11 year old local lad “Little Jamie’ with stars in his eyes versus Liverpool legend, David James.
The boy, known only as “Little Jamie” to the crowd, had been talking a big game all week. He’d been practicing penalties on his dad’s tin bins in the garden, and he was ready to take on a former England goalkeeper. You could almost hear the Rocky music playing in his head as he lined up his first shot.
But if Little Jamie thought David James was going to take it easy on him, he was sorely mistaken. James, a man who once wore an oversized goalie jersey like it was a fashion statement, stood between the sticks with the intensity of a World Cup final. He looked at Jamie with the cold, indifferent stare of a man who had once let in goals from 30 yards but would not—could not—be beaten by a pre-teen.
The whistle blew. Little Jamie took his run-up. He aimed for the top corner, his perfect shot, the one he’d hit a thousand times in his mind. The crowd held their breath.
THWACK! James leapt like a gazelle, flying across the goal and palming the ball away with a smug grin.
The Kop groaned. Jamie froze. “Did that really just happen?” you could almost hear him think. The crowd’s initial cheer turned to murmurs of disbelief. But Jamie wasn’t done yet. He had another shot, and this time, he was going low—bottom corner, no way James could reach that.
Except he did.
THWUMP! Another save! David James stretched his lanky frame like Mr. Fantastic, denying the kid yet again. The boos began to rain down from the Kop, echoing through the stadium like a war cry. “You heartless sod!” someone shouted from the stands.
Jamie’s face was a mix of heartbreak and betrayal. He turned to look at James, searching for some sign of mercy, a wink, a “good job, kid.” But all he got was a shrug. James had the emotional range of a brick wall. He casually tossed the ball aside, gave Jamie a curt nod, and began walking off the pitch like he’d just done a quick shift at Tesco.
The boy, crestfallen, stared up at the Kop, hoping for a consolation cheer. Instead, the boos grew louder. It was the first time in history that a former Liverpool goalkeeper was getting more stick than a Manchester United defender.
As David James trotted off with the swagger of a man who just single-handedly crushed a child’s dreams, Little Jamie walked off too, his head hanging. He was gutted—absolutely devastated—but somewhere deep down, he knew that one day, he’d tell this story.
And when he did, he would conveniently forget to mention that David James gave precisely zero shits about his feelings that day. Absolute scenes at Anfield.
