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Soaking
wet from the drizzle, they clustered, steam rising, in the
changing room. Thursday night training had just finished. All of
the Hedges United Youth Team were there, boys, nearly men. They
sat, knackered, on the bench that ran around the square room.
Beige tiles, smeared with age old caked mud looked raw in the
strip light hum. No one had changed yet, socks hung down, crumpled
below the shin pads. The silence ran on. The Boss had just
finished his team talk and left them alone to think on it.
“Well,”
said Johnny G. “I guess we know what to do then.”
“Yeah,
play our bollocks off or no contract next season,” said Paul the
left winger.
“Ah,
come on,” said Johnny G, “you always knew that was the way.
Big year next year, we all turn sixteen, not kids anymore. They
have to pay us, sign us, contract and that. “
Paul
started unlacing his boot.
“Yeah,
I know. Bit fucking much, putting it all on whether or not we do
the business in the Final on Saturday though. I’ve sweated my
cods off this season. What happens if I have a nightmare on
Saturday?”
Darren,
the right back, snorted. “Then you blow it because you ain't got
big match temperament, you tart. Cup Final, got to perform,
son.”
The
others all laughed. Paul was a bit of a bottle merchant. He could
freeze in the big games.
“Ha
ha. Very funny. You’re laughing, mate? You should be worrying.
You know who you’re getting on Saturday, don’t you? Foster.
Just worry about that big bastard, and let me get on with my
game.” As Paul said this, the silence descended again.
After a
minute or two, Johnny G spoke up. “He's right. Darren, you and
Steve have got a lot to deal with on Saturday. Foster is a bloody
handful and you’ve got to stop him. If he gets going then the
rest of us are going to struggle. He could take the whole game
away from us. He really is that good. The rest of them we can
handle, but him you have to neutralise.”
Nods
all round from the others. They all looked at the two full backs,
Darren and the normally taciturn Steve.
Darren
passed the buck. “It’s going to be Steve's problem. The
bastard normally plays on the right for them. Steve's going to
have to mark him.”
Steve
was fiddling with his ankle strapping. Without looking up he said:
“No.”
“What
do you mean no?” demanded Paul.
“I
mean, no, I’m not doing it.”
“Not
doing what?”
“I’m
not doing what all you lot want me to do.” Steve carried on
unwinding the never ending roll of sticky tape around his right
ankle.
Andy,
the tall centre back, looked puzzled. “Why? You done it often
enough before.”
Steve
looked up. “Yeah, I have, but none of those poor bleeders were
the top boy on the Roundshaw estate. Foster and his mates fucking
stab people, squirt ammonia in their faces and stab them, for fun.
Nutters with long memories.”
He
looked around at the wanna be professional footballers. “Right,
stop me if I’m wrong. We all know whose going to make it and who
ain't. Contracts? I’ll tell you whose going to get contracts.
Johnny G, you’ll play for bloody England one day and we all know
it. You two pair of dildos," he said as pointed to Andy and
Bob, the centre backs, “will get them because you are a foot
taller than any of the rest of us and win everything in the air.
Fred, you make some good saves on Saturday, and you’re in. Tony
and Mark will get signed because Johnny G makes the rest of the
midfield look brilliant. The rest of you, including you, you
gutless ponce,” he pointed at Paul, “are on trial on
Saturday.”
“What
about me?” said Darren, all indignant.
“Darren,
old mate, the day they make glue sniffing, shagging and booting
the beJesus out of the bloke you are marking the requirements for
professional footballers you’re in. You and me are both out for
good after the next game. Don’t you see? We are both here to
smash the fuck out of anyone too good... to stop them playing. Or
to do the other team’s version of us and stop them taking out
Johnny G and the others. The likes of you and me don’t get
contracts, you silly fucker. Our job’s done. The players move on
to the pro’s now, to a different world.”
“That’s
rubbish,” said Johnny G.
“Is
it? Is it?” Steve turned on him.
“OK,
superstar, what do you think happens when the Boss takes me and
dopey bollocks over there away for those quiet little one on one
training sessions? Ball control? Heading practise? My arse. It’s
lessons on how to take people out and not get caught. Right,
Darren?”
Darren
coloured a little and mumbled, “Er... yeah... well, yeah, it is
actually.”
“So
next time you’re dancing through the oppo and taking all the
glory remember this: that good kid on the other side who is laying
on the touchline getting the treatment from the trainer ain't
stopping your dancing, because I stripped his Achilles tendon off
the bone with my heel studs, accidental like, so you could be a
fucking star, alright?” Steve kicked his boots across the
changing room. “You didn’t all think it was just hard
tackling, did you?”
“I
still don’t believe you,” said Johnny G.
“Believe
whatever you like. But I’ll tell you something: there is no way
I’m doing that Foster lad on Saturday. He is a fucking nutter,
and I am not spending the next ten years of my life looking over
my shoulder waiting for him and his crew coming to fillet me. They
do people for a laugh and he’s on Chelsea’s books, definitely
going to turn pro. What do you think he’ll do to me if I ruin
that for him? Nope, this time you are on your own.”
* * * *
At half
time on Saturday, they trooped into the dressing room. One nil
down and being run ragged, mainly by Foster. Steve had done
everything he knew to stop the bloke, short of taking him out.
Hard into his back, fist and knees into the kidneys and thighs
respectively. Nutting the back of his head. The verbals, those
whispered insults trying to wind him up, to get Foster to swing at
him and be seen doing so by the referee. Spitting into his ear,
treading on his heels, crunching tackles, just on the edge of
being legal. Nothing was working.
Foster,
having been taught in a similar football school , was doing all
the same things back to Steve. But he had one advantage. As he was
mainly backing into Steve receiving the ball, he could swing a
killer elbow into Steve’s chest and ribcage. It was like being
one of those sides of beef Rocky hit. Steve was bruised to
buggery. He was sure a rib had gone.
Predictably
the Boss went nuts. Everyone got a slagging. This was the Boss’s
showpiece. If the Youth Team won things, then the Boss might get
bumped up to coach the reserves, the beginning of the real stuff,
the men; not, as he now put it: “Silly wee fucking kids who
listen to fuck all and don’t deserve a part of this club.”
The
rant went on for the full fifteen minutes. One final blast, and
they stood up to go out for the second half. As they filed out the
Boss grabbed Steve.
He
said, “What are you doing? What the fuck are you playing at?
I’m telling you this once and once only. Take that black bastard
out, NOW. Knee, Achilles, ankle, I don’t care. Just get him off
that pitch.”
He
grabbed Steve’s shirt in his fist and hauled him up close.
“You don’t, then you are letting me down, the rest of the lads
down, and this club down. Now go and do your fucking job.” He
chucked Steve through the door and marched him to the pitch.
* * * *
The
dressing room was a cacophony of noise. Beer and champagne was
being guzzled from the silver cup. The Boss beamed. The club
Manager appeared and sat down, mingling with the lads, because
they were WINNERS. Everyone was buzzing.
“Great
game boys, great come back,” the Manager said. “I said after
that third goal: this is the future of this club right there on
this pitch. You lads did the Club proud today. You really did.”
He
ruffled Johnny G’s hair. “Great goals, son, great goals. By
the way, how’s that black lad. Anyone hear?”
Steve,
standing up against the wall, answered him. “Ruptured cruciate
and dislocated knee cap.”
“Christ,”
said the Manager. “That’s his career over. You all right
though, Steve? It was a tough challenge that one.”
Still
in his muddy kit, Steve picked up his kit bag and took his clothes
off his peg. He walked to the door.
“No,
I’m not, Mr Manager. I’m fucked, it just hasn’t happened
yet.”
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