by Ross Raisin
A few of the players were doubled over with laughter, pointing through the mass to where Tom was dancing, energetically and alone in the middle of the floor. He was lost in the music, clapping, jumping, then repeatedly punching the air to the song’s chorus.
The girl had begun dancing now too, in a fashion, unable to hold her head up, her eyes cast down towards the whirl of ankles and dirty shoes. Boyn pushed through the dancers towards her and took hold of her upper arm. He tilted her face up and pointed at Tom, shouting something into her ear as he steered her towards him.
When Boyn released her, the girl grabbed Tom around the waist. He placed a hand on her back and continued to dance, holding her to him. She looked up at his face and leaned her head into his neck but stumbled. He caught her, pulled her towards him and they kissed messily, his bottom lip sliding against her nose before he lifted her head back up. They kissed again, for longer, the girl’s eyes closing as he pressed his hand against the small of her back.
Tom let her forehead rest against his shoulder and gripped her tightly as they swayed to the music, the girl completely oblivious, unlike him, to the leering faces on the other side of the dance floor.
5
The starting eleven and substitutes were made to undergo a video analysis of the Shrewsbury match. Each section of the team came in separately to examine its own particular failings: the front two, then the midfield, the defense—working backwards through the lineup to conclude with Frank Foley grimly following a looped sequence of his own large form watching the flight of the ball from a corner, leaping, punching, missing, flattening Boyn, then watching again from the ground as the ball was nodded into the goal.
The midfielders came in for the heaviest criticism. They entered the small darkened room inside the bowels of the stadium to sit on a bench surrounded by the shadowy ghosts of whiteboards and motivational posters. Unconsciously, they took up their on-field formation—Richards on the left, Easter and Price in the center, Finch-Evans on the right, and the midfield substitutes on chairs either side—while Clarke moved to stand behind them, ready with the remote control. Loud bursts of windblown footage came onto the screen, punctuated, as Clarke rewound, by heavy silences inside the room and the faint drone outside of the rotary mower going up and down the pitch.
“What are you not doing?”
The midfielders stared at the frozen image, searching for the answer somewhere amid the disjointed figures.
“What, that I tell you every week—every fucking day—are you not doing in this picture?”
“Moving?”
Clarke glowered at the back of Easter’s head, unsure if this was a joke. “Squeezing,” he said. “You’re not squeezing the pitch. They’ve got the ball, and you four aren’t fucking doing anything.” He replayed the passage. Then he walked round to the front of the bench. Only Easter looked up to face him. Clarke showed them more examples, which took some time to achieve because he twice pressed the frame skip button by mistake—advancing to the defense section, then to Foley’s misadventure—his irritation mounting as he struggled to find the correct clips. “You don’t want to play league football, is that it? You want to go back where we were? Do you? Dog shit on the pitches? Changing in car parks? Crowds you could fit in the back of a van? Do you, Pricey? Finch?” He stared at the impassive faces of the pair, ignoring Easter, who had been at the club before either of them. “Because if this doesn’t improve then that’s where you’re headed, even if by some bloody miracle I manage to keep us up.”
He pressed for the next clip. “Given away.” Then the next—this one accompanied by the background groan of the cameraman, the youth welfare officer, part of whose job it was to compile these recordings. “And again—given away.”
“I thought we’re supposed to get the ball forward early.”
Clarke looked down at Easter. “You are. To one of our players.”
“Yes, but thing is, gaffer, if we’re just hitting it long as soon as we get it then the ball’s just bouncing off heads.”
Clarke said nothing but stepped forward slightly.
“What I’m saying,” Easter continued, “is how can we pass if it’s in the air?”
Clarke placed his foot on the edge of the bench in between Easter and Price.
“Are you taking the piss out of me?”
“What?”
“Are you taking the piss out of me?” There was an arch, oddly flirtatious, note to the repeated question. “The rest of you can go. Tell the defense to wait outside.”
Once they had gone out Clarke closed the door and switched on the lights. The small dark eyes shrank further into their crumpled pockets, fixing on Easter from above two little beards of ruined skin.
“Do you want to play in the reserves, you stupid boy?”
The sound of the mower, advancing towards them, grew louder.
“Or somewhere else, maybe? Pack your bags again?”
“You’re the gaffer. You do what you want.”
After a pause Clarke smiled and stepped aside. He pointed at the door. When Easter reached it there was a hurried shuffling on the other side before he let himself out.
He was too worked up to go straight home. He drove away from the stadium, the town, seeking open roads, fields, the coast. He had wanted to be hit. Just for a moment, there in that room, he had wanted Clarke to punch him. To feel the sharp red pain of a blow to the nose and not budge. To take it calmly and walk away. But it had not happened, and now he needed to feel the power of the car, to run into something even—a rabbit, a fox—and hear the impact of it on his bonnet.
It was half past three, however, and the car idled in school traffic. He closed up to the vehicle in front, revving, goading his anger, trying to sustain it, already fearful of what he knew would follow.
Finally out onto country roads, he felt the surge of the engine responding to his foot. When another car or a tractor slowed his progress he pestered at their rear bumpers, relishing the fury that rose in him when they did not speed up. He moved alongside an estate car on a long, unsighted hedge bend, his hands getting hot and rigid on the wheel, until the straight road ahead suddenly appeared, clear.
He climbed into the hills near the coast and parked at a deserted viewing point. From inside his car he looked out at tiny ships, a ferry, which barely seemed to be moving.
A single faraway patch of light shone on the water for a couple of minutes, before the ceiling of clouds closed around the sun. He texted Leah to tell her that he had stayed on at the ground and wouldn’t be home for a while. For a long time he stared at the sea. A light rain started to fall. The horizon was blurring. He could feel a heaviness pulling him down and he tried to bring to mind some thought or image that might rile him back up: he pictured Foley’s error, Price not tracking back, all those other useless fuckers’ mistakes that were not flagged up like his own. Clarke smiling at him. Today had been the first time that Clarke had threatened to get shut of him himself, rather than getting his little prick of an assistant to pass on the message for him: that he had been at fault for a goal; that his form wasn’t good enough; that if it didn’t improve they might have to think about their options.
He put on the windscreen wipers and he directed his sight on the ferry, trying to recall the times that he had played well, to visualize what he had done. He went backwards through the season, recollecting each match and his part in it, but he could not bring to mind his last good performance; he could only see the mistakes he had made.
He thought back further, to the previous season at Middlesbrough, and was instantly put into the same state of fretful unhappiness that had followed him—them—for the whole of that period—from car journey to car journey, to the training base, to the oppressive bowl of the stadium, to the hotel room and the queasy company of Leah lying enormously on the bed next to her phone and a bucket. That season, he was certain, he had not played well once. For the most part he had not played. After the first dozen games, in and out of the team, the man
ager made a comment on the club website about his needing time to adjust to the slower, more controlled pace of Championship football; that he would have an important role to play as the season progressed and injuries and fixture backlog took their toll. Such a role never materialized. He spent the season on the bench or, more often, not on the bench or even at the grounds—instead at the hotel, then the expensive rented house surrounded by boxes and baby clothes, looking on at the helpless veined creature in the bed with his wife that responded more to the various nannies and cleaners who came and went than to himself.
The thought of telling Leah about the confrontation with Clarke passed through his mind. He knew, though, that he could not. The idea of admitting that he had failed, again, that she might have to move, again, was simply not an option. He kept his eyes on the ferry, advancing unstoppably towards him through the relentless brutal sea—and panic entered him, his every sinew hardening against the sensation of being out of control. If he let his hold slacken, even for a moment, he was sure that he would never regain it and his weakness would be exposed—to Leah, his teammates, the fans. Not good enough. Not man enough. His world collapsing from all sides in on him.
He fired the engine and turned the car round.
Below him, the open country of his drive home was fleetingly lit up in a snatch of sunlight: a flat panorama of patchwork farmland and the dotted islands of woods, hamlets, one of them his own, merging further on into a belt of suburbia—the faceless mass of mediocre idiots who drove in once a fortnight with their scarves and their sons and their pretend shirts towards the dark blot of the town in the distance, which was falling now again back into shadow, the matchsticks of the stadium floodlights disappearing from view as he pulled out onto the road and descended towards home.
—
He came into the living room, where Tyler was sitting on the rug, repeatedly face-planting into a cushion.
“Mate, what are you doing?” He walked towards him, smiling, and bent to pick him up. When he put his hands around the small body, though, Tyler went rigid and began to cry. “It’s all right, mate, it’s all right.” He lifted him, patting his back, but Tyler bucked, kicking his feet, so he dumped him back down on the rug and went into the kitchen.
Leah was sterilizing feeding bottles in the microwave.
“Want a coffee?” he asked.
“I will, thanks.”
He filled the kettle, watching her take the steaming plastic bottles out of the microwave, screwing on teats, caps, moving about the kitchen, and he wanted right then to take hold of her, to detain her against him and not let her go. Then Tyler blared into the room, the kettle clicked, at which he made their coffees and headed for the door, avoiding Tyler, to make his way upstairs to the sanctuary of the office.
Who do you think should be captain?
Started by Bald and Proud
Replies:
55
17 Sep 2011 ≤ 1 2 3 ≥
Views:
612
He clicked on the thread.
Bald and Proud posted Sat at 11:46pm
After today I’m convinced that Easter isn’t the right player to lead this side, it needs someone with more league experience who hasn’t got issues with their own performances.
Riversider posted Sat at 11:53pm
Totally agree, Bald and Proud. Easter’s head isn’t right, hasn’t been since he came back. Get shut if you ask me and bring in an older head who can help the younger players along better.
Voice of Reason posted Sun at 12:10am
Easter’s head isn’t right!!! Nice one, don’t make me laugh. His head was never right, the guy’s a ****ing nutcase! It’s not his head it’s his legs that’ve gone. Got more than he was worth for him last summer…never should have signed him back. Overrated.
Dr. Feelgood posted Sun at 12:52am
Bald and Proud wrote:
After today I’m convinced that Easter isn’t the right player to lead this side, it needs someone with more league experience who hasn’t got issues with their own performances.
The trouble is, Bald and Proud, to get someone experienced and quality in like you say, we’d need to free up Easter’s wage, and who realistically is going to sign him from us? Besides which he’s the chairman’s monkey and no way is the Fat Controller going to let him go now when he made so much noise about getting him back in the first place.
Town Legend posted Sun at 1:03am
Don’t hear the chairman making much noise about him now though do you?
Road to Wembley 2010 posted Sun at 9:02am
John Daish should be captain.
Lardass posted Sun at 10:35am
What short memories people have. It wasn’t that long ago that everyone was singing Easter’s name from the rooftops. It was always going to take him time to adjust, coming back, especially with so little first-team football under his belt last year. It’s only September, folks. We’re not even two months into the season. Keep the faith!
Jamesy1987 posted Sun at 11:38am
Chairman’s monkey!
Each new post sent a sharp thrill through him. He read the thread to the end then began it again. Leah called from downstairs but he ignored her, moving on to new threads, firstly on the official message board, then on the other Town forum, and finally to the comments following that day’s article in the local paper. When he had read each entry he went back onto the official message board and stared at it, refreshing the page every couple of minutes, waiting.
—
It had rained through the night and was still coming down in patchy showers while they ate breakfast. When they set off, though, the sky began to clear, and a weak sun followed them on the drive to the coast. It had been Leah’s idea to go there today, Chris’s day off. She had prepared the suggestion in advance, waiting for an opportune moment to ask, and when in the end it came, massaging him on the sofa while they watched a film, he had agreed readily, had even seemed pleased at the idea of a day out.
Tyler was happy in the wet sand. They carried him across the beach and set him down in his waterproof all-in-one to sit at the edges of pools. He reached in and clawed fistfuls of thick paste, holding his hands high above his head to watch the sand dollop and splatter into the water. Chris’s attention was on him. A smile broke over his face and Leah moved closer to put her head against his chest. When she looked back at Tyler his mouth was covered in dark sludge. “He’s eating sand, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yep.”
“We should probably stop him, shouldn’t we?”
“Probably.” He walked over to Tyler slowly, crouching—then scooped him up and sprinted with him in his arms towards the sea. Once he was at the edge of the water he turned Tyler upside down and held him by the ankles, lowering, lifting, and she could hear through the lapping waves the gleeful screams of Tyler each time Chris pretended to drop him in.
They walked to a beach cafe, where they sat waiting for some time before a waitress appeared, apologizing, from the kitchen. They ate prawn rolls, feeding mouthfuls of prawns to Tyler, who closed his eyes in anticipation when each fork came towards him. Leah noticed the waitress smiling over from the counter. A little flush of pleasure came, then went, as she turned her attention back to the table and saw in Chris’s eyes, his lips, that it was him she had been smiling at.
It was past Tyler’s nap time when they finished eating, but Chris suggested they go for a walk along the front to buy sweets. After they had got them, Chris let Tyler suck on a fizzy dummy. At his perplexed reaction they both smiled and Chris put his arm around her. The moment they got back into the car, Tyler fell asleep. Drizzle built up on the windscreen as they drove away. She was about to drift off herself when Chris mentioned that Town were at home against Aldershot on Saturday, and Jamie Atwell, an old teammate from his first spell at Town, was going to be playing. Jamie and his wife were staying down for the rest of the weekend in a hotel, he said, and Boyn had been talking about having them, with the Easters, o
ver for a meal after the match.
Before they had even reached home she was taut with anxiety. They were rare, these occasions, but she dreaded them. She never had anything to say, especially once the meal was over and the partners moved into the kitchen to talk about their jobs and their friends in common while the men disappeared for endless computer games or darts or drinking games with their shirts off.
When Chris went upstairs she called her mum, hoping that she would be unable to babysit. She was free, though; she was only too happy to take Tyler so that Leah could see her friends.
She tried not to think about the meal even as she prepared herself for it. She got her nails done at college and on the Friday afternoon went to her hairdresser for a fringe cut while Tyler crawled about the salon reception charming the stylists, playing peekaboo behind the products stand. On the day of the match she did not get to the stadium until a few minutes before the final whistle. She had told Chris that her mum was not available until later, so that she would not have to spend the game in the family room with Alison Atwell and Boyn’s girlfriend Clare.
When she did arrive, the two women were in the players’ lounge, bunkered in one corner on a sofa, chatting, a bottle of wine on the low table before them, paying little attention to the small monitor by the bar that was showing the match. They did not see Leah until she was right in front of them. Clare got up to lean over the table and kiss her on the cheek. Alison repeated the gesture. Leah noticed that each woman, beaming, toned, childless, gave her a quick look up and down as the other greeted her. She declined the offer of a wineglass to share their bottle and went to the bar for a tonic water, explaining to the others that she was driving. She knew—sitting down in the uncomfortable slouching armchair opposite them, nodding and smiling when they took up again their conversation about the difficulties of arranging Wednesdays off work—that she should have bought another bottle of wine for the table, and that Clare and Alison were probably driving too.
