c44: Are You Still Not Allowed to Have Dreams?
Vardy's thunderous strike was more than just a goal—it was devastation wrapped in leather.
The ball tore through the air like a missile, disrupting everything in its path. With a crowd of bodies clogging the box, Sheffield Wednesday's goalkeeper likely Stephen Bywater was completely unsighted. By the time the ball appeared from behind the traffic, it was already too late. All he could do was flinch and perform an imaginary dive as the net bulged behind him.
Boom!!!
Goodison Park exploded in a synchronized roar, the cheers mimicking the detonation of artillery loud, guttural, and earth-shaking. It was as if the entire blue half of Merseyside was saluting the strike.
Sheffield Wednesday's players froze in disbelief. Their eyes, filled with dread, locked onto Vardy, the not-so-tall forward who had now transformed into an unstoppable force of nature. The very player their club had discarded was now pushing them to the brink of humiliation.
Several Everton players Anichebe, Rodwell, and Coleman among them instinctively rushed forward to celebrate, but halted as soon as Vardy raised his hand.
He wasn't done.
As the cheers of the Everton faithful rained down, Vardy calmly walked across the pitch and approached the visiting team's technical area. With deliberate flair, he turned his back toward Sheffield Wednesday's bench, gripped his shirt, and pointed firmly to the name printed across it.
VARDY.
I'm Vardy!
I, the so-called "disruptive brat" you threw out, just scored on you. Again.
So tell me, Wilson how's that face of yours feeling now?
On the sideline, Coach Gary Wilson turned crimson. His clenched fists trembled. Rage and humiliation danced in his eyes. For a split second, he looked as though he was going to charge the pitch and pummel Vardy himself. But he knew the consequences. Goodison Park was no friendly ground for him now. Had he laid a finger on Vardy, he likely wouldn't have made it back to Sheffield alive.
He stood frozen, boiling in shame, fury bleeding from his eyes. If looks could kill, Vardy would've been ash and vapor.
But Vardy no longer cared.
He met Wilson's glare with one of his own calm, mocking, and distant. To Vardy, Wilson wasn't a demon anymore. He was an insect. A smudge on the past. A footnote to be forgotten crushed beneath his boot as he ascended.
And just like that, Vardy's heart lifted. There was satisfaction in the power shift. The same man who once benched him for reserve team friendlies now had to watch as the boy he threw away tore his defense apart on national television.
The game was barely past the 25-minute mark, yet Sheffield Wednesday's shape was in tatters. Vardy's brace had destroyed the tempo and confidence of their backline. The match had lost all suspense it had turned into a showcase.
Moyes, usually the embodiment of stoic professionalism, couldn't hide his admiration. He hadn't expected this. He knew Vardy was quick and hungry, but this level of finishing, this level of mental steel? It reminded him of a young Wayne Rooney and that was no small comparison.
He began to ponder: Could Vardy start against Aston Villa this weekend? Maybe even partner Saha or push for a wide role in the 4-4-1-1 setup?
Vardy, meanwhile, jogged back to his half. His adrenaline still surged. Two goals weren't enough. He was still wired, ready to press, to sprint, to score again.
But then came the unexpected twist.
The fourth official raised the substitution board.
#38 OFF.
VARDY.
The crowd gasped. Vardy froze mid-stride, blinking in disbelief.
Me?
The man who'd just scored two goals in 25 minutes was being pulled? Before halftime?
Frustration flared. It wasn't just confusing—it felt unjust. Players usually aren't subbed this early unless they're injured or performing disastrously. Pulling a striker in form on a brace, no less seemed almost irrational.
Still, he obeyed. Even through the confusion and dismay, Vardy walked off, slow and deliberate.
But as he neared the sideline, something beautiful happened.
Every corner of Goodison Park stood and applauded.
They weren't just clapping for two goals. They were welcoming a new hero.
A few weeks ago, Vardy had arrived on loan from Manchester United as an unknown. Now, chants of "Vardy! Vardy!" echoed from the Gwladys Street End. In just three games, he'd scored five goals and transformed a struggling Everton attack.
His teammates gathered to slap his hands—Phil Neville, Hibbert, even Fellaini from the bench. Vardy had earned their respect not just with skill, but with fire.
He reached the sideline and embraced Chadwick, who was jogging on to replace him. Then, turning toward Moyes, he raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
Moyes approached, calm and smiling. Without hesitating, he leaned in and whispered:
"Great job, Jamie. Get some rest. I'll need you on Saturday."
Just like that, everything clicked.
The anger evaporated. Vardy wasn't being pulled because he'd done something wrong he was being protected. Moyes had seen enough. This match didn't deserve more of Vardy's brilliance. The real stage the Premier League awaited.
And for the first time in a long while, Vardy allowed himself to believe something bold:
He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was becoming someone.
He looked back toward Wilson once more—but there was no hatred this time.
Only triumph.
Since Moyes said so, it was highly likely that Vardy would be included in the starting XI. Even if he didn't make the lineup against Aston Villa, it was almost certain his playing time would exceed the brief substitute appearances he had been given in his first two matches.
How could this not make Vardy elated and full of anticipation?
Returning to the bench with a triumphant grin, Vardy exchanged high-fives with several of Everton's senior players seated along the sideline Alan Stubbs, Joseph Yobo, and even Tim Cahill gave him a nod of approval. Finally, Vardy dropped into the empty seat next to Lee Carsley.
"Jamie, at this rate, you're about to become the team's top scorer!" Carsley said with a mix of surprise and envy.
Vardy paused, then chuckled. He hadn't thought about that. But now that he considered it, the numbers made sense.
Under Moyes, Everton had built their identity around defensive solidity and quick transitions. Their primary offensive approach hinged on soaking up pressure and counterattacking goals were relatively scarce. Duncan Ferguson, while still a towering presence, was more of a target man and had slowed considerably. The other forwards hadn't contributed much at all.
Up to this point in the season, the club's top scorer was Tim Cahill, the late-arriving midfielder known for his aerial prowess. Even Carsley himself had chipped in with a long-range effort earlier in the campaign. But with Vardy now sitting on four goals in three appearances a hat-trick against Huddersfield and another tonight he had surged to the top of the team's scoring chart.
"What's the use of being the team's top scorer?" Vardy replied with mock disdain, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Wait 'til I'm the Premier League's top scorer!"
Carsley turned his head and stared at him like he'd just grown a second head.
"Thierry Henry, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Alan Shearer, Louis Saha... even Rooney, and he's only a year older than you. With guys like that around, you think you're gonna win the Golden Boot?"
Vardy responded with a faint smirk, eyes steady. "Aren't we allowed to have dreams?"
Carsley froze, caught off guard by the simplicity and conviction in the answer. The confident fire in Vardy's eyes silenced him.
That's right. Aren't we allowed to dream?
Once upon a time, Carsley had dreams too of being a Premier League star, of playing in European nights, of leading his national team out at Wembley. But somewhere along the line, those dreams had been diluted. Replaced by survival. By the daily grind. By routine.
Step-by-step, he had followed the system, fulfilled expectations, earned a steady reputation. But in doing so, he had let the spark fade.
Watching Vardy now cocky, fearless, raw Carsley felt a strange sense of nostalgia. A twinge of regret. But also… hope.
Maybe this lad really could pull it off.
"You can do it," Carsley murmured under his breath, almost without realizing it. The words were swallowed by the noise of the crowd Vardy didn't hear them. But they were real.
By this point in the match, Everton were completely dominant. Though the first half ended without additional goals, they came roaring out in the second. Goals from Leon Osman and substitute James McFadden put the result beyond doubt, capping off a commanding 4–0 win over a shell-shocked Sheffield Wednesday side.
Vardy watched from the bench, arms crossed, relishing every second.
Wilson, now slumped on the visitors' sideline, looked like a man who had just attended his own funeral. His expression was hollow face pale, eyes sunken. For Vardy, it was poetic jusmetice.
It wasn't just about the scoreboard.
This was personal.
He had been humiliated and discarded by this man. Tonight, on the stage of Goodison Park, he had taken everything back. This was vengeance, served cold and ruthless.
Sometimes we owe our strength to the ones who tried to break us.
Sometimes we should thank those who humiliated us—because they gave us a reason never to bow again.
And sometimes, when the world throws enemy after enemy in our path… we should be grateful.
Because that's what makes life worth fighting for.
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