paper is folded on his desk.

He had left me to stew after the game. Not that I was in a fit state to do much more than fight back the tears. Sitting the other side of his big desk now feels like being the accused returning for sentencing.

'Sorry Charlie.'

'Sorry. Sorry doesn't really cut it, young man. That was pathetic. You left team mates in the lurch and that is something you never do on a football pitch.'

'I know, I just lost the plot. The guy was in my ear all game and I snapped. The emotion got to me and for a split-second I lost control. I'm sorry, it won't happen again.'

The lads had managed to grind out a draw in the remaining minutes but I knew my opening statement sounded like a miserable, pitiful excuse. Hollow words.

'Too right it won't,' shouts McGovern. 'At least not this season. It was a total lack of discipline. We can't accept that sort of behaviour. If you pick up a booking or two along the way for a mistimed tackle that is part of the game. But do you honestly think you can get away with that?'

'I dunno – I mean no,' I mumble. I stare at the dark blue carpet in his office, desperate to avoid McGovern's disapproving gaze.

Dad's earlier warning over my future starts to feel more like a prophecy, like I'd burnt my bridges at the club I love.

'You're not ready for the step up yet, David. That much is clear now. I've got no option but to leave you out of the remaining development fixtures this season. We're awaiting the referee's report from last night but it's a formality you'll get a three-game ban for violent conduct.'

A ban? It hadn't even dawned on me in the midst of my self-pity.

I had never been suspended before.

Hit me with a fine, make me apologise publically at Rovers' next first team game, make me train in fancy dress for the next month, anything but stop me from playing.

'How's the heel?' McGovern eases back into his chair after hitting me with a tirade. It's the first sympathetic signal I'd had since setting foot inside the building.

'Still a bit sore,' I whine.

Like he really cared.

'The physios iced it straight away and I've got some strapping around it now. They've told me to keep the weight off it as much as possible. We haven't got a game this Saturday so I should be fit the following weekend.'

I might be fit but McGovern's revelation had made that admission totally irrelevant. I wouldn't be playing. My rush of blood had seen to that.

'David, you know the best way, no, the only way to deal with intimidation?'

Quiz questions now, McGovern? I'm really not in the mood.

'By doing what you did and scoring a goal. Believe me, I had it all in my time, pinching, spitting, gouging, you name it there was nothing some opponents thought was off-limits. I remember a World Cup qualifier when this animal tried to bite my ear at a corner. I'll never forget the face. The guy looked like he'd been fed on raw meat for a year.

'Just take it as a sign you've rattled them. Sheldon wouldn't have got so wound up otherwise. Trust me, he's too long in the tooth for that caper, especially in a meaningless game in front of an empty stadium.'

Meaningless? Not to me. It felt like the biggest game of my life.

'We've all made mistakes and we know young players are not the finished article, that's why we'll only have a problem if you keep making the same ones.'

McGovern rises to his feet.

'Look, I can see how much it's shaken you. You'll be fined and with the ban to come consider this an end to the matter.

'Listen, the gaffer was impressed. You took your goal well, linked the play and did everything we expected once you settled down. Just cut out the wrestling.'

McGovern's attempts to sugar the pill taste rancid. Maybe because I knew I have to survive the paint-stripper routine from Duncan.

By the end of his interrogation I'm pleading for a lone assassin to burst through the door and end my misery.

Don't ask me to go through it all again. Please. Let's just say in his view he had stuck his neck out to offer me a scholarship and this was how I re-paid him.

Classic Duncan. It should have been about me, yet it was all about him. I walked into his office 5ft 10 and crawled back out 3ft 8 after the biggest rollicking I'd ever had from the Scot. And that is saying something.

I wander back to my car dazed; like I've been released on parole for murder. My hand shakes as I struggle to put the key in the ignition.

Any chance of a pardon or even redemption swiftly fades over those final few weeks of the season.

No more goals to add to the 20 for the academy and one for the development side; a healthy total after stepping out of Olaf's shadow before a sour end to the season.

I'd reached the midway point of my scholarship and would have to prove myself all over again. One step forward, ten back.

The summer drags. A permanent, dark cloud hovers over Dave Shaw as I count the days to pre-season training, just like the previous summer, when I couldn't wait to get started.

Back then it was about making a good impression, now it is repairing a shattered one.

It feels like repeating a school year.

Running out at Stoke's Britannia Stadium on a cool September evening, in my eyes, is the real start to the new season.

I tuck away a few early goals in the academy league but the FA Youth Cup is my personal target after sitting in the stands this time last season when we got knocked out against Southampton.

Wolston last reached the final a decade ago when they were hammered 9-1 on aggregate against a great West Ham side. Dad and I occasionally watched those games back. The Hammers' had these two midfielders who ran the show and were now full England internationals.

It was the best competition in the country at academy level. Certainly the one with the most prestige. Stoke away is a tough draw. The Potters' were a well-established Premier League club.

Jimbo is our new academy captain; a natural choice for me. Mike Usher is the number one between the sticks, we have the two Welsh boys in defence, Joe Louisburgh in the middle of the park and me up front.

Dooley is trying to build a new side around a solid spine of second year scholars and I'm determined to prove he can rely on Dave Shaw.

Thinny is back in light training after his car crash. Phil Warwick had long since gone after Rovers opt not to offer him a professional deal. Just another 18-year-old they deem not up to scratch. Last I heard he was training with King's Lynn, an ambitious non league club recently promoted to the Conference.

I'm desperate to avoid the same career path. I have so much to prove and others looking up to me now. There is a new striker just as cocky as Dave Shaw, or the old Dave Shaw.

Paul Morley had arrived over the summer. He'd already spent time at Charlton, QPR and Orient without really settling anywhere. The guy does not lack for confidence, which coming from me is saying something. He strolled in on his first day of pre-season as if he owned the joint.

Jack Goddard emerged from the showers to find his tracksuit dangling on a window ledge in flames. Morley liked living dangerously. The Goddard of old would've had him hanging from the same balcony overlooking the training pitches before his singed clothing melted.

But Goddard was no longer the main man at Wolston. Opponents were now physically his equal and he was struggling to hold down a place in his less favoured full-back position.

Morley needed to back up his comedy antics on the pitch. I wasn't impressed during the first pre-season games. The lad is powerful in the air but his technique isn't great. Then again, who am I to question Duncan? He was spot on about Thinny and, dare I say it, Dave Shaw too.

Goddard picks up a booking within five minutes of the kick-off after smashing the winger into the advertising boards.

It's late and crude, one of those where you leave a bit on your direct rival to let him know you mean business. Goddard takes his punishment but sends Stoke the signal we fancy this and we are not rolling over.

Jim picks out my run between two markers. We've played so often together now it's almost telepathy. I gather the ball in one motion and drive towards Stoke's back-pedalling defence.

I can see Morley in my peripheral vision. I want him to take a man away, provide a decoy run to open up some space, so I feint right and nearly collide with the idiot as he runs straight across me attracting two Stoke defenders to the ball who easily break up a promising attack.

'What are you doing, fool?' I shout as I thrust both hands skywards towards Dooley, standing at the front of his technical area. 'Take your marker away.'

Hardly words of encouragement from the senior partner, not that he needed any help in the confidence stakes.

Morley gives me a nod I take as an admission of guilt. Given the same chance again I know he is likely to be a repeat offender. Morley is a guy who plays on instinct; it's all off-the-cuff and taking chances when he has little or no time to think about what he is doing. Let him have too much time or room and the odds are stacked against him picking the right option.

But what he lacks on the floor or between his ears, he compensates for in the air.

Midway through the opening half, I veer left to collect Morley's flick from Mike Usher's booming goal kick before easing off the revs.

I want to square up the nearest defender to get him off-balance.

He tries to show me outside but I jink inside and curl a left footer from the edge of the penalty box beyond the Stoke keeper. I know it's in the moment it leaves my foot.

One chance, no, one half-chance, one goal. Top drawer stuff.

I punch the air as I race towards the directors' box trying to pick out Mum and Dad. It's a goal that deserves more than polite applause from the Main Stand. Clearly most of the Potters' supporters have decided there are better things to do on a Thursday night in Stoke.

Morley is one of the first to congratulate me.

'Well done, fool,' I laugh.

'Behave, you've been watching me in training again, Dave.'

'Jog on. Not even in your wildest dreams could you score a goal like that.'

He frustrated the life out of me but maybe there is a partnership that might work between us.

Jimbo makes it 2-0 before half-time. Morley then commits the keeper with his pace early in the second half and gets brought down inside the box.

Man, I was quick but this guy is pure lightening, or should that be frightening in full flow.

The referee points to the penalty spot and books their keeper. If the full-back is not around on the cover it had to be a red. I pat down some mud around the spot. This is all part of my routine. Like a place kicker in rugby.

One, two, three paces back. Get the breathing right. Turn, then visualise, low and hard inside the right-hand post. Nothing difficult, just open up the body and sidefoot it in with power. One deep breath, wait for the referee's whistle. Focus.

Bang. Goal.

Never in doubt.

0-3. Fourth Round here we come. The tie is over. We know it, Stoke know it. As long as we don't do anything silly we can enjoy this final quarter.

Mike Usher's a virtual spectator as Jim and Joe spray the ball across midfield. Jimbo lets fly from 25 yards but the overworked Stoke keeper goes full length to tip it over.

I make a near post run from the corner but it flies over me where Goddard launches himself at Joey's ball to crash a header between the far post and a Stoke defender on the line. 0-4.

A small band of home fans have seen enough. Goddard's goal is the cue for a clatter of seats as they drift away into the night.

Stoke's players argue amongst themselves preparing to kick-off.

Maybe a touch of complacency lads, when you saw the draw? A home tie against a Championship club. Probably already had one eye on Manchester United or Liverpool in the next round.

Think again boys.

For second year scholars like me in the Stoke side they were rapidly coming to the end of their last-ever FA Youth Cup adventure.

Just enough time left for me to grab another matchball.

Morley skips past the one-paced full-back and hammers a cross on the run. It arrives at waist-height as I rock backwards on the penalty spot ready for a bicycle kick. I catch the ball flush but watch it cannon against the bar from 12 yards and fly over.

Did I have time to bring it down? You know the answer, David.

I pull myself to my feet as the smattering of applause dies down.

Thanks Mr and Mrs Shaw.

Dooley's booming voice is barking out instructions. The fourth official holds up number nine. I shake hands with the referee as I stroll off. The hat-trick can wait for another day.

Am I happy to get hooked? No, not completely, but its job done and we are in the next round. That's all that matters. I know what you're thinking after my Arsenal antics a couple of seasons ago, but, trust me, I fully understand the bigger picture now. I've grown up a lot since then.

Dooley hugs me and pushes me towards the tunnel. The game ticks into stoppage time. No point sweating in the cold, chilly air for another minute or two.

The warmth from the away dressing room feels so good as I slip off my boots, stretch out on the physio's bench and close my eyes.

Just give me a quiet minute before the chaos and the pumping music. Where do you fancy in the next round, Shawsy? Old Trafford? Anfield?

'Well done, young man.'

I recognise that voice, even with my eyes shut. Mark Peacock.

'Gaffer.'

I sit practically bolt upright ready to stand to attention until Peacock motions me to remain lying on the bench.

'No, no David. Don't get up on my account. I think you've earned a little rest after that shift tonight.'

He raises his hands before pushing them back into a full length leather coat, collar tucked up against the elements.

Wolston's first team manager stands in the doorway, blocking out most of the light from the corridor. He takes another pace forward and the dressing room door swings shut. Just me and him.

'What a fantastic first goal and on your left peg too. I was right behind it. It was in the moment you hit it.'

I'd been working hard on my weaker foot. Two-footed I'm not but it was getting there.

Then I remember my final miss, the one where I hit the bar showboating.

'Should've had a hat-trick, gaffer. The bicycle kick didn't come down quickly enough.'

Get that one in before he mentions it. He isn't speaking to the awestruck teenager from our first meeting at The Lodge now, when I didn't know whether to shake his hand or bow.

For the past year or so I'd seen Wolston's manager pretty much every week, diving in and out of offices at the training ground, sitting with his coaching staff in the canteen or passing him in the car park; even watching him out of the window on Friday mornings sat in Matt Kearns' classroom as he went through shape work with the first team squad.

But this is our first face-to-face since day one. A lot of water had flown under the bridge since.

Peacock shuffles a couple of paces towards me and sits down on one of the benches that skirt three walls of the dressing room.

He starts unbuttoning his overcoat. He must have travelled up to Stoke straight after training that morning.

'My memory isn't what it used to be but that's three goals in the last two matches I've watched you, David, this match and Didsbury last season.'

Let's gloss over that night, gaffer. Or at least the bit where I grabbed Sheldon around the throat, got sent off, banned, shamed my family, had both barrels from McGovern and Duncan...stop me anytime you want here.

'Yeah, that's right. I made a total idiot of myself. Let a lot of people down. It was stupid of me but it'll never happen again, gaffer.'

I'm right back at the kitchen table, apologising to my old man for something that happened five months ago.

'Don't worry,' he laughs. 'We don't need to drag all that up. I think Charlie put the incident swiftly to bed. Anyway, I was no angel in my time, although in those days you could get away with it. Now with so many cameras and assessors in the stands you've got no chance.'

Peacock may have been able to see the funny side but time had not been a great healer. I'm still dealing with the consequences, making up for lost ground.

'As long as you've learned from it. Better for it to happen in a development game than a first team match.'

Chance would be a fine thing. I hadn't had a look-in at development level so far this season. I was the proverbial black sheep of the academy.

Peacock can afford to dole out some compassion. Rovers had started the new Championship season well with Radek Raszi carrying on his form from the second half of last year.

That lost soul slumped at the back of the dugout against City on Boxing Day had been transformed into a penalty box predator. His 15 goals over the run-in fired Rovers to the brink of an unlikely shot at the play-offs before they ran out of steam.

I'll let you into a little secret here. Radek's revival is one of the big things driving me on; that quest to prove people wrong and me right.

'I'm getting excellent reports from Charlie and the academy staff,' says Peacock. 'Based on what I've seen with my own eyes tonight they are right. When do you turn 18, David?'

'November 17th'

'November, not that long now then. What I wouldn't give to be 18 again. Big, big milestone. Are you looking forward to it? Any special plans? Ones that don't involve alcohol I hope.'

'Not given it too much thought gaffer,' I reply, still perched in a my awkward pose on the leather bench. 'Just concentrating on my football.'

The rest of the boys will be piling back into the changing room any minute. It must be full-time now. I'm praying for the door to burst open so we can end this forced chit chat. Let Peacock congratulate Dooley and the whole squad together for getting past a Premier League outfit.

'Right answer,' he laughs again. Even louder this time.

I'm seriously not trying to be funny but either this guy is laying it on a bit thick or he's warming to the old Dave Shaw charms.

'Too many distractions for lads your age. Just focus on football and everything else will fall into place. That is the best piece of advice my Dad ever gave me.

'No, on a serious note, David, there is a reason I sneaked down before I shoot back to Wolston. I wanted a quiet word with you.'

Quiet word? Right, that's it. Time to make a decision, as I swing my legs over the bench to face him.

What have I done wrong now? Ever since the Dids..I mean that 'incident' I'd kept my head down and out of trouble, which meant staying out of Duncan's way as much as possible.

I'd played in all the academy's games, scored a few goals, and had just done the business to get us into the next round of the FA Youth Cup.

'Don't look so worried, young man,' Peacock stands up and edges towards me.

Yeah, easy for you to say. This feels like being on a rollercoaster creeping to the top of the first chilling descent.

'David, I want you to come and train with the first team squad on a full-time basis once this FA Youth Cup run is over. I think you're ready.

'It's pretty clear you've carried on where you left off last season so it'd be good for your development to train with the senior pros. It's time you moved onto the next level. Is that okay with you?'

This descent is not as frightening as I thought. In fact it's exhilarating. A mega rush. I want to do it again. And again. I'm back in the fold. Big time.

'Okay? Is that okay?' I hear myself repeating out loud. 'Gaffer, you've just given me the best 18th birthday present I could wish for.'

**Chapter Eight**

Staring at my bedroom ceiling is becoming a nasty habit.

Five months or so ago the sleepless nights were worrying whether I had blown my big chance after picking a stupid fight with that waste of space Sheldon.

Now, lying here listening to the odd car drive by as the street lamp illuminates my Wolston posters on the walls, it feels like Mark Peacock is offering me the chance to live my dream.

I can almost reach out and touch it. Mum and Dad were waiting up when I finally got home from Stoke. Mum in the kitchen warming hot milk, Dad forcing me to go over and over the surreal conversation with Peacock.

Knowing Dad I bet he'd killed time thumbing through Rovers' fixtures trying to work out when his boy's debut might come. Didsbury, at Lowfield, in early April perhaps?

Oh, the bitter irony. No pressure then, Shawsy.

My first team bow can wait a bit longer. I still have the FA Youth Cup to focus on.

We draw Newcastle at St James' Park in the next round. Wolston pay for the academy squad to fly up but we might as well have stayed on the tarmac. What a stadium to play football in, but we were woeful. All the confidence from beating Stoke seeps away when both Jimbo and Joe Louisburgh are forced to pull out through injury before flying north.

I get us back in the tie with a near post header but our depleted midfield is over-run after the break. 3-1 defeat, another cup failure.

Losing any match hurt but this defeat came with a silver lining; or should that be a Sky Blue one? Shaking hands with the Newcastle players it suddenly dawns on me maybe I am waving goodbye to the lads as well.

That's what it feels like, one door closing, one chapter over. No different in many ways to when we clinched the under-16 title against Arsenal. Then it was the fear Wolston might not take me on. Now it is the fear of not being good enough to make the step up.

Okay, I can hear you doubters already. Dave, aren't you jumping the gun here? Mark Peacock's invite is to train with the first team. I'd been so far out of my depth at development level this experiment could go the same way. Then it would be one big, fat negative against Dave Shaw. One more cross in the box as a professional contract slips out of sight.

I'm asking myself the same questions. I just need to find out one way or the other.

The Lodge feels less welcoming as I pull through the gates on a cold, icy Monday morning in October, mist shrouding the training pitches. I know this plot of land so well, but not today. This is an alien environment. For starters I'm never at the training ground on Mondays. I should be heading to the local college right now, pretending to focus on coursework with the odd sneaky shell on my laptop running in the background looking at the latest hot sports cars or loft apartments to rent in Wolston.

I grab my wash bag and a couple of pairs of boots from the back seat of Mum's car just as three motors sweep into Wolston's rural training base.

'Watko09' claims the chequered flag. The growling engine stops mid-pitch, the booming baseline cuts out mid-lyric. Darren Watkins emerges from behind the tinted windows of an expensive Italian coupe looking every inch the cat walk model in a leather jacket and expensive trainers.

Wolston's ex-England international is wearing dark shades. Maybe he expects hordes of autograph hunters. I resist the urge to dive back into the glove box for a pen and paper.

He's joking with Justin Burt as I continue to observe from a safe distance in the car park. The first team boys all had allocated bays near the main building. I had parked in my usual spot near the office staff.

Burty is a year older than me. I played with him last season before he signed his first professional contract during the summer. I reckon the badge on Watkins' coupe cost more than his entire car.

Ryan Hamer and Bobby Hassall emerge from a big, black 4x4. Former academy graduates just like Burty, only a few years older than either of us.

I idolise these lads, now I'm about to share a dressing room with them. No way. This is mad, this is off the dial, but it's my new reality.

'Well, well look who we have here boys. Drum roll please. Bringing an undefeated record into the ring...it's the one and only Daveeee 'Slugger' Shaw.'

So much for a low key entrance.

Don Rogers is getting a rub down from one of Rovers' backroom staff. The veteran defender acted as the peacemaker when I foolishly tried to grapple Sheldon on my development debut.

'Morning Don,' I feebly manage. I stop short of addressing him as Mr Rogers.

'Morning Don,' mimics Ryan Hamer. 'Did you hear that lads? Such a polite, well-brought up young man. He must be a credit to his parents.'

Some of the lads start laughing at my expense. Bobby Hassall is almost having a fit sitting next to his big mate.

'Shut it Hamer. Who asked your opinion?'

Perhaps Rogers didn't enjoy being part of the collateral damage as the banter cranks up at the new lad's expense. Not that I was having much fun either. I fully expected some sort of initiation given it's usually me putting others in their place.

'There's only one David Shaw, one David Shaaaaw, there's only one David Shaw.' Hamer continues to mock me as he holds court. I focus on a speck of dust on the floor as one of my heroes dishes out the verbals. 'So you are the boy wonder going to fire us back to the big time?'

Ignore the fake tan and the loud mouth, Hamer is the real deal; a tall, elegant defender with a wand of a left peg. The local press claimed last year Peacock had turned down a £2m offer from Aston Villa amid interest from Manchester City and Everton. He was a former England U21 international who had burst onto the scene at Rovers about four or five years ago when the club dropped out of the Premier League.

'That's right. I'll score plenty of goals, just depends whether you lads can keep it tight at the back for a change.'

I can't stay quiet any longer. Enough is enough. Attack is the best form of defence in my book.

Yoan Hagi and Jose Paredomo, sitting in the far corner, start roaring with laughter.

'That told you Hames,' taunts Rogers, as I finally look up from the floor to see the masseuse working the back of his hamstring. '...you're only jealous because he might steal your limelight.

'Picture the scene lads, rows and rows of unsold Hamer shirts in the club shop, less and less fan mail, shed loads of unfollows on social media. Press requests drying up. How does it feel to be past it at the ripe old age of 24?'

'23, you geriatric,' grins Hamer.

He can take it as well as give it, it seems. Now he's walking towards me. Will this ever end?

'What a cocky so-and-so,' he laughs. 'Well, son, I'm looking forward to seeing you back up those words.'

Hamer turns and heads back to Bobby Hassall. Hagi moves one space along to free up the peg next to him. I accept the offer as I throw down my wash bag and boots.

There is always a dressing room hierarchy. You learn that one fast at every level you play; lads who change at the same peg, use the same locker, sit next to the same players. Footballers are superstitious, whatever you hear differently.

'He's alright, really,' shouts Rovers' Algerian midfielder, as Hamer cranks up the volume on the music system that mercifully replaces my squirming as the changing room soundtrack, '...don't worry. He just likes to think he's the top man around here.'

The 'top man' was now busy squirting deep heat in Burty's direction. It hadn't taken me long to work out who the first team joker is; Paul Morley being our resident clown in the academy.

'My name's Yoan.' I grasp his outstretched hand.

Now this was a touch bizarre, like Hagi had to introduce himself to me?

The Algerian is a cult figure among Rovers fans after being sent-off in a Didsbury derby once. I guess that was something we both had in common.

Hagi provided the muscle in midfield but Jose Paredomo is the craftsman; the quality operator capable of creating chances for the likes of Radek and Watkins. They were inseparable on the pitch as well as the dressing room it appears.

Paredomo was one of the last survivors from the club's Premier League days when Rovers could pay the wages and transfer fees to attract top overseas talent. I suppose he'd fulfilled his ambition of getting a move to England and his family were settled in the area now as well. He could play out his career until perhaps heading home to South America, but the Uruguayan international was way too good for the Championship.

'Hola Jose.' That was about the only Spanish I could muster from family holidays to Majorca.

'Hola David.'

Paredomo looks at me with a hint of suspicion, still weighing up if I'm genuine or taking the piss. He doesn't need to worry, I'd watched him lose it plenty of times on the pitch. He could kill you with a world class pass or just kill you if he felt he'd been wronged. Jose, like Hagi, suffered his fair share of red cards.

It dawns on me I'm sitting in the naughty corner.

Radek Raszi is tying up his boots the other side of Jose. Rovers' Czech striker – or 'Cash' as I discover by the end of that first training session – has headphones on, oblivious to the young superstar in his midst.

Raszi's upper body is ripped. It's funny what you notice sitting a few feet away compared to our family perch in the West Stand. I knew he had the pace to deal with defenders from watching and studying him but clearly he also had the muscular frame to battle with the Sheldon's of this world.

Looking at him struggling to stifle a yawn you would hardly think he'd hit a late winner to sink Nottingham Forest on Saturday at the City Ground to keep us just outside the play-offs.

This is possibly the greatest day of my life right here. For Cash and the rest it's another training session, just the slog in between matches.

Stop staring Shawsy, time to switch on now. For the past 30 minutes or so it felt like I'd gatecrashed the hottest VIP party in town.

I pull on a sweatshirt with the initials DS.

See, you're no different to anyone else here. They've only got two arms, two legs, one brain, one heart.

Mine is pumping furiously.

'Hello son. You're making me feel very old.'

I look up to see Darren Watkins standing over me. The guy is an absolute monster. I feel the need to get to my feet, like a pupil addressing the master. My eyes are barely in line with the bloke's shoulders. What a beast.

There is an aura about him. Forget Hamer, Darren Watkins is the man. No question. Watkins had done everything there was to do in the game. He was a class act.

'Now, first piece of advice,' as he gently pokes a finger into my chest.

So much for keeping a sense of perspective, I suddenly feel light-headed.

'Strikers have got to stick together. C'mon, I'll introduce you properly.'

I work the room, with my high class escort, shaking hands with all the first team lads. At least all the ones fit for duty. Rovers' captain, Ray McCready, is in a Nottingham hospital apparently after being carried off with concussion and there are two or three others doing rehab with the physios after long-term injuries.

'Take everything with a pinch of salt,' laughs Watkins after he concludes the grand tour, '...especially from those two. Half of what comes out of their months is bravado, the other half lies.'

Watkins points at Hamer and Hassall. Hamer is now telling anyone who cares to listen which German motor he plans to import. Hassall speaks when Hamer pauses for breath. I'd already discovered he'd spent his Saturday night playing online poker for big stakes.

Watkins may be a fan of the 'bling' lifestyle, like the younger lads, but there was none of the brashness. If anyone could brag it is him. He'd started in the lower leagues before Arsenal took a chance. Breaking his leg cut short a career at the very top but Wolston's classy striker still played for decade or so in the Premier League, even making the fringes of an England World Cup squad once.

You know what, though, all the trappings of success and the stellar career are not the most impressive thing about this guy. You could see he still had the drug. Why else would he be putting his body through pain on a cold, miserable October morning? It certainly isn't for the money Wolston can pay. I figured that much.

'If you need anything, need any advice, don't hesitate to ask.'

'Cheers Darren.'

'Dazzler, call me Dazzler.'

I almost float onto the training pitches. I hated wet, winter days when my ankle throbbed where the pins had been inserted during the surgery, but the adrenaline is pumping today.

Wolston's first team manager calls me over at the start of the session.

'You're in this group on merit,' says Peacock. 'You don't have to prove anything to me or Charlie. Just do what you're good at, David. Do what got you here in the first place.'

The intensity is unreal. Peacock demands his lads train as they play games. It's full tilt. The power, the technique, the pace of the work are all top notch.

Only my best is going to save me from embarrassing myself here in front of these first team boys.

Near the end of the session I manage to nutmeg Hamer in a small-sided exercise. I can't resist it after his earlier taunts. I'm taking a gamble showing a senior pro disrespect, especially Hamer of all people. He'd pressed the same buttons as Sheldon earlier, putting the junior in his place, keeping me in that tiny box.

No way. I'm here to prove I belong in this company.

He doesn't wait long to exact revenge when I go to close him down he leaves me sat on my backside with a cute feint before racing away to lash the ball into the roof of the net.

Hamer thrusts his arms into the air in celebration before belly-flopping to a chorus of boos from the other boys.

'Remember gentlemen, the cream always rises to the top,' he roars.

I join in the booing. This is now officially the best day of my life, or the best morning at least.

Duncan brings me crashing back to earth. No free afternoon on the golf course or relaxing at the spa; life as a wannabe Wolston first team player doesn't stretch that far.

Try a one-to-one with Matt Kearns instead catching up on a morning of lost coursework while the rest of the academy trains.

All part of the Scot's grand plan, no doubt, to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground. One routine replacing another; working with the first team squad in the mornings then back to being a scholar in the afternoons, with academy league matches at weekends.

My 18th birthday comes and goes in November and still I'm no nearer the only present I want.

I even start to resent Mark Peacock. I know, I know, stupid really. Here I was, just turned 18, training full-time with the professionals; the only scholar at the club getting such an opportunity.

To me, that single fact should have suggested the professional contract was in the bag, or why else involve me with the first team squad?

Okay, so nothing had actually been signed. Not officially. No meetings, no quiet words with my parents that I was aware of, no sign of any Dave Shaw merchandise in the club shop.

But it's obvious, isn't it? Well, no, not to me. Not after the path my life had taken since injuring my ankle at 15.

The only upside is regular development outings. But that means being a team mate of Ray Slater's again and I was seeing nothing to alter my first impressions. He is a parasite, a selfish individual who doesn't give a toss about Wolston. In my eyes, Dad had about as much chance of playing in the first team. Or maybe his son, the way things were panning out.

I score a couple more goals but the buzz, when I think back to my big night at Lowfield Road, has long since gone.

It's tough to shake the fear maybe I'm on the same slippery slope as Slater.

Each passing week fuels more frustration, more doubts. I'm in limbo. Not part of the first team squad, but not a fully paid-up member of the academy either. That's until Charlie McGovern turns my world upside down again.

'Shawsy, forget about the academy game tomorrow. You're part of the first team squad for Leicester.'

Just like my development call-up earlier in the year. No big speeches, no formalities, merely a tap on the shoulder in the canteen at the Lodge.

Steve Kensall is struggling with a hamstring problem. Another first team striker on the fringes behind Watkins and Raszi, plucked from the lower leagues like Slater. From memory I think he'd only started one senior game in the club's embarrassing League Cup defeat at Mansfield a couple of months ago.

Sitting in the home dressing room two hours before kick-off on that Saturday afternoon I feel every inch a Wolston first teamer in my smart grey club suit.

'Dave, Kens has passed a fitness test. We don't need you,' says Mark Peacock, after coming back inside from watching his striker successfully come through a pre-match drill.

Peacock delivers it like a routine aside as he struggles to compete with the music. The boss is already deep in conversation with Dazzler in the far corner of the dressing room.

What about a consoling heart-to-heart, gaffer? No. Maybe just a comforting arm around the shoulder? No. Fair enough.

Friday lunchtime I'm targeting a 15th academy goal of the season. Now I've just been told I'm not involved with the first team squad. It's a strange sensation. Relief tinged with numbness at the end of 24 hours that were a total blur.

Hagi and Paredomo wander in together. We exchange nods but nothing more. Peacock has a game to win, these lads a rot to stop with Rovers slipping back into mid-table.

A matchday dressing room when you've no match to play is the last place you want to be anywhere near.

I grab my kit bag, shake hands with a few of the boys and walk out.

The players' lounge is deserted at this time of the afternoon as I sink into a comfy sofa and flip the lid on my phone. There's a text from Jimbo. The lads have beaten Birmingham earlier and are planning to make it for kick-off.

'Kensall fit. Left out. Gutted,' I reply. No need to rush on my account, boys.

Dad had vacated his cherished West Stand season ticket for the occasion, but the sight of me shuffling along the row of reserved seats in the Main Stand is not the entrance either of us planned last night.

'Kensall's fit?' enquired Dad. He would have clocked the striker going through his paces out on the pitch and feared the worst.

'Yeah.'

'Next time son, next time,' as he gives me a consoling tap on the arm.

Leicester's smash-and-grab caps a miserable afternoon. Rovers dominate in open play before the Foxes nick one from a corner.

Boos ring around the ground at full-time. I feel like joining in, except mine are directed at Peacock for a different reason.

A few hours later sitting in front of a television where I couldn't tell you what programme is on I'm still furious. I can't shake the feeling I've been the subject of a sick joke. A prank.

Here. Have a glimpse of what you could have won. Now take it away again. You didn't really think we were serious? Oh that's priceless, you actually did.

Yes, I'm being selfish. In a more rational moment I'd agree, but that bloody-mindedness had taken me this far. It is part of my character; at times a strength as much as a flaw.

Rovers draw against sides in the bottom six over the next fortnight. The early season play-off push now in reverse. Kensall even starts one game ahead of Watkins as Mark Peacock searches for the right answers ahead of the key Christmas period.

Jimbo and the academy boys get a few days off. I get to train. Great.

Believe me the novelty had well and truly worn off by the time I arrive at The Lodge on Christmas Day morning.

Let's just say I'm lacking in festive cheer and leave it at that.

Hames appears with a bag of Santa hats. Like that is going to lift the mood. It had become a constant battle not to let my negativity affect how I trained, but ask any footballer and they will tell you the same. You work hard during the week to play, not sit in the stands or on the bench or even back in the academy league.

I'd out-grown that standard of football. Arrogant I know but that's just between you and me. If Duncan could hear me he'd go up the wall. I bet he doesn't share the same opinion.

McGovern directs us towards one of the sport science guys for the warm up.

'David, a word, lad.'

I'm lagging behind at the back of the group as Peacock motions me over.

'Maybe he didn't like the present you got him, Shawsy,' whispers Hamer.

'Why, what did you get him Hames? An autographed picture of yourself?'

If nothing else the previous two months had toughened me up. I could now hold my own in the banter stakes without batting an eyelid.

'Has Santa been kind?'

'Don't know gaffer. I haven't opened my presents yet.'

With a bit of luck there's a voodoo doll of you.

'This must be a new experience? Training on Christmas Day?'

It was. Just like a proper professional in all but one minor, important detail.

'Well lay off your Mum's Christmas pudding this afternoon. I'm putting you in the squad tomorrow.'

Peacock's offer catches me off-guard. I'd been convinced this was going to be another chat to sort out my attitude. We'd had our fair share as the wide-eyed enthusiasm started to wane.

'Serious gaffer?'

'Serious. I think you're ready. Don't you?'

Hell yes.

In my self-centred world I should have been leading Wolston's frontline. Let Raszi and Watkins fight it out to partner me.

'Now get back over there with the rest of the lads. And one final thing, you better not let me down. The way results are going I might need you to keep me in a job.'

Peacock is only half-joking. Wolston's manager had copped some serious flak in the local press and from supporters. Not that I really paid too much attention now, apart from what my old man told me. That was one thing you learn from the pros. Avoid the media when things are going badly.

I give Peacock a thumbs up. Maybe this is a good time to talk professional contracts, goal bonuses, commercial spin offs.

Don't get me wrong here. You've heard me say it in the past. It is all about the football and living my dream, but I also want the trappings as well.

No. Hang fire, Shawsy. Leave the contract talks until you score the winner against Ipswich tomorrow. Yeah, that'll put a few zeros on the first wage packet.

I re-join the rest of the lads at the front of the pack; the adrenaline already starting to flow.

The following morning an overnight frost had settled as I pull back the curtains. The sun is trying to poke through but Lowfield Road's undersoil heating means the game is not in any danger of being postponed. Nothing is going to stop me today.

A Boxing Day home match. Poor recent run or not there'd be well over 20,000 crammed inside.

I heeded the gaffer's advice yesterday. Mum couldn't believe it when I passed on a second helping of trifle. Now holding down my supplement shake over breakfast is proving a major effort.

It's not nerves. It is too early for that, just a bubbling sense of anticipation. This is it. The day I've been waiting for – the day the previous two months had been leading up to. The day my whole life had been leading up to.

Maybe the fear of the unknown had dissolved with each first team training session; that sick feeling which completely gripped me on my development debut.

Maybe Peacock realised as much. He was a firm believer in youth but knew he couldn't expose one of his brightest talents too early. Just nurture him little by little.

Who am I kidding? When I walk out onto the pitch for the pre-match warm-up it hits me. Should I be here? Why is he putting an 18-year-old in front of 20,000 people? The man must have a screw loose. The doubt and terror are coursing through my veins, mixed with pure excitement.

Shaw in, Kensall out. It didn't look good for the back-up striker to lose his place in the Wolston squad to a raw teenager.

I pause during my stretches to scan the Main Stand for the family. This early before kick-off Dad would normally be in the bar, or at the betting booth. Today is different. Today David Shaw is a new name for the punters to place their bets on.

I spot him in the plush seats and get a wave in return. This is about him as it is me. What a journey. All the way from that first game he'd taken me to against Liverpool. Ever since Peacock's news I'd struggled to shake the grainy images.

Weaving between the crowds, squeezing through the turnstile, climbing those steep steps that seemed to go on for ever to the West Stand. Then that shaft of brilliant sunshine when we reached the top and the first sight of the pitch. The lushness of it, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Now here I am standing on it; gazing up at the stands feeling the same buzz as I did as a five-year-old.

Just one, tiny problem if I want the fairytale ending. I'm starting on the bench.

Cash and Justin are in the team to support Dazzler in a three-pronged attack.

It is a brave call but Peacock needs to spark our season back into life. Yoan Hagi is the insurance policy in midfield alongside Mark Pounchett, with Jose Paredomo conducting the orchestra.

Doubts rush into my brain again as the strains of the 'Sky Blue' song, Wolston's anthem, roll around the packed ground. My legs feel stiff as I squeeze into the home dugout before the players and officials emerge. Like gladiators entering the coliseum.

The pace of the game is my biggest fear now. No time on the ball, split-second reactions, hesitate and you end up looking stupid.

Ipswich is a decent mid-table side, nothing more. If we are serious about promotion this season they have to be beaten.

Cash gets the place rocking when he swerves around the keeper to collect Jose's pass and slot from an acute angle inside the opening ten minutes.

You can almost taste the surge of electricity from the crowd. It is intense. I'd heard managers and coaches talk about supporters lifting players. In the midst of this madness I'm a believer, watching 20,000 punters form one, giant, heaving mass. The rush, the buzz, even the laid back Raszi must be feeling this. Time for a stretch with the rest of Wolston's substitutes as the noise dies a decibel or two. I sprint along the touchline trying to shake off the tension and get the blood circulating.

Paredomo is on it today. Dazzler heads over from close range then forces the keeper into an acrobatic save.

Hagi's block tackle sees the ball squirt towards Jose who looks up and controls in one instant before curling another pass over Town's centre-half.

Raszi shrugs off his marker, it's like the Uruguayan and the Czech is on the same radio frequency. Cash steadies himself, draws the keeper and rolls the ball into the bottom corner from 16 yards.

Rovers' top gun raises both fists towards the fans like a headline speaker at a political rally before racing towards the corner flag to take the acclaim from his adoring public.

He's coming towards me. I jump on his back like a pitch invader from the stands. The stretches can wait. Right now I'm a supporter, not a team mate and I have the best view in the house. My heart feels like it's about to burst out of my chest. I turn and punch the air in front of the lower Main Stand as if I had just scored myself.

We're in total control. But at 2-0 the game is never over. Peacock is lucky. He has so much experience on the park with the likes of Watkins and our captain Ray McCready. They'd been in this situation hundreds of times.

Ipswich is dominating possession as the game progresses but it's all in front of our defence, no penetrative balls turning the lads or causing problems for our keeper. Peacock and Charlie McGovern take it in turns to bawl instructions from the front of the technical area. Cash drops deeper into a midfield five as time ebbs away, leaving Dazzler up top on his own. Ambition gives way to containment and what we have we hold.

I'm spending as much time focusing on the gaffer as the action on the pitch. His body language is a dead give away. This is just how he planned it with his analysts at The Lodge. What a sweet feeling to release some of the pressure swirling around him.

I lean forward in the dugout to check the electronic scoreboard in the corner of the West and Sky Blue Stands. 80 minutes gone, job almost done, and with it my chance of getting on. 2-0 up there is no need for a fresh striker.

Can I still claim this as a winning debut? You bet. This will be a day to look back on in years to come when I show family and friends into my large trophy room and point at the spotless framed shirt hanging up on the wall.

'David, David.'

Peacock has his hands cupped around his mouth trying to make himself heard over the crowd.

I edge past a couple of the other subs on the bench and jog towards Wolston's boss. He pulls me in even closer.

'Time to get Dazzler off. Save those old legs. Just tuck in on the right and keep the shape. We'll push Cash further forward again.'

No, no, gaffer you're alright.

I'm enjoying watching from the sidelines. I feel part of the whole circus without being thrust onto the stage.

Just let me go back to day-dreaming about the big trophy room in my mansion.

Okay, I'll hold my hands up here. Stage fright is kicking in. Tell me you haven't experienced that yourself at some point? There you go. See what I mean. Standing on the touchline in this seething bear pit I suddenly feel exposed. Fear had me in a vice-like grip.

Maybe another day, eh, why take the risk? I've had a taste of it now gaffer. Thanks very much.

Cold feet? It is bordering on frostbite.

Peacock clips me around the back of the head. This guy is good. He can sense my nerves. Probably see the terror in my eyes.

My mind is racing. Dad, Mum, Boppper, Duncan, Jimbo and the rest. I wouldn't say my life flashes before me but if you could bottle the excitement as Watkins ambles towards me you'd be sitting on a fortune.

Dazzler salutes the home crowd as he leaves to a standing ovation from all bar the Ipswich fans. His trot turns into a walk as he tries to shave a few extra seconds off the clock.

'One touch, two touch stuff, Shawsy, just enjoy it,' he smiles.

'...and making his Wolston Rovers senior debut is number 14, David Shaw.'

The noise levels rise again as I bolt over to the far side of the pitch.

Block it out, man. Just do your job. I look down at the club crest on my left breast and give it a rub for good luck. This is really happening. It is happening to me.

Hames shouts something as Town's goalkeeper prepares to launch a goal kick. He's got no chance in this din but I understand the hand signals as he motions with both fingers to his temple. Concentrate. Focus.

I'd like to say my first touch in professional football settles me down. It doesn't. Hagi knocks the ball square on halfway, it strikes my shin and bobbles out of play. No time to dwell on it.

I drop back into position to screen Ipswich's wide player just in front of Bobby Hassall.

Hagi snaps in to win possession and get us going again on the front foot. I look over to the Main Stand where the fourth official is holding up the board for added on time.

Two minutes. My first team cameo is a total blur.

Hamer chests a long punt forward and brings the ball out like he is playing in the park. The guy is a total clown but on a football pitch he is pure class. Paredomo comes short, spins and with time to get his head up picks me out like an American quarterback connecting with his wide receiver.

Just control it, Shawsy. Don't make a hash of it this time. If it was The Lodge on a Saturday morning I'd already be three moves ahead of the game, but all my concentration goes into trapping the ball. It travels a good 30 yards but I don't even have to break stride.

Success. My first touch is better this time. Well it couldn't be any worse.

I look up and see Raszi on the shoulder of his marker, pointing to the far post. Ipswich's left-back is on the half-turn, showing me down the line. This guy wouldn't have a clue who I am. Probably thinks I am some jinky winger, all tricks and body swerves, comfortable down the flanks when the penalty box is my area of expertise. I feint to go on the outside then cut in on my left.

Now I've got that pocket of space. That's all I need. One more glance up to get my bearings.

This is The Lodge on a Saturday morning. This is academy football. I know exactly what I'm doing. Remember what Bopper always says, 'those posts never move.'

Raszi is already in mid-air before the Ipswich keeper decides he has to come for my cross. Too late. The Czech's glancing header is past him as it clips the inside of the far post before nestling over the goal line.

Brace yourself. If I knew what an out-of-body experience feels like then I guess this isn't too far away.

It is like 18 birthdays and Christmas Days rolled into one, extreme high. All the goals I ever scored from the playground, to the school pitches, to Wolston's academy.

I race behind the net high-fiving Rovers' supporters hanging over the front of the West Terrace. Everything is in slow motion, a sea of contorted, deliriously happy faces.

Raszi drops to his knees just the other side of the goal. I'm the first there - this is becoming a habit. I kiss him on the forehead, but I feel someone grab my neck. I turn to see this grey-haired guy wearing a long, knitted scarf trying to wrap me in it but the referee steers us back towards the pitch as Hames and the rest join the party.

Stewards struggle to halt a mini pitch invasion. The stadium is one vibrant, rocking mass of ecstasy.

I break off from the team huddle, turn and raise my arms in acclaim towards the packed West Stand.

This is my stage now. I belong here. Dave Shaw has arrived.

**About the Author**

Paddy Davitt is an award-winning chief soccer correspondent with more than 11 years experience of the game built up from working closely with managers, players and owners in the Premier League and the Championship. He has also covered professional football in the USA, Italy, Austria and France.

His childhood passion for writing was sparked by reading the fictional football stories of authors such as Brian Glanville and Michael Hardcastle.

Paddy grew up in the Midlands, England, and is a lifelong Coventry City fan. He currently works as a chief football correspondent for the regional publishing group Archant, where he covers Norwich City FC.

'One Shot at Glory' is the first in a series of novels featuring a young footballer's quest to follow his boyhood dream and make it big at his hometown club.

You can find out more information and join my mailing list on my official web site pjdavittbooks.com or my twitter account @paddyjdavitt

Thanks so much for your support and taking the time to read my first novel. If you enjoyed it, can I respectfully ask for a few more minutes of your time to leave a review on which ever site you downloaded the book. Thanks again.

Paddy Davitt is currently working on part two in the Dave Shaw series

