Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

  I paused to calm myself continuing to speak only after I had taken a deep breath.

  “Believe me when I say I know all there is to know about competing. I have felt the heady and euphoric feelings of victory, but ultimately one has to accept that those feelings don’t last for long. The reason they don’t last long is because in these days of massive transfer fees and foreign imports you are only as good as your next match. I have seen some of our top players go a whole season and never play a full match, even though they are fully fit. And I know all about defeat. I’ve sat in dressing rooms and listened to hardened footballers cry. I’ve joined them. You feel empty, lost, drained. You watch as one team-mate after another goes into the toilet to throw up what little is left in his stomach. It might just be a game but it’s a game of winners. If you win you’re a hero. If you lose, well there’s always next year, but there aren’t enough next years” I tapped my plaster cast. “As you can see.”

  There was a long silence as Christopher Byron QC studied me.

  "Simon told me that you were passionate. I am glad that you feel so strongly because that resilience will be seriously tested before we can hope to walk through that great stone doorway that leads from the High Courts of Justice and out onto the Strand, to tell the gathered hordes how much we have won.”

  I allowed myself a smile before we got down to work.

  ************

  By the time I picked up a taxi for Euston it was six thirty and getting dark. We had achieved a great deal. My witness statement was ready and we had prepared ‘further and better particulars’ of our statement of claim. The sums we were claiming surprised even me. To a layman the thrust of our case seemed to me to be that a reckless and unwarranted tackle had caused the damage to my leg. That damage had resulted in significant pain and suffering. In addition the damage had deprived me of my livelihood and had impacted seriously on my income. Finally it was realistic to assume that my career would not reach the heights it had previously, that my England captaincy would be lost and that I might never play for United again.

  All in all, with the loss of revenue from boot sponsorship and other promotional work, we were seeking no less than £1,765,000.00, though I was told that we should not expect to be awarded the whole sum.

  There was no point in wondering what would come of it all and so I tried to put all thoughts of the case behind me and concentrate my mind on our FA Cup semi final at the weekend. After sitting in the London traffic for about fifteen minutes the taxi deposited me at the railway station and I met up with my daughter in the American Express lounge. After unloading the trolley laden with our cases and numerous shopping bags we climbed onto the train.

  Once the train was moving Tanya rested her head on my shoulder and asked me how my day had been. I was only minutes into my story before I realised that she was asleep.

  ************

  Villa Park was only an hour and a half away by coach and so we travelled down in the morning. The boss had insisted that I travel in the team coach. At first I was wary but as soon as I saw the lads I knew he had been right. We laughed and joked as the coach ate up the miles on the M6. We stopped at one of our regular haunts for lunch and the hotel chef cooked up a special pasta meal for the players.

  After the meal the chairman invited us all into the room next to our own where he was hosting a pre match hospitality event. We mingled with the usual mix of businessmen, officials and friends of the directors. These types of events have always been difficult for players because when the team is together on its own you know what should and shouldn’t be mentioned. By some unwritten footballers law certain topics are considered taboo. These unspoken rules help to keep everyone’s nerves in good order. Some players like to be jokey and boisterous, some pretend to be jokey and boisterous. Others sit quietly with their thoughts. Everyone is different. But what we all have in common is that we all want to be out there kicking a ball as soon as possible. What we don’t need is some cigar smoking VIP who hopes that he is making intelligent conversation by asking , “If we draw would there be a replay? Or, would it go to penalties?”

  Still, I guess without sponsors football would be a different game and so we all mixed and smiled. We signed autographs and posed for flash photographs with our arms around men and women we had never met before, suggesting a familiarity and closeness that did not exist. The manager, as always, was careful to restrict the socialising to a few minutes so that he could get everyone together again and have them focus on the task ahead.

  ************

  The skies were clear and the sun was shining as we approached Spaghetti Junction. On our right, below the raised concrete monolith of the motorway we saw Villa Park. A distinguished old gentleman of a football ground, I always thought. As we came off the slip road and around the roundabout the police escort motorcycles, their blue lights flashing, cleared the way. The brightly attired fans, some with painted faces, filled the pavements and overflowed onto the roads as they streamed in their thousands towards the turnstiles. We had plenty of time to think as the boss was never one to give team talks on the bus. Perhaps from habit as much as anything he always gave us the team selection in the morning and the team talk in the dressing room immediately before the match.

  The bus parked up and we all gathered our belongings and stood to await our turn to disembark. Stewards in bright orange jackets controlled the fans and cleared a pathway to the stadium. Supporters from both teams clamoured in equal number for our players’ autographs. That opposing supporters were keen to have our autographs was something that had always surprised me when playing away from home. The United fans wished us well, the Spurs fans simply said “Thank you.”

  By three thirty the dressing room was as untidy as ever. The neatly pressed shirts were still hanging on hangers on the wall as the players pulled well worn training tops over tee shirts, readying themselves for the pre match kickabout. The tiled changing room smelled strongly of linament and embrocation. One of the foreign legion was on the treatment table having his legs massaged. I drank in the atmosphere and wished that I could play.

  I sat and talked to the boss as one by one the players left to stretch their legs in the sunshine. Earlier in the week he had asked me if I would say a few words to the lads before he spoke to them and I’d agreed. That week at home I watched all three of Tottenham Hotspurs’ last matches. Having garnered what I could from their performance I had switched the TV off and said to myself, “Well, Alex, you can forget all that, this is a cup semi final and they’ll play out of their skins.” Tottenham have always been a great cup side and their record was the equal of ours.

  We had been allocated the away changing room and it was beginning to fill up again. Sweaty training tops littered the floor and tinny rock music blared from a ghetto blaster. Suddenly the music was switched off and without a word from anyone the players and coaching staff fell silent as the boss stood up. He asked me to say a few words and I shared my thoughts with them before telling them that I knew they had the beating of Tottenham on the day. I sat down to muttered thanks and a few hand claps.

  Noel Stewart stood up again and slowly looked around the room, making eye contact with everyone in turn. This was done in silence and with a proud smile on his face. Anything he said now was irrelevant, these players already wanted to go out and play their hearts out for him. I felt that they would die for him if it was necessary. Noel walked up and down, picking on one player at a time and telling them what he wanted them to do in such a way that they felt he was praising them before they actually did anything. Naturally, they wanted to live up to that praise. I hoped that if I ever became a manager I would be able to motivate my players as well as he did.

  The referee tapped on the door.

  Butterflies flew in their legions in every stomach as we left the dressing room and faced the Spurs players lining up in the tunnel. Opponents smiled, greeted each other, winked and shook hands. I looked on, grateful just to be there. Darren Haynes Spurs l
ong serving captain sought me out and ruffled my hair.

  “Hope everything goes OK with the operation tomorrow.”

  There was a muttered chorus of “Here, here” and I swallowed because there was a lump in my throat. A few seconds later the referee led the teams out, studs clattering on the concrete floor and echoing around, sounding for all the world like a string of horses clip clopping across the training yard. I heard the rapturous cheer and ached to be out there on the turf again.

  ************

  Barely two minutes had passed since the kick off and already the Spurs wide players looked dangerous. People were still taking their seats when the overlapping left back hoisted a long, high, diagonal ball from the left touchline into the eighteen yard box. One of our big central defenders rose to head it away but it grazed across the top of his head and continued on its path. Ethan Drake, Spurs big Ivory Coast striker slipped in front of our last defender and whipped his head around adding power and direction as he connected with the ball. Aaron, our goalie, stood rooted to the spot as the ball shot towards the top corner of the goal.

  A gasp circulated around the crowd before a second of eerie silence descended. The Tottenham fans were out of their seats ready to celebrate an early goal. United fans who had covered their eyes, to avoid acknowledging the seemingly inevitable, peered through gaps between their fingers.

  There was a tremendous outpouring of breath as the ball skimmed the woodwork and spun out of play for a goalkick. Ethan Drake clenched his fist and chastised himself for missing the target with a free header. He knew golden opportunities like that were rare in games at this level.

  United were clearly shaken by the miss and they struggled to maintain their shape. Angry voices bellowed from the “away bench” as Spurs piled on the agony. Another dangerous attack seemed imminent.

  United pushed up and pressed the Tottenham defence. A penetrating run down the right sent all of United’s midfielders goalward. Dazzling footwork from Raymond Cox, one of the youngsters in the team, left two Spurs defenders floundering. Cutting inside, and with an army of red shirts pouring into the box, Ray floated the ball into the area but it was too close to the Spurs keeper and he collected it easily.

  Suddenly the counter attack was on. United’s attacking forces were still berating the young winger for his poor cross when the goalkeeper threw a long ball down Spurs right wing. Ray was nowhere in sight and it became a straight race between their winger and our Welsh international right back, Phil Jones. The winger ran the ball wide until it was almost over the line. Phil closed him down but not before the winger threaded the ball through an impossibly small gap between the Welshman and the touchline. Phil stuck out a foot and missed. He raised his arm, appealing for the throw in. The ball landed inside the line and the referee’s assistant kept his flag down. The United fans screamed abuse at the official, complaining that the ball had gone out of play, but to no avail. Spurs right winger skipped past Phil’s outstretched leg and picked up the ball in acres of free space.

  Ethan Drake and Guy Pearson, our centre half, raced towards the eighteen yard box shoulder to shoulder. They were on their own. As they neared the edge of the “D” the ball was played in diagonally with pace. Both players slid for it but Drake had the advantage as he was on the ball side of the challenge. Aaron came out to narrow the angle but any decent connection from ten yards out was bound to beat him. Ethan Drake’s familiar blue boots connected with the ball and directed it past the outstretched right hand of the diving United goalkeeper.

  Again to the relief of the red army the ball skittered past the far post and out of play. Once more Drake buried his head in his hands.

  Spurs continued to press. Wave after wave of fluid attacking play teased and tortured the United midfield. Even the most ardent United fan would have had to concede that it was probably only a matter of time until they broke through. I hadn’t seen the United defence looking so ragged and disorganised for years. I wondered if an early change might settle things down. My tactical considerations were interrupted by action on the pitch.

  Phil Jones was under pressure again and this time he was facing his own goal. I silently prayed that he would belt the ball into touch to give us time to reorganise. He didn’t. He decided to place a firm backpass - perhaps too firm - back to Aaron in goal. The attacker was bearing down on the United goalkeeper, who couldn’t pick the ball up, and so Aaron cleared the ball quickly with his left boot. He didn’t get any height on the ball and it was easily trapped by the Spurs captain thirty yards out. Wily and experienced, he held the ball for a second, having spotted their big striker racing forward. United’s back three saw the danger and pushed up to play Drake offside, but Phil Jones was too far behind them and he was unable to hold the line. Spurs captain lofted the ball over the back three and into the path of a running Ethan Drake. The defenders reacted but it was too late. Drake was at the edge of the penalty area with only our goalkeeper to beat. Drake created the angle and forced Aaron to come out. The Icelandic goalkeeper stayed big as long as he could, only going down at the last moment as the forward took his shot.

  Aaron was all arms and legs as the ball careered towards him with pace and direction. If he didn’t stop it, Spurs would be one up. Thrashing his arms about instinctively, the ball hit him square on the chin and ran loose. Guy Pearson was running in as defensive cover. He didn’t miss second chances and he slid the bobbling ball into touch for a corner. Three clear cut chances told the story of the half and United were lucky to go in level.

  ************

  I stayed in my seat during the break listening to our chief scout rant and rave about the poor performance of good players. But that is how it is sometimes. For no accountable reason you trot out one Saturday afternoon and ride roughshod over your opponents. Everything clicks and you look like a team that is going to win the League. The next Saturday the same players, same venue, equivalent opposition and you take a hammering. Suddenly you look like a team destined for relegation and you watch a hat full of goals go past your keeper and you think, “Why?”

  I was still philosophising when the teams reappeared for the second half. The first thing I noticed was that my replacement was missing. He had been substituted. My former striking partner Michel Valjean was jogging up and down on the half-way line. I had been surprised to see Michel listed as a substitute, as it was a flu bug that had kept him out of the starting line up. The referee signalled his approval of the change to the reserve official on the touchline and Valjean ran onto the pitch to a rapturous welcome from the massed ranks of red.

  United’s second half performance was more competent if not any more inspiring than the first. We packed the midfield and pushed up, refusing to defend deep. The wingers found no joy and so we passed the ball more in midfield and tried to keep possession. Occasional breaks were made but no shots hit the target. The honours remained even until the eighty third minute.

  We had tested the Spurs defence but they held their formation and we couldn’t get through. Then the ball rebounded off the Spurs defence and broke to Raymond Cox. He twisted and turned, trying to make space, but he was hemmed in. United’s young winger tried once more and found a tiny space. It was all that he needed. He delivered the ball to the edge of the eighteen yard box. It headed towards Michel Valjean who had his back to goal and a defender on each shoulder. Midfielders moved into space waiting for the seemingly inevitable lay off. In that brief moment I witnessed one of those glorious footballing moments that genuinely does deserve the epithet ‘Goal of the Season”.

  The ball came to Michel at shin height. He pushed out his right boot and chipped at the underside of the ball, flicking it over his left shoulder with an enormous amount of backspin. Michel spun around leaving the two defenders in his wake. He was now at right angles to the goal but he didn’t look at the target, he instinctively knew where it was. The ball hit the ground and the backspin made it sit up right in front of him. The Frenchman was still swivelling in one continuo
us, liquid movement when the ball bounced in front of him. As the ball lifted from the turf Michel connected with it so sweetly that it shot from his foot like a bullet from a gun. Spurs’ young goalkeeper didn’t even see the ball until it tore at the net. The magical skill of the Frenchman had put United on the road to Wembley.

  The last few minutes of normal time were torrid as Spurs threw everything at us. Despite a forest of red shirts in the area a Spurs defender rose to meet a hopeful cross. The resulting downward header was accurate and powerful. Unfortunately for their defender the ball bounced two feet before the line. If it hadn’t it was the equaliser. The bounce lifted the ball just enough for Aaron to scoop it up and push it out wide for a corner.

  Ninety two minutes were showing on the clock when the Spurs goalkeeper joined his team mates in our goal area for a last ditch attempt to score. The ball was crossed hard and to the near post for a flick on. Guy, our mainstay in these situations, headed it out for another corner. The United players looked at the referee and queried the time he was adding, but he signalled that he was allowing play to go on. The ball was crossed deeper and wider this time and was met by a United head. The ball didn’t clear the area and with twenty players in the box it was a lottery as to who would connect first. Ethan Drake trapped the ball about twelve yards out and looked ready to shoot. Defenders and attackers moved out as one towards the ball. Drake tried a chip into the top corner but Aaron was alive to the danger and moved to cover the gap. Ninety three minutes had passed and the referee still had not blown. The ball floated in the air and everyone stopped dead in their tracks as the Spurs goalkeeper appeared from nowhere to try and redirect the ball away from Aaron’s outstretched hands with his head.