Rating: G

Setting: The story takes place approximately ten years after S5E8. It's the third in the series of James Henry vignettes. This story is another snapshot in time; it's the same JH as in my prior stories but at another moment in his young life.

Thank you to my terrific beta, jd517! She helps me understand the inner workings of the minds of young children, reminds me of the importance of "British-isms" in a British story, and makes perfect suggestions along the way. If any errors remain, it's only because I can't stop fiddling!

Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.

I wanted to be great at something. Not at everything, mind you. Just something.

It seemed that all my mates did really good at whatever they tried. Geoff was so good at the piano that the head teacher let him play at the Christmas recital. Cameron could do maths like no one else – last year he went to a contest in London and won third prize. Trevor was a whiz at computer games; I swear he could beat the rest of us with one eye closed. Kieran was already so big and strong that he could . . . well, beat up anybody he wanted to, if he wanted to which, thankfully, he didn't. And Eddie, whose mum insisted we call Edward but we all still called Eddie . . . Okay, maybe Eddie wasn't all that great at anything either. That didn't make me feel any better.

Even the girls were good at lots of stuff. Margaret seemed to be able to spell any word the rest of the class could think of. Cassie's watercolors were on display in the town library. And Ava was the best girl football player in our class, better even than some of us guys.

And, as for me . . . it wasn't that I was terrible at everything. In fact, I was okay at most things. I did well enough in school, my marks putting me close to the top of my class. I could keep up with my mates at sports. On the other hand, I wasn't too good at music and, after two years of piano lessons, even my parents knew I'd never be a musician. I couldn't sing and never got a decent part in school plays.

When I complained, Mum and Dad reminded me that I was only ten and promised I would find my "niche," as they called it, at some point. Dad claimed he hadn't realized he wanted to be a doctor until he was in upper school. Of course, even at my age he'd been really, really good at maths and science – Mum had told me so one night when I was complaining about my homework. They were probably right, maybe some day I'd be really good at some thing. Still, it would be nice to be better than my mates in at least one thing . . . if I couldn't be better overall, maybe I could have just one minute when everyone thought I'd done something great.

If I got really, really lucky, that chance might come today. Our football team was playing in the semi-finals of the Kernow league. One thing I'd learned playing sports was that you never knew when the ball would bounce your way and give you the chance to be hero for a day. That would be enough for me for now, until I found my "niche."

Football was yet another thing that I did decently. I wasn't the fastest guy on the team or the best. Thankfully, I also wasn't the worst either. I was quick enough and good enough so as not to have anyone notice me for the wrong reasons. Rarely did I make any fantastic, game-winning plays. Since I played center defenseman, typically the last player between the would-be-scorer and the goalie, that wasn't too likely anyway. I also usually didn't make any major screw-ups, which was why I started at my position. All in all, as with everything else I tried, in football I was okay.

The best thing about football was that I liked it. I liked running around in the grass, liked breathing the fresh air, and liked being part of a team, especially when we won. And we won a lot, mostly because we had a pretty good team. David Torrance, our striker, was first-rate, and some of the secondary school coaches were already talking to him about going there when he was old enough. And Michael Lewis, one of our midfielders, put the rest of us to shame with his speed and the way he could control the ball. His headers weren't bad either.

They were a large part of the reason our team was playing for a spot in the league championship on this cold but really sunny Saturday morning. If we won today, we'd be in the finals, competing for the trophy. The trophy itself was huge and every member of the winning team got one. Just the thought of having one on my desk brought a smile to my face. Forget my "niche," I'd settle for the monster trophy.

Today's game was even more special because Mum and Dad were both here to watch me play. Mum came to all of my matches. Dad came when he could but Saturday morning conflicted with his surgery so it wasn't all that often he was here. He'd explained more than once that he needed to hold surgery on Saturdays to see patients who worked during the week. I understood, sort of. Still, I was always excited to see him on the sidelines on the days he could make it.

I'd hoped that he might come to today's match and, when he told me he'd canceled his surgery to be here, I was so excited I'd actually jumped up and down. He'd smiled and exchanged a glance with Mum, which made me wonder if the whole thing had been her idea. It didn't matter. He said he would be here and here he was. Dad was always easy to spot because he was the only man who came to Saturday games in a suit.

I think the coaches liked having Dad around in case anyone got hurt, even though that usually didn't happen. They probably also were happy that, unlike some of the mums and dads, he didn't get too excited when things went badly or if I didn't play as much as some other bloke. Mum tended to get a bit more worked up. I think that, since she'd stopped being the head teacher, she was a bit more likely to speak her mind.

Most of today's game had been played on the other team's end of the field and the ball had only come my way a couple of times. Even though we'd been on offense most of the game, we still hadn't scored a single goal. That was the bad news. The good news was that the other team hadn't scored either. So with only about ten minutes left, any score would probably be enough to win. If one of us didn't score a goal, we'd go to penalty kicks. That was okay, but it was always more fun to win straight out.

I refocused on the game as the other team was finally on offense and headed toward our goal. Our midfielder was all tangled up with their striker, trying to take away the ball. I glanced around, just as the coach had taught, making sure I saw the whole field so I could figure out where the ball was likely to go next and get ready to intercept it. Seeing two guys from the other team coming up quickly on my right side, I slid right, putting myself in position to break up a pass. I could almost sense the goalie behind me keeping a close eye on things. At the rate we were scoring and this late in the game, a single point could well make the difference between winning and losing.

The striker broke free, dribbling the ball forward. He was now only a few feet away, moving quickly with his eyes on our goal. I rushed toward him. If he got past me, he'd have a clear shot at our goal. I ran forward, trying to keep one eye on the ball and the other on him. At the last possible second, I struck out hard with my right foot. It wasn't a perfect kick, but it was enough. The striker lost control of the ball and, with a second kick, I was able to send it halfway across the field, where my teammate was able to kick it far into the opposing team's side of the field.

I breathed heavily and sighed with relief. I'd done my job. I heard someone calling my name loudly and looked over to the sidelines. Mum was jumping up and down, clapping her mitten-covered hands. Even my dad clapped and I swore he even smiled at me. It wasn't the great play I'd hoped for, but I'd at least made my parents proud of me.

Not more than a minute later, with the action still at the other end of the field, the ref blew his whistle to stop play. When the game didn't start up again right away, it was obvious something was wrong. I saw my dad run onto the field and knew someone had been hurt. All of us rushed forward to see whether it was one of our teammates.

As soon as I realized the injured player was one of the strikers from the other team, I felt like pumping my fist; just for a second I was excited that we'd now have a better shot at winning. And then, just as quickly, felt ashamed for even thinking that way. As coach said, we always wanted to beat the other team at full strength.

Dad was already working on the boy's knee, bending and twisting it. The kid must be hurt bad because he was crying like the dickens. One of the kid's teammates told him to stop acting like a baby. My dad told him to shut up, which made me kind of proud.

Dad stood up and talked to the coach. I heard something about "ligament damage" and "MRI" and then Dad said the boy would need to go to hospital.

Dad looked around and, upon seeing me, drew me off to the side. "James, the boy may have seriously injured his knee. His parents aren't here so I need to go with him to hospital."

"You have to leave?" I asked, already knowing the answer. It was always the answer. Dad's patients always came first.

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry."

"But it's our big game and if we win—"

"James," Mum said, coming up behind us and putting her hand on my shoulder. "You know your father would stay if he could."

"I'm sure you'll do just as well without my being here," he said.

I shrugged. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Mum smiled gamely. "I'll just have to cheer twice as hard," she said.

Behind me, the referee was calling everyone back to the game. I walked back to my position on the field as my dad, medical bag in hand, walked off.