I was a gawky and unwieldy youth of nineteen. I thought I knew everything, I thought I had made it. My first England under 21 appearance had gone so well that I went with some friends and their wives to Ronnie Scott’s to celebrate. I didn’t know much about jazz but I was transfixed by the energy of the music. I was a convert. So intent was I on the musicians on stage that I failed to see your mother come in. She was with Larry, Roy Bennett, two of her catwalking friends and Mena, Larry’s new wife. Some people clapped and I turned around to see your mum standing at the top of the stairs in a shining white dress. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. She was thirty and a world famous American model and I was nineteen and a hopeful professional footballer. We were worlds apart. I sat transfixed as I watched her come down the stairs. I had never seen anything so liquid, so feline, so wonderful.
Later in the evening I summoned up enough courage to go over to the table and speak to Uncle Roy. He introduced me to everyone. That was when I first met Larry and Mena. Your Mum and Larry had recently divorced and he had married Mena. Now, Mena is beautiful but how could anyone, especially a renowned photographer, let Vicki Ross go? But Larry had let her go and you and your Mum were living together in a big house in Surrey. I asked her to dance and she politely refused. I was deflated. Seeing my discomfort she changed her mind and kicked off her high shoes to dance barefoot. I couldn’t dance but I didn’t remember that until later. We spoke and drank until it was time to go. I was intoxicated by her and I desperately wanted to see her again but I said nothing and she walked out of my life. For a time.
A few months later I attended the book launch of Larry’s photographic compilation “ My Wives” and your mum was there. I was given a copy of the book and I drooled over the pictures of your mother. I wanted to marry her, but how? I bombarded her with letters and cards, flowers and her favourite Swiss chocolate and eventually she invited me for dinner.
I remember her opening the door, tall and graceful as ever, looking about twenty, my age, with a little five year old brat hanging onto her leg.
Tanya thumped me at this little insult and said “Dad” disparagingly. I continued, rebuked.
That night was the best night of my life. You spent the whole evening sitting on my knee playing with my tie and asking if I knew any famous footballers. We ate, you fell asleep and we sat close together on the sofa listening to music. When it was time for me to go I was uncertain as to how forward I should be. Did we shake hands? Was she expecting a kiss on the cheek? While I was wondering she put her hands on my shoulder and kissed me on the lips. I realised that despite all of my girlfriends in the past I had never really been kissed until then. She bewitched me. As I walked away she said, “You will be coming again?” I nodded like a toy dog and drifted home on a cloud.
“Then six months later you were married” Tanya said. “And,” - she paused for effect - “You adopted the five year old brat.” She looked at me in a mock grimace.
“The best thing I ever did in my life,” I replied, redeeming myself. We laughed.
“Come on, then,” she remonstrated. “You can’t lie here all day, you have a training session in an hour and a half.” I pulled her close and kissed her brow, suddenly realising how lucky I really was.
************
The tabloid newspapers were running the story of Roy’s death under banner headlines on their front pages. The explosion had occurred too late for the Sunday papers to pick up and so every daily newspaper carried a haunting colour photograph of the smouldering BMW.
I rested my newspaper on the condiment set as I read and ate my Bran Flakes. There was more speculation than fact, more colourful prose than content, but the words amounted to the allegation that Roy Bennett was involved with drugs, money laundering and loan sharking. My newspaper carried an exclusive that heroin had been found in the dead man’s flat, though the police refused to confirm or deny the story. I turned over to pages two and three which carried a two page photo spread by no less than four different journalists who reviewed his early days, his career and his downfall. Pictures of Roy from as long ago as the 1980’s and as recent as last week were reproduced. I then spotted a library picture of myself in last year’s kit. I read the caption.
“An angry Alex Carter, United and England star, said in an exclusive interview that he would do everything he could to ensure that the culprits were found and punished. Carter (29), a good friend and confidante of the dead man, urged the police to track the criminals down like animals.”
This was a surprise to me as I had spoken to three newspapers expressing my feelings of anger and sadness but never once did I suggest that I would begin any kind of crusade to find the killers. The article made me sound like a vigilante. At least they got my name and age right. One has to be thankful for small mercies with the press.
Tanya appeared at the door with her school bag over her shoulder, dressed in her school uniform. We argued about the length of her skirt, I won and she lowered it two or three millimetres. Some victory. I drained my tepid coffee and grabbed my jacket. We were running behind as usual.
The Mercedes took us smoothly and speedily to the local comprehensive school where I dropped my adopted daughter close to the gate. She looked around ensuring that no one was looking then gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. It seems it isn’t cool to get on well with one’s parents, so to kiss Dad goodbye in public view must be distinctly warm. In the nine years I had been taking Tanya to school I had proven to be an embarrassment (holding her hand), an asset (signing numerous autographs) and a bore(posters of me hung on her friends’ bedroom walls). Our house was, and always has been, an open house for all the kids in the neighbourhood. I had never minded, though it could be distracting to rise exhausted from the multi-gym bench to see a group of teenage girls staring open mouthed at my sweaty body. Sometimes Tanya’s friends would stay overnight and I would speak to them, asking them about school or their favourite pop group and they would just turn bright red and stare, saying nothing.
Still, I guess it’s better than being stopped a thousand times in the supermarket while some man salivates over your wife. Vicki was interminably patient with her admirers and she always managed to make men feel special, even when she was trying to get rid of them. I was so lost in thought that I arrived at the training ground without any real idea of how I managed to get there. As usual most of my team-mates’ cars were already there. Alexander the Late, as I was known, was maintaining his reputation.
************
Monday training was always lighter than other days and if we played on a Sunday it was abandoned altogether, if we won. It was sunny but cold, a typical Spring morning. Aaron Morgensen, our Icelandic goalkeeper, sat down beside me as I changed into shorts and training top. Aaron had played most of his career in Denmark and at six feet three inches he dominated his goal area to such an extent that the United supporters who manned the ‘Shed End’ had nicknamed him ‘The Great Dane’. Disregarding the geographical inaccuracy, Aaron revelled in his lauded fame.
“You meet any nice ladies yesterday?” he asked in a Scando- Mancunian accent.
“No. Did you?” I teased in reply.
“Oh, your Judy is more than enough woman for me, Alex.” The Icelander insisted on calling his locally born wife ‘Your Judy’ simply because she was my cousin. The fact was that I hadn’t seen her since childhood, that is until my interfering mother started matchmaking for the ‘poor boy in a strange land’.
“You made the news pages today,” he said more quietly.
“Yes. Did you read about Roy Bennett?” I asked conversationally, not expecting the enigmatic reply I received.
“Alex, we need to talk about Bennett sometime, but not yet, it is too soon after he died.”
“OK, Big man,” I said a little puzzled. “Whenever you are ready.” To my knowledge the two had never met and so I was intrigued as to what Aaron might know that I didn’t. Before I could contemplate the matter further ‘The Great Dane’ bounced a footba
ll off my head and challenged me to race him to the goal line.
************
The training session passed off without incident and everyone was passed fit for the weekend quarter final. We would be fielding our strongest team. We watched videos of the Wanderers, our opponents, until we learned everything that could be gleaned from moving pictures. Graham Tate, our midlands based scout, gave us an appraisal of their overall ability along with a brief resume of each player. Various team members chipped in with comments as he discussed a player they knew personally. Over the years we had either played with or against most of the top players in the country. The game would be tough and hard fought, even though we were the Premiership team and they languished mid table in the Championship.
We walked out of the boot room in groups, discussing all manner of things. Outside there was the usual throng of young supporters anxious for autographs and a few kind words from their heroes. I watched the lads signing programmes, photos, books, balls and even shirts. There was a light tug on my windcheater. I turned around.
“Mr Carter, can I please have your autograph?” a small nervous voice piped.
I smiled and took the public relations photo from a boy of about twelve years of age. Leaning against the wall I signed my name with a flourish.
“I have lots of pictures of you on my wall,” the boy continued, “and I have a shirt you wore last season. My dad had it framed for me after we won it in the raffle.”
“There you go, young man,” I said vaguely recognising his face. “Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“Oh, I only live a few doors down the road from you, Mr Carter.” He paused for breath. “My dad says you are the best United captain ever.”
I ruffled his hair and he ran off to a waiting car. I turned to my own car and used my remote control to unlock and open the trunk. I slung my bag and dirty boots in the back before climbing into the front seat. I started the car and looked up, ready to pull away. It was then that I noticed it. A sheet of paper had been wedged under the single windscreen wiper of my car. I climbed out expecting to find a note from a fan or admirer but it was nothing like that at all. I unfolded the sheet to read the bold capitals;
KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THE BENNETT AFFAIR, IT WOULD BE VERY UNHEALTHY TO ENSURE THAT THE CULPRITS ARE FOUND AND PUNISHED. -A FRIEND
There it was again, the quote that never was. I didn’t tell the press that I would try to identify the culprits but clearly someone thought I did, and it obviously made them nervous. Naively, I wondered why an investigation by a footballer would worry the killers when there was a full scale police investigation underway. Perhaps I should have considered the question more deeply but I was playing in the FA Cup quarter final in just a few days and crank warnings could wait.
************
I pulled up at the front of the ground, beside the club superstore. A crowd of youngsters, mainly teenaged boys and girls, were congregating looking for celebrities. It was my turn to make an appearance. They stepped aside allowing me to move into one of the reserved parking spaces. Before I could get out, the throng swarmed around my car, all talking to me at once in an excited babble. I squeezed out of the door and had to sign a dozen autographs before I had enough space to lock the car. Kids of all ages and types queued for my scrawled signature. At the back waiting patiently were some older fans with short hair and menacing looking tattoos. Each and every one of them was smiling and taking their turn. I signed books, programmes, United magazines and photographs. After ten minutes I was almost through when a dark-haired girl, with looks a man might kill for, asked me to sign her shirt. I said I would, and she started to take it off. At the first sign of bare flesh I encouraged her to leave it on whilst I signed it. She turned around and I saw my name and the number nine in white lettering. I was touched. Doing my best with a bony back to rest on I signed an approximation of my name. She yelped with glee when I had finished and planted a kiss full on my lips before I could pull away whilst trying to cover my blushes.
I posed for a couple of photos and slipped into the shop. Standing behind the counter I was supposed to give the impression of serving, when really a young girl called Bernadette did the work while I chatted to supporters and handed over the ready wrapped goods. It has always amazed me that people would spend so much of their hard earned cash on football shirts, scarves, wigs and all manner of branded goods that somehow bonded them to the “family club”. I often worried that we might be exploiting some of them, especially the harassed parents of young children who demanded the latest kit when money was scarce. Football had changed over the last thirteen years and now, as a club, we had to rely on commercial enterprises, like the kit deals, to stay at the top. I wasn’t sure that it was all for the better. I mean, where does reasonable profit making end and profiteering begin? Perhaps I should leave the philosophy to the enigmatic Frenchmen in the squad who seem so good at it.
“Alex.” The voice was rich with Welsh undertones and definitely female. I turned around to see a petite middle aged woman wearing a club blazer.
“Well, look you here,” I said mimicking her accent. “It’s Blodwyn from the valleys.” Her real name was Barbara and she managed the store. She clipped me playfully around the ear, but had to stand on tiptoes to do it.
“The manager wants to see you right away,” she ordered.
“But Blodwyn, you are the manager,” I teased.
“You know who I mean,” she retorted. “so be off with you.” I turned to go and she slapped my bottom with a pair of shin pads she had sold to a young boy. The boy laughed when I jumped and I left through the back door, buttocks stinging.
************
I walked down the long corridor that led to the manager’s office. Often referred to as the Hall of Fame, it was bedecked with paintings of players and managers of yesteryear. Someday I would take my place beside the previous United captain, Captain Fantastic as he was nicknamed. I knocked on the half open door. The boss was on the telephone. He gestured for me to sit down as he carried on talking. I sat and looked around the spartan room that was the manager’s office. Despite all of our success in recent years Noel Stewart displayed nothing but a current team photograph on his walls.
“Ron, the boy isn’t for sale. He’ll get his chance to get back in the team and before you know it he’ll be happy again.” Noel winked at me as he lied effortlessly down the phone. He listened for a few moments and finally feigning exasperation he said,
“OK, Ron. Look, you put in a halfway decent offer for a change and I’ll have a word with the chairman. It’s the best I can do.”
There was an exchange of pleasantries and the phone was replaced in its cradle. Noel Stewart leaned back in his reclining chair and put his hands together as if in prayer, and placed the tips of his fingers over his lips. He was looking in my direction but was not seeing me, he was lost in thought. I stared at him. The hair was thinning and the lines deepening but the eyes were bright and youthful.
“Alex, son. We have had an offer for Hugh.” He paused for my reaction. Hugh McIvor was our displaced former left winger. In the last two seasons Hugh had started only a handful of games, though he made numerous appearances as substitute. But that wasn’t the real problem and I knew we had to bring his real problem out into the open.
“Noel, Hugh doesn’t really want to go. You know that don’t you?” I only ever called my manager by his Christian name when we were alone together. At other times I reverted to ‘The Boss’ or Mr Stewart, especially when talking to the media.
“There isn’t a place for him here Alex, he is just another big salary cheque at the end of each month and for what? The occasional game in the reserves when he feels in the mood?”
It was no secret that Hugh felt the reserve team beneath him and he had a point. Which one of us would be content playing against has beens, hope to be’s and never will be’s? I sided with the player I had known all of my playing career.
“What happens if we sell him and we get i
njury problems again, just as we did earlier in the season?” The weakness of my argument was apparent even to me. The manager didn’t answer my question.
“Alex, I brought the boy into the game when I was still in Scotland. No-one knows him better than me.” The manager’s Scots accent became thicker as old reminiscences clouded his expression. “Hugh will have a better chance of first team football with Ron. Maybe the sea air will dull his desire for the drink too.” It was out. It was all about Hugh’s drinking, as if we didn’t know. Neither of us was happy about it but everything we had tried had failed. Hugh was on his way.
“You know I trust your judgement.” I said, the argument lost.
“It’ll be better for him in the long run, just you wait and see. I’ll catch hold of him this afternoon after the press conference for the wee lassie from the hospital.” I excused myself from the afternoon press conference where we were to launch a fund for a young girl with cancer. It was still too soon for me to deal with the effects of the illness that took my wife. I stood up and Noel Stewart walked around the desk, put his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently he said,
“See you on the team bus, then.” I nodded and we parted with a smile.
CHAPTER 3
As I led the team out onto the lush green football field, a deafening explosion rang out behind me. A noisy firework display signalled the presence of the national media. The television circus had come to town. A satellite broadcaster had generously provided two teams of young girls, long legged and beautiful, to parade around the ground moving provocatively to the modern rock anthems that usually preceded the arrival of the footballers. The bodysuited girls were co-ordinated in team colours, kicking high and waving at the fans. They were unaware, at first, that the chant emanating from the terraces was lewdly suggesting that they expose even more of their firm young bodies.
Final Whistle Page 2
