Work Text:
There’s this new trend in the football world. This magazine approaches star players and asks them to write a letter to their younger selves. It’s great for fan engagement; it makes the players seem more human. The magazine explodes in following. Win-win situation.
Some of the stories go viral on Twitter, the ones where footballers remind their kid selves of the value of working hard and listening to your mum. Or the ones that trace the stories of the boys who came out of the council estates like Jamie grew up on, who made it up and out and to the Premier League. People like hearing about their heroes as the little kids they once were.
Jamie reads some of them, because he’s making an effort to get better at reading. It was kind of embarrassing last time he had to renegotiate his contract and revealed to Ms Welton, Ted, Roy, and Keeley all in one afternoon that he reads and writes about as well as a primary schooler. He tried to explain it by saying he were just stupid, and thick, and it weren’t their fault he didn’t know what any of the big words were, but that just made everyone upset.
On the bright side, Roy got so worked up that Jamie found out shortly after the meeting that he weren’t stupid; apparently being absolute shit at reading can be explained by the fact that he’s just diss-lex-sick, or whatever. It’s dumb to have the reason why he can’t read and spell be a word he can’t read or spell.
“I’m still pretty sure I’m just stupid,” he said to Roy in the doctor’s office, clutching tight to the piece of paper with his results. “Everyone says I’m dumb as a post. I don’t know if there’s an actual reason.”
“You’re not fucking stupid,” Roy said. “Your brain just works different. That’s all. And don’t fucking call yourself dumb. If I ever heard someone else talking about you like that, I’d beat their fucking face in.”
“What. Why.”
Roy throws up his hands and lets loose an impressive stream of profanity.
In any event, he’s trying to practice reading. Now that he knows there’s a reason for the words flying off the page, he feels a little better about working at it. He’s fine with doing hard things if he knows why it’s hard, because then he knows what exactly to attack head-on. Like with football, he knows his left foot cross is hard because he still has to figure out when to square his hips. But he at least knows what to practice. He guesses it’s the same with reading. If he practices a fuck ton, he might get better at it.
He figures the magazine letters are as good a place as any to start. He can read them on the Internet, they're usually pretty short, footballers don’t use incredibly advanced vocabulary, and they’re written by people he’s played against, which is neat. He likes them. Sometimes he finds out cool things about people, or something he and, like, fucking Barnett have in common.
As the letters become more and more popular, he’s not really surprised when he gets an email from Keeley with a forwarded note of interest from the magazine people. Jamie’s a star now. He’s helped Richmond back up to fifth place in the Premier League and he scored twice for England this summer, which was like, the highlight of his entire life. It makes sense that people are going to want to hear what he has to say to snot-nosed, baby-cheeked little Jamie.
I really think you should do this!!! Keeley writes. It would be great for your brand but also people should see how sweet you can be.
Jamie doesn’t think he’s sweet, or nothing like that, but it’s nice of Keeley to say so. And besides, what would he write?
“Hi younger Jamie, sorry you got beat six ways to Sunday by your old man. Sorry you’re going to grow up to be a spiteful, twisted-up twat prick baby child. But at least you’ll be a millionaire footballer. Lose-win?”
He replies to Keeley, saying, i dont think i shld do this but if you like really want me to i can.
Because Keeley is smart and knows Jamie probably better than he knows himself, she gets Roy involved. She knows Jamie will do literally anything to get Roy’s rare pleased look directed his way.
Jamie’s out on the pitch after training, running some extra drills by himself. They lost 1-0 at Wolves two days ago, and Jamie played like shit. So he’s out late on Tuesday trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong on Sunday.
“Your left foot is fucking you up,” a gruff voice says.
Jamie turns. “What?”
“Bring your foot through faster,” Roy says. “You’re dragging it, and it’s slowing you down.”
Jamie makes the correction.
“Better. Do it again, faster.”
Roy moves to the bag of balls and begins passing them to Jamie, not saying a word about why he’s out here almost an hour after training’s finished. They work in silence for a while, until Roy clears his throat.
“Heard you got asked to write one of those letters.”
“Keeley told you?”
“Yeah.”
“You think I should?”
“How much would it have meant to you, back then,” Roy says quietly, “if a football star had said their dad hit them too?”
Always to the point, Roy Kent is.
“Everything,” Jamie says, equally quiet.
The thing is, Roy isn’t wrong. If Jamie had read - well, he wouldn’t have read it, really - but if he had learned that one of his heroes - even Roy himself - was knocked around by their dad or mom and still made it to the Premier League? Well. It would’ve been something to hold onto. Knowing that you can be called a worthless baby and still make it up and out and to the world’s stage.
Why should Jamie deny another kid that same comfort?
Roy shrugs. “There’s your answer, yeah?”
“I ain’t good at spelling.”
“You can use the fucking autocorrect on the computer, you muppet. And me and Keels and fucking Ted can fix the spelling. Just write what you would’ve wanted to hear. We can fix everything else.”
So Jamie does. He types and erases and types more. He thinks of everything he would've wanted someone to say to him when he was small and scared. That it would get better. That Dad's fists wouldn't always be the law. That he would be a great footballer, and maybe even meet Roy Kent. That his mum and him would still be friends even if Dad tried his hardest to pull them apart. He writes and writes, more than he'd ever written in his life. He gives the spellcheck a real workout. A week later, he prints it and hands it over to Ted.
“Roy says you know spelling and, like, grammar.”
“I studied English in college,” Ted says cheerfully. “English and construction.”
“Those aren’t even related at all,” Jamie says.
“Nope. Construction was the family business, but I wanted to coach, so I needed to teach, and English seemed as good a subject as any. I always liked reading.”
“Mental.”
“All that to say, I'll give this a quick look over. I appreciate you trusting me with it.”
Jamie blushes. “Ain’t a big deal.”
Ted hands it back to him all marked up with blue pen. It looks like every school paper Jamie ever got back. The difference is, Ted don’t get frustrated at all the errors Jamie made. Just sits with him at the computer and helps him fix the mistakes. And he don’t even say a word when he sees how slow Jamie types, or how many times he has to backspace and switch letters around.
“All right!” he says when they’re finished. “You’re gonna be a published author, Jamie. Ain’t that neat?”
“It’s cool, yeah.”
“You nervous?”
Jamie ducks his head. “A little. It’s just - it’s embarrassing, ain’t it? That I couldn’t even - that I were afraid of me own dad, right?”
“Jamie,” Ted says. “No one should ever be scared of their parents. The fact that you went through all that and you’re still where you are today? That ain’t embarrassing, son, that’s incredible.”
“I just - what if - I don’t want to be a crybaby.”
Ted rubs Jamie’s shoulder. “If there’s one thing you aren’t, Jay, it’s a crybaby. Think about how many kids you’re going to help with this. How many kids are going to feel less alone knowing one of their heroes had the same struggles.”
“I guess.”
“It’s like you said. No matter what, we’ll still love you the same. It’s not conditional on what other people think of you. We like you because we think you’re a great guy.”
With Ted by his side, Jamie emails his letter to the nice woman at the magazine.
Thank you so much, Jamie! she responds, almost instantly. We’re so grateful you could help us out. I know your words are going to reach a lot of kids. Thank you again.
+
The letter comes out three hours after Jamie puts in a penalty for the game-winner against Arsenal. About 90 minutes later, the Internet and his phone are exploding. Keeley told him to stay off of Twitter, but Jamie’s never been good at listening.
When he loads the app, he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. People are being so nice.
He can hardly believe it. Mostly what he expected is just people calling him soft, for not being good enough to stand up and fight back. Calling him spoiled, and ungrateful for what his dad did for him. Saying he’s unappreciative of all the work Dad did to make him tougher and quicker and better.
No. It’s people saying he’s a good man, that he’s brave for sharing what Dad did to him with the entire world, that he’s a credit to Richmond and to England, and that they hope he scores a million goals and never retires. It’s possible Jamie added that last part himself. Whatever.
Anyway. He texts Keeley, says, why isn’t anyone being a dick about this, and she says, Like I told you, they liked seeing how sweet you are. Why is that so hard to believe? And he says, you’re very anoying, and she says, I love you too.
Then his mom calls him, and she’s hopping mad. She tears him a new one over the phone, which he was kind of expecting. Then she says what he wrote about her was very sweet and he's a very good lad for taking care of his old mum, and at the end she says, “I love you so much, Jay,” and he says, “I love you too, Mum,” and then she makes him promise to visit when they have four days off after Liverpool next week. And to bring the good tea when he comes. And to make sure he brushes his teeth and takes out the trash regularly.
The lads are great about it too. They all repost it on their accounts, telling everyone how great of a teammate Jamie is now, how fun of a guy he is to be around, how he makes the whole team better when he’s there. And yeah, they take the piss for how much he idolized Roy, but, like, it’s big man Chelsea legend Roy Kent, c’mon.
It’s crazy. It’s better than he ever could have imagined. And the notes he gets from kids, saying, I never knew real football stars had their own Dad - well, that makes it all worth it a hundred times over. Knowing that he helped some kid with a monster under their bed? He can't ask for much more.
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jamie tartt
@jtartt9
letter to my younger self.
thank you @ptmagazine @rk6 and @coachlasso for helping me tell my story.
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roy kent!! (19:04) Good work. Proud of you.
jamie (19:05) not really a big deal
jamie (19:05) just some words on a paper
roy kent!! (19:06) It’s going to be a big deal for a lot of kids out there
roy kent!! (19:06) And I know it was not easy for you to go tell the whole world
jamie (19:09) yeah dad might actually kill me
roy kent!! (19:10) I’d like to see him try
roy kent!! (19:10) He'd have to go through the entire team first which would be difficult considering he isn't allowed anywhere near nelson road
jamie (19:15) cheers
roy kent!! (19:16) Also
roy kent!! (19:16) If you wanted extra work after training all you had to do was ask. Be happy to help you with some drills
jamie (19:20) oh
jamie (19:20) sure u can keep up w me old man?
roy kent!! (19:22) Fuck you I’ll see you tomorrow
roy kent!! (19:22) I’m going to work your balls off
jamie (19:30) can’t wait :)
+
Hey Jamie.
I’m you. Twelve years in the future. I’m here - well, you probably won’t believe this, but I’m here because Roy Kent said I should write this. But mostly I’m here to tell you it’s going to be alright.
I know it sounds impossible now. I know you’re scared. Dad isn’t what you thought he was going to be. I know you don't understand why he beats the shit out of you no matter how good or bad you play. I know he hits you like you're ten feet tall, and I know no one says a word. I know. I’m sorry. I'm really sorry.
Be good to Mum. She deserves it. You know how much she worries about you. That won't change, by the way. When you sign your big City contract, the first thing you need to do is buy her a nice place away from Dad. She’ll try to tell you not to waste your money on her, but you need to make sure she knows that she’s worth every pound. Make sure you take care of Mum before anything else. That’s what good footballers do. Oh, and another thing? Mum will always be right. Believe me.
I ain’t here to lie to you, Jamie. It’ll get worse. When you start growing, Dad will start hitting harder than he already does, to make up for you being taller and stronger than him. Pro tip: use waterproof concealer or foundation to hide the bruises when he gets your face. You’ll sweat off anything else.
He’ll yell at you after every match, even in the car park where everyone and God can see you, call you these names that make you feel like the smallest person in the world. It’ll make you start closing off, make you push away everyone who wants to get close to you, ‘cause you don’t want them to hurt you like Dad does. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve it. We didn’t deserve it. It shouldn’t have been like it was.
I know right now it feels like Mum's the only person in the world who will ever love you. I know it feels like you’ll never be good enough. Like you’ll never be enough. Dad keeps telling you you’re a stupid shit, a dumb fucking worthless baby. I could tell you not to listen to him, but I know it’s too late. You’re gonna hate yourself for a while, kid. It ain’t your fault. It’s Dad’s. But you’ll come out the other side. I promise. I mean, I'm writing this. So just know you'll survive. And if you can make it through Dad, you'll make it through everything else.
Here’s the thing. Dad can call you a soft, weak baby all he wants. But that ain’t what you are. You’re so strong, Jamie. You’re dealing with so much more than any of your mates, at home and at school, and you’re still performing at a crazy high level on the pitch. It takes a strong kid to do that. You won’t believe me now, but one day you’ll listen when people tell you these things. You’re being very strong and brave. You’re working your hardest. People will see that.
It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It isn’t. You won’t believe me now, because you don't believe anyone telling you good things. It’ll take you a while to believe it. But just try. It ain’t your fault. You’re twelve, mate. You shouldn’t be scared of your dad. You shouldn’t have to learn how to hide bruises and cuts from your own mum. That's not the way it's supposed to be. Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault. I promise.
It ain’t your fault.
It ain’t all bad, though. Here’s some good news. You’ll become a pro footballer. You’ll get to play for Pep and for City on the first team, and you’ll even have a hat trick at the Etihad. Stadiums will yell your name. You’ll be a hero to some kids. And the best part? You get to play with Roy Kent. That poster you had on your wall? Nothing compares to the real thing. He’s way cooler in real life.
Yeah, you’ll be a right twat when you’re on Roy's team, because you’re upset City loaned you out to Richmond. But you’re really being a twat because you’re still lonely and scared and it’s hard to hide the bruises in a changing room as small as Richmond’s. It'll be alright in the end, though. The new gaffer will be an American - I swear I’m not joking - and he’ll teach you a lot about being a good teammate and a good man. He’ll change your life.
And you’ll become friends with Roy Kent. Seriously. Don’t freak out too much, now. But it’s pretty great. He’ll be your coach, and you’re going to learn So Much Football from him. He runs you hard but it’s because he knows you can be great. He’s going to make you a very good football player. But he’ll teach you about life, too. He teaches you that you can stand up to Dad. Oh, and he'll get you to read a book. A whole one. Get this - you’re not stupid, you’re just dyslexic. Yeah. There’s a name for it. You’re not stupid. Turns out your brain works different. Not bad! Just different.
If you take anything from this letter, take this: It will pass. Dad won’t win. Roy will give you the courage to block his number. Crazy, right? He won’t control you anymore. You’re going to be your own man. You’re strong, and brave, and nothing on the pitch will make you blink because if you can survive Dad, you can get through anything.
But you’re going to meet so many cool people, and make so many good friends. You’re going to play football, for a job, and be really really good at it. You’ll get to hear stadiums shout your name. You’re going to play in Wembley. And you’ll get to play for England. I know! England. The red and white. You’ll wear that kit. I don't want to spoil what happened this summer for you, but just know that everything you ever dreamed of basically came true. You've never smiled more in your life. It’s so cool.
Most important, you’re going to find a home in Richmond. Yeah, it ain’t City, like you thought it would be. But you know City were always really Dad’s dream. Richmond will become your family. They’ll teach you the definition of the word unconditional. You’ll be surrounded with people who will think you’re worth everything even if you could never play football again.
And you’re going to be loved.
You’re going to be so, so loved.
Keep being brave, Jamie. I promise it gets so much better.
Believe.
—Older Jamie