'Steve, are you certain this is the right thing to do?' The Reserves coach was skeptical. 'Young Owen's something special. He could go on to become one of the best players this club's ever produced. He's sensible, obedient and hard working. And you do you pick for his roommate? The worst-behaved player in the Under 18s.'

Steve Heighway stared out of his office window at the Liverpool Academy. 'If I thought Michael really needed looking after, Carra's the last person I'd have paired him with. Frankly I'm hoping that he'll be a good influence on Jamie.'

'Well, I hope it works out. But I have to say Steve, I know you hate to let a player go, but this has to be Carragher's last chance. The lad's a brawling, foul-mouthed layabout, without the amount of talent that would excuse those things, if you ask me.'

'Carra will never be a flair player, I grant you.' Steve answered. 'But he's definitely got *something*' He looked down at his desk, and the referee's report containing the details of Carra's latest transgression. He sighed.

'You're right though. I think this has to be his last chance.'

*Bastards. Fucking bastards!*

Jamie Carragher stomped down the Academy corridors with an expression so thunderous that even the staff got out of his way. All this, just because he'd twatted some jumped up little manc who had richly deserved it? Alright, so he'd been sent off, but that'd happened before without them doling out psycho punishments like this.

But this time, after the standard dressing-down and ear bashing about discipline, the gaffer had said 'and you'll be pleased to know I've thought of the perfect way for you to learn some responsibility. You've heard of Michael Owen?'

Well of course he had. Who hadn't? The mythic little goal machine who had smashed every schoolboy record in sight, including that of Ian Rush himself. The staff at the Academy always told it to you straight: 90% of you will not make the grade in professional football - not just at Liverpool, but at any level. But Owen was spoken of as if it were a foregone conclusion. He'd been looking forward to seeing the lad play.

But what he said was: 'That Welsh kid who keeps scoring?'

'In view of our injury problems we're promoting him to the Under 18s team. His Lilleshall studies will restrict the number of games he plays, but we're hoping he can help us out in the Youth Cup.'

'But he can't be more than 15?'

"16 in December' Steve nodded. 'But as the saying goes, if you're good enough, you're old enough. And that's where you come in.'

Carra gave his coach a dubious look. Heighway was wearing the grin of a man whose joke is enhanced by his listener not being in on it.

'Two years is a big age gap when you're in your teens. Michael's going to feel a bit lost, hanging around with teammates who are practically adults. And he's a shy lad at the best of times.' Steve leant forward at his desk, clearly gearing up for the punchline.

'So you're going to look after him.'

'Eh?'

'You'll be Michael's roommate, and you'll be the one to introduce him to life in the Under 18s. You're the one who'll make sure he gets on the right bus, brings the right kit, and most importantly' and here Steve could no longer conceal how much he was enjoying this, 'I want you to make sure the big boys don't pick on him.'

'Ah boss, you're joking!' Carra was horrified.

'I've never been more serious in my life. Quite apart from wanting to look after the lad, I have the club's interests to consider. Michael cannot sign for us professionally until he turns 16. Now he's been with us since he was 11, but until he signs that contract he's free to go anywhere else. We can't afford to lose a talent like his to another club, particularly when Arsenal and United have him top of their shopping list.

'So I'm looking to you to make Michael's experience so pleasant he wouldn't dream of signing for anyone but us. If you do nothing else for Liverpool, Jamie, at least you can secure us the services of the most promising youngster in years.'

That was when he knew the gaffer was serious. He'd called him Jamie. He stared fixedly at his feet. He could see he didn't have any choice in this, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

'Don't worry Carra! Michael's a nice lad - I'm sure you two are going to be good friends. And you can start now. Pick him up from training and show him where the Under 18s lockers are. You can't miss him - just grab the smallest lad you can find.'

Carra just about managed to say 'yes boss' through gritted teeth. When he got to the door, Steve called him back.

'Oh, and Carra? Don't call him Welsh. He doesn't like it.'

*Well he's just gonna have to learn.*

*He's gone fucking mental.*

Carra stood outside the changing rooms as the Under 16s began to straggle out, their hair still damp from the showers. He spotted one minute kid at the back.

*Grab the smallest you can find? Whatever you say, boss*

And he reached out to the boy and nearly lifted him off his feet.

'Oi! GERROFF!'

'You Owen?'

'Fuck off!'

Carra regarded him balefully. 'Don't mess me about, yeh little sod, I'm norr'in the mood. Are you Owen?'

'Like I'm gonna tell you, yeh Bootle bastard.' Ah. Not Owen, then. Owen was a posh kid from Cheshire, whereas this one might as well have 'Huyton' tattooed across his forehead. Partly to get the kid to talk, and partly because he was annoyed at the Bootle crack, he twisted his arm behind his back. 'Where is he then?'

'Fuck off!'

'You really wanna think about improving your vocabulary, son.' He started to twist harder, but a voice from the changing room stopped him.

'Let go of him! I'm Owen.' Carra turned to survey the newcomer.

*Oh, well that's just brilliant. I'm babysitting Little Lord Fauntleroy.*

He dropped the other kid, who exchanged a look with Owen and then slunk off, not before promising that 'he'd get him back for that'. Carra clipped him around the ear as he passed.

He turned around to survey the boy who was supposed to be God's gift to football. He didn't look much. Didn't look 15 for a start: lack of height, a slight frame and an absurdly boyish face made him look barely into his teens. Carra wondered whether his bodyguarding duties would extend to on the pitch, because it looked like any defender in their league would squash him like a bug. His dislike deepened when Owen smiled brightly at him and stuck his hand out, for all the world like a politician canvassing door-to-door.

'You must be Jamie. I'm Michael.'

'Carra.'

'Sorry?'

'Me name's Carra. Not even our priest calls me Jamie.' He made no attempt to shake the proffered hand. After a while Owen noticed he was still holding it out, and stopped, disconcerted.

'Oh', he said. 'Ok then. Carra.'

*If people think I'm gonna take him under my wing and we're gonna be best mates and he's gonna teach me the true meaning of Christmas, they've got another fucking thing coming.*

'The locker's are this way', he said, and stalked off without looking back.