On the Saturday morning that eleven year old Jack was in his bedroom, packing his sports bag for the football game, he heard the house phone ring downstairs. He continued gathering his boots and his kit. This was a special day. His first game with the local football side. 

Moments later, his mother called up to him from the foot of the stairs.

‘Jack, your gran is on the phone. She wants to speak to you, love.’

Wondering quite what his grandmother could want, he zipped up his kit bag and headed downstairs. 

‘Hiya, granny.’

‘I just wanted to say good luck for the football game. Break a leg.’ His grandmother said.

Unsure how to respond, Jack thanked her and hung up the phone.

As Jack and his parents put their coats on and prepared to leave for the game, his mother asked what his grandmother had said to him.

‘She said to break my leg.’

‘No,’ his dad corrected. ‘it’s break a leg. It’s something you say for good luck. My dad used to say it before I went to watch Man United play.’

‘And did it work? Did it bring United luck?’ Jack asked.

‘Not really, no.’ His dad admitted with a laugh. 

After the game, on the drive back home, his mother turned in the passenger seat to face Jack slouched in the back.

‘Don’t get down, love. Your team may have lost but you played well. You should be proud of yourself.’

Jack said nothing, still fuming that his first game had ended in defeat. His mud-stained cheeks burned red as he recalled the humiliation of losing. 

‘You played well, Jack. You had a good game. That’s what you should remember.’ His father added. 

Jack nodded, wondering quite how to word it to his friends when they asked how his first game had gone. Maybe he could say that he had really enjoyed the game, and that he had played well. He could add that he enjoyed it and the other lads seemed really nice. If he worded it correctly, then his mates might not even ask what the actual score had been. He really didn’t want to share that they had lost 3-1. He just hoped their next game, away to a local team on the other side of Salford, ended in victory. He wasn’t really that competitive but he so wanted his playing with the team to go well, so to have played one, lost one, really upset him. 

The following Saturday morning, Jack was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table, before getting ready for the away game against Hyde boys team. The telephone rang. Jack ignored it. Nobody ever called for him. If his friends wanted him, they tended to call round and knock on the door for him. His mother dashed across the kitchen to the wall-mounted phone, asking Jack, sarcastically, I’ll get it, shall I?

It was his grandmother. While his mother chatted to his gran, Jack continued munching his cereal and thinking about the big game. As her mother neared the end of the call, she gave Jack a nudge, and handed him the receiver.

‘Your gran wants to speak to you.’ She said.

Suspecting what was coming, Jack took the receiver and said hello to his grandmother. Once again, his gran wished him luck for the game. She was sure he’d smash it, and score a hat-trick at the very least. Jack thanked her, and said his good-byes. Break a leg, she replied. 

Jack and the team played their hearts out against Hyde, but the other team were just too much for them. Jack’s team lost 1-0 and Jack himself had a goal disallowed for offside. Once again, Jack stormed off the pitch, upset, frustrated and annoyed. And, as with the week before, his parents tried to consol him and assure their son that despite losing, Jack, and most of the team, had actually played well. He could hold his head up high. Jack dwelled on the defeat. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to lose the game next week. They were playing at home against a team from Eccles. 

That week, every evening after school, Jack trained on the local park, kicking and dribbling the ball, pushing himself hard, practising drills, and free-kicks, until his parents called him in. In his mind, it was like he was training for a World Cup finals game. The next game, he sensed, was all or nothing. 

On the morning of his next game, his grandmother called again for him. Jack took the phone, snatching the receiver from his mother.

‘Granny, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t tell me to break a leg, okay? It doesn’t work. It’s a load of rubbish.’

Before his grandmother could respond, his mother took the phone back, apologising for Jack’s outburst and insisting she would have a word with him.

Jack was made to sit at the kitchen table, while his parents explained how he had to sort his attitude out. He said nothing. He nodded when they told him he would have to apologise to his gran. He would say sorry. In a way, he thought, it’s not their fault. They just didn’t understand what it meant to him. They didn’t get it. Everything hung on what happened on the pitch today. He didn’t really say a great deal to his parents after that. 

Jack followed his team-mates out on to the pitch. This was it. The big game, his big chance. Early in the game, the ball came his way. Just as he was about to take possession of the ball, he was thrown to the ground by a ferocious tackle. He cried out in agony. His ankle throbbed. He lay on the grass, face down, arms over his face. He was helped to his feet by the other players and he managed to hobble to the side-line. The boy who had made such a reckless tackle was sent off, red-card.  The team coach checked Jack over.

‘I don’t think anything is broken but you had better rest up. That was a horrific tackle. You’re lucky you didn’t break your leg.’ 

As they drove home, the coach’s words went around Jack’s head, over and over. Lucky you didn’t break your leg. Something occurred to him. What if the injury had happened because his grandmother hadn’t wished him luck in that way? Maybe when she told him to break a leg, wishing him good luck, rather than the results of the game going his way, maybe that was keeping him safe, fit and healthy. A shiver went through him. Maybe the break a leg thing worked after all. 

The following week, his sprained ankle having healed up, Jack was okay to play and had been picked for the team. He begged his mother to telephone his grandmother, and ask her to wish him luck for the game. His mother called his gran and explained how Jack wanted her to send him her good luck for the match. His grandmother wished him the very best of luck, and told him to break a leg. She assured him he would have a very good game indeed. 

The match was a nil-nil draw with both teams cancelling each other out. Neither side was able to break through the other’s defence. Jack was just glad that his team didn’t lose and that, he himself had played quite well. He was getting quite used to having an individually good game, regardless of the actual result. At the end of the game, as the players filed off the pitch, the coach came over. He patted Jack on the shoulder.

‘Well played, Jack.’ The coach then pointed to a man who was chatting to his parents. They were deep in conversation. 

‘That’s Colin, he’s a talent scout for Manchester United. He would like to talk to you about taking you on their books.’

By Chris Platt