by Philip Kerr
‘It’s the same with football, guys. We only pretend that it’s a fucking sport, in order not to frighten women with this, our passion for the game. The truth is that sports are for children on a summer’s day, or idiots with stupid hats who go to flirt with chinless wonders wearing tailcoats and maybe look at all the pretty horses. Because if you were to walk out there now and ask any one of our supporters if they are here to be entertained or to see anything pretty, I promise they’d look at you like you were fucking crazy. And they’d be right to do so. They’d tell you that they haven’t paid seventy-five quid for a seat to be amused. Some of you people are on a hundred thousand pounds a week. But football is worth so much more than that to those people outside. A hell of a lot more. To most of those men and women this team is their whole fucking life and the result of any match means everything to them; everything.
‘So let me enlighten you, gentlemen: nobody at this club is playing for a hundred grand a week. You’re playing so that our supporters can go to work tomorrow morning and feel a sense of pride that their team won in grand style last night. And any man who thinks differently ought to put in for a transfer right now because we don’t want you at Silvertown Dock. It doesn’t matter who they are – players or supporters – it’s believers we want here. The believers, gentlemen: that’s who we play for. That’s what we are. We’re men who believe.
‘If this sounds a little religious, that’s because it is; football is a religion. I am not exaggerating. The official religion of this country is not Christianity, or Islam, it’s football. Because nobody goes to church any more. Certainly not on a Sunday. They go to football. Take a walk around this building some time, guys, and listen to the prayers from our believers. That’s right; this is their cathedral. This is their place of worship. This team is their creed. If that sounds blasphemous I apologise, but it’s a fact. This is where the believers come to commune with their gods. Every week I look up from the dugout and I see signs hanging from the stands that read Have Faith in Zarco. But right now, their faith is being tested, gentlemen. That faith has been severely challenged. Right now, they’re feeling a tremendous sense of grief and loss. As I am and as I hope you are, too. Look, I’m not going to give you any Coach Carter bullshit and tell you that this is the most important match in our club’s history. I wouldn’t insult you. What I will say is this: it’s up to just eleven of you to restore that faith. And that’s more important than anything.’
I pointed to Zarco’s picture on the wall.
‘Take a good look at that man before you walk out there. Ask yourself what it would mean to him if you won this game tonight. Really look him in the eye and listen to his voice in your head because I promise you that you’ll hear it, as clear as a bell. I think he will tell you this: you’re not going to win this game for me, or for Scott Manson, or for Mr Sokolnikov. You’re going to win this game for all those believers out there.
‘Some of you will struggle tonight. Some of you will not perform to the best of your ability. You know something? I don’t care. What I do care about is that you try your utmost and that you do not give up. Not until you’ve heard that final whistle. In case you never noticed, that’s why supporters stay right until the end of the game, because they don’t give up. And nor should you. So all of you who are playing tonight will be out there for the full ninety minutes, together as a team, and unless you’ve got a broken leg don’t even think of coming off. I mean it, gentlemen. There will be no substitutions at half time or any time. You are the best that this club can field tonight. So, forget whatever you’ve read in the newspapers or heard on the radio; I’ve picked you because I think you’re eleven men with something to prove to the fans, to Zarco, to me, and to yourselves. But mostly I picked you because I think you will beat these guys tonight. I sincerely believe that, which is why no one is coming to help you out. Not the spirit of Zarco, or God, or me. Just them. The believers.’
45
Every football fan in Silvertown Dock had found a paper square taped to his seat; one side of the square was the club’s Ukrainian orange and the other side was black. When the referee blew his whistle to begin a minute’s silence for Zarco everyone lifted up his square of paper, flipped it over and the whole stadium turned from orange to black. You could have heard a ticket drop and I was grateful we were playing a class club like West Ham who can always be relied on to respect football traditions. It was very moving to see.
The match was finally ready to start. Wrapped in my cashmere coat, I settled down on my Recaro heated seat in the dugout, with Simon Page beside me, and glanced around Silvertown Dock in wonder. As usual Colin Evans looked to have done a fantastic job. In spite of near freezing conditions the pitch looked like a bowling green on a summer’s day, although as things turned out it was a little harder than usual. A message on my iPad informed me that it was a capacity crowd and it certainly looked and sounded that way. The atmosphere in the stadium was quite extraordinary, a strange mixture of grief and excitement. There were tributes to and pictures of Zarco everywhere you looked, and when the minute’s silence was completed the home fans began to sing (to the Beatles tune ‘Hello Goodbye’), ‘João, João Zarco, I don’t know why you say goodbye we say hello’. They also sang Pat Boone’s ‘Speedy Gonzales’ (‘Speedy Gonzales, why don’t you come home?’)
An attempt by the Hammers fans to make themselves heard with a spirited rendition of ‘Bubbles’ proved to be in vain.
My satisfaction at the way things had begun lasted precisely thirty-eight seconds. Ayrton Taylor was dispossessed by Carlton Cole straight from the kick-off, and a quick through ball from him was neatly transferred from Ravel Morrison to Jack Collison, who sent Bruno Haider running swiftly down the right. West Ham’s young Austrian striker glanced up as if to cross but he had only one thing on his mind. Right on the edge of the penalty area he stepped inside Ken Okri, and onto his stronger left foot. The shot Haider then curled into the far top corner had so much topspin it might have been struck by Andy Murray and, let down by some horrible defending, poor Kenny Traynor had no chance of getting a hand to the ball. One-nil to them.
The West Ham fans behind our goal were predictably delirious with joy; otherwise you might have been forgiven for thinking that a second minute’s silence was under way, such was the reaction of the orange-wearing supporters. I lifted the iPad in front of my face – so that the television cameras watching my every move and scrutinising the succession could not read my lips – and swore loudly several times. But it was a spectacular goal for the young Austrian and given his age and experience he could have been forgiven for taking off his claret and blue shirt and running towards the television cameras to celebrate. Frankly if I’d had a six-pack like that I’d have taken my shirt off too, but the referee felt obliged to give him a yellow card for which he was justly booed, by everyone – even our supporters, who could appreciate the excellence of Haider’s strike. Personally, I don’t blame the referees but IFAB’s stupid law 12 regarding fouls and misconduct, which just ensures that no one gets any advertising without paying for it.
‘Well, that’s a good start,’ I told Simon. ‘To be fair it was a pretty speculative shot. The Austrian kid was as surprised as we were when it went in.’
Simon’s Yorkshire sensibilities were much less forgiving than my own.
‘I think that minute’s silence sent our back four to sleep. The dozy cunts. I’m surprised their number ten didn’t read them a bedtime story while he was scoring their fucking goal.’
The match restarted and for a while our players kept on troubling the goalkeeper; the only problem was that it wasn’t their goalkeeper we were troubling but our own: a clumsy back heel by Gary Ferguson had Kenny Traynor sprinting across the penalty area to clear the ball with both shins before Kevin Nolan could pounce on it; and Xavier Pepe headed a parabolic West Ham corner that hit his own post and then almost rebounded off Ayrton Taylor’s head into the back of the net. When George McCartney lost West Ham’s ball,
Nolan, as tenacious as a fox-terrier, won it back; and he kept on dropping deep, robbing Schuermans and Iñárritu, and sending long balls to Downing on the left. Nolan then combined with Mark Noble and lofted the ball straight up to Cole and Haider, both of whom had good attempts saved by Kenny Traynor. The rest of the time we were chasing our own tails and we could easily have been three goals down within twenty minutes.
Cole looked like a man much younger than his years; it was hard to believe that the player troubling our back four so relentlessly had started his career at Chelsea in 2001. With every minute that passed he seemed to grow in fitness and confidence, running at our defence with increasing purpose. But West Ham’s second goal was an absolute howler. Raphael Spiegel, the Hammers goalkeeper, rolled the ball out to Leo Chambers, who punted it up the pitch in the hope that Cole would run on to it; the ball fell just short of the penalty box in front of Kenny Traynor, who was so far off his line he might have been hiking back to Edinburgh. The ball bounced and probably Traynor expected it to rise to his chest; unfortunately for him and for us the ball kept on rising off the hard ground and when Kenny finally realised it was going to sail over his head like a balloon and started to scuttle back in pursuit it was too late. By the time Kenny caught the ball it was across the line; he already looked like a fool and his hurried retrieval of the ball and quick return to the right side of his goal line only made him look even more ridiculous. Leo Chambers had scored West Ham’s second from at least seventy yards.
‘Does that stupid Scots cunt think nobody noticed it was a fucking goal, or what?’ said Simon.
I groaned and buried my head in the collar of my coat in the hope that I might not hear the laughter of the West Ham fans or the curses of our own.
‘Kenny did everything but try to hide the ball up his fucking jersey,’ said Simon. ‘He must think he’s Paul bloody Daniels.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ I was beginning to detect the sour taste of disaster at the back of my mouth.
Cursing his own stupidity, Traynor booted the ball up the pitch in irritation, and it curled away into the stands.
‘He wasn’t so much off his line as out of his fucking mind,’ said Simon.
I jumped off my seat and walked to the edge of my technical area, intending to shout something at Traynor; but by the time I got there I realised the futility of doing so. I knew he was feeling like a cunt and my endorsement of an opinion now shared by sixty thousand people would hardly have helped the young Scotsman’s confidence. But nor did the referee, who proceeded to give him a yellow card for kicking the ball away; probably he was feeling guilty about the yellow card he’d given to Bruno Haider and was looking for an excuse to even the score. Referees are like that sometimes.
‘What the fuck?’ I yelled. ‘How is that a yellow card, you mad fucking idiot? Goalies are supposed to kick the ball away, you stupid cunt.’
The fourth official marched towards me, arms held wide, as if expecting me to run onto the pitch like some twat of a fan and collar the referee. And seeing this ‘incident’, the referee, Peter ‘Paedo’ Donnelly, came running towards us at a lick. A lay-preacher and former army sergeant, and easily the country’s highest profile referee, Donnelly had been the recent winner of an online poll for the Premier League’s worst referee – in the previous season he’d had the highest average number of yellow cards per game, 5.14. I should have minded my mouth, but I didn’t.
‘How is that a fucking card?’ I yelled again. ‘It can’t be for time-wasting. Look, the West Ham players are still off the pitch down there celebrating. The boy was just irritated with himself and put a bit more welly into the kick up the pitch than was normal. The wind caught it, probably. And if the yellow wasn’t for that then where’s the dissent? The cunt knows it’s a fucking goal. He’s not completely stupid.’
‘If you don’t mind your language, I shall cite you for dissent,’ said Donnelly, ‘and then send you to sit in the stands. Under the special circumstances in which this match is being played I’m being lenient with you, Mr Manson. Next time it’ll be different. Okay?’
I turned away angrily and sat down.
‘I hate that fucking man,’ said Simon. ‘Thinks he’s still in the fucking army, so he does.’
‘Bastard.’
‘From now on you’d better watch your language, boss. He’s got your card marked. Nothing he likes better than to make an example of people who use profanity, which is what he calls swearing. Thinks it’s the curse of the modern game. Or at least that’s what he told Alan Brazil on TalkSPORT the other week. The cunt.’
I wasn’t too worried; not yet. We gave Raphael Spiegel a scare when Ayrton Taylor hit the post from fifteen yards; and Jimmy Ribbans ran through onto a clever chip from Iñárritu, but with only Spiegel to beat he was adjudged offside, when the replay clearly showed this was not the case. Besides, League Cup games are often high-scoring fixtures – who could forget Arsenal’s 6–3 victory over Liverpool in the 2006/2007 quarter finals? – and I figured we could easily overturn a two-goal deficit.
At least I did until just before half time when West Ham scored their third. After a dubious foul and another yellow card, this time given against Iñárritu for a trip on Leo Chambers, Cole rifled a free kick towards a mass of orange bodies around the penalty spot. The ball ricocheted off Ken Okri’s knee straight in front of the foot of Kevin Nolan, who flicked the ball up and then volleyed it over the heads of our so-called defensive wall. Bruno Haider ran onto it and scored with an almost suicidal diving header that was faintly reminiscent of a kamikaze pilot at Pearl Harbor. Kenny Traynor got a hand to the header and was unlucky only to tip the ball into the top corner of his net. Three-nil.
‘It’s not his night,’ observed Simon.
‘It’s not anyone’s fucking night, so far,’ I said, with my hand in front of my mouth. ‘Least of all Zarco’s.’
‘The man must be turning in his grave.’
It didn’t seem worth mentioning that Zarco wasn’t yet in his grave; that he was probably still on a cold slab just a couple of miles north of where we were now, at the East Ham Mortuary; but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d sat up on the slab and shouted a couple of choice swear words in Portuguese: caralho or cona. I’d often heard Zarco use words like that.
I sat back in my seat, laid my hands on my head and stared up at the black ceiling that was the night sky. Light snow was starting to fall and in the powerful floodlights that ran around the entire circumference of the Silvertown Dock stadium it looked like the myriad pieces of a betting slip torn up and thrown into the air by an angry god who’d made a heavy bet on us winning this game. But not as heavy as my own.
‘That was the most piss-poor forty minutes I’ve ever seen us play,’ said Simon. ‘We were disjointed, uninspired, ragged, lazy; not to mention unlucky. And that’s just our fucking back four. The rest look like they were wishing William Webb Ellis was playing for us; that he would pick up the fucking ball and run off with it and never be seen again. I tell you something, boss, when the whistle blows for half time it’ll seem more like a fucking armistice. As for that cunt of a referee I think he must think he’s playing bridge, the number of fucking cards he’s shown.’
I didn’t answer; the linesman’s flag had gone up and we had a corner. But it was poorly taken by Jimmy Ribbans. The ball could have been made of concrete and swinging on the end of a crane, such was the apparent reluctance of any of our forwards to head it, and Spiegel gathered it safely in his hands as nonchalantly as if he’d been jumping for a nice shiny apple on a tree.
‘What are you going to say in the dressing room?’ asked Simon. ‘What can you say to turn it around when you’re 3–0 down at half time?’
‘Liverpool did,’ I said. ‘Against AC Milan in 2005.’ I shrugged. ‘Besides, I think you just told me what to do, Simon. To turn it around. And I don’t think I’m going to say anything at all.’
And then the referee blew for half time. I might have breathed a sigh of relief
but for the fact that there were still forty-five minutes to come and our players were walking in with bowed heads to whistles and jeers like they had spent the first half collaborating with the Nazis. The West Ham supporters in the far corner of the dock started to sing ‘Bubbles’ again, and this time you could hear every stupid word, like you were in the Bobby Moore Stand at Upton Park.
46
I followed the team into the dressing room. A strong smell of liniment, Deep Heat and even deeper shame greeted my flaring nostrils. Through the adjoining wall we could hear the sound of the other team loudly congratulating itself on an excellent first half. I wanted to punch my way through the breeze-blocks and point these players out to my own.
‘Look,’ I wanted to tell them, ‘the Hammers think this game is in the bag. And who could blame them for thinking that after the way you lot have been playing? Not me. The ladies’ team could give West Ham a better game than you’ve done up until now. I’m embarrassed to be the manager of such a worthless bunch of no-hopers. That song they’re singing is about you, the way they’ve sucked you in tonight and blown you out of their fucking arses like so many shitty bubbles.’
