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| Only a Game:Losing then Winning | |
| By BrianRobertNeal | ||||||||||||||||||
| 11 April 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||
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First of a pair of stories linked by characters, separated by style and reunited by focus. LOSING THEN WINNING It was the day of the East Anglian Cup Final. No team in our League had ever got to the final. There had been 4 rounds and then a two legged semi. The final was being played at Chelmsford City’s new ground. For nearly all of the team it would be the first time that they had played in a proper Football Stadium, with seats, and terracing and swish changing rooms. The pitch would not look like a cow pasture nor would it be riddled with rabbit holes. There would be a senior ref, 2 proper linesmen and a clubhouse. The atmosphere in our house had been building up and this morning it was intolerable. We kept out of each others way. However both of us shared the same dream, that they would have a great personal game, our side would win and in the evening there would be an ad hoc celebration down the club chairman’s house. My job was to lay out the kit. I’d cleaned the boots; there were 3 pairs, long studs, short studs and blades. I know I’ve got big feet, but these boots are so small and the little shin pads. The kit was laid out on the kitchen table. The boots, 2 pairs of Goalie gloves, shin pads, big towel, little towel, one squeezy bottle- water and one with Lucosade in it. Finally there was a Mars Bar and a Goody Bag. I don’t go to the really big matches cos I put them off their game. The Coach pulled up outside the house. I put all the items into their rucksack and ran to the front door. They snatched it from me and shot out. I shouted best of luck as they ran off, then closed the door quickly because if I had stood there waving, the team would have taken the Mickey. To take my mind off things, I hoovered the house really thoroughly, moving chairs and settees, clearing the cobwebs. I washed the kitchen floor and cleaned the hob: despite all that when I looked at my watch, they would just be kicking off. I went to the computer opened the E-Mails and nobody had sent me one. I tried to read but could not concentrate. I found myself pacing up and down, going out into the garden and then back indoors and then out again. I even went into the loft and then could not remember why I’d gone up there. I did of course remember but by then I’d closed the hatch and put the ladder back in the shed. The Hall clock chimed the half hour. The game must be over unless it had gone to extra time. The manager does not allow the team to bring watches, mobile phones or game boys. Earlier this season the team’s changing room had been broken into and stripped of anything worth having. We lost a pair of trainers and a Nike Jacket. The Manager’s Wife now has a huge army style kit bag into which goes trainers, coats and anything else of value: she keeps this by her side throughout the match along with the netted bag of footballs. After the game the Manager lends his mobile to any player who wants to phone home. So in 20 minutes, if they have won, I should get a brief phone call.25 minutes went by and there was no call, I hoped that this meant extra time was being played. After an hour I knew to expect the worst. 15 minutes later I heard the Coach draw up in the lay-by opposite our house. I raced upstairs and looked out through the box-room’s window. The coach’s passenger door slid open. Out they came; the Manager’s wife jumped down and gave them a big hug. They trudged their little way over, and the coach drove off. Everybody was waving but they were not looking back or forward but were looking down at the ground. I raced back downstairs and let them in. When I’d shut the door I asked, "Well? " They replied, “We lost 6-2. I scored an “Owen”. Then. I sliced a clearance into my own net, and finally fumbled 2 crosses, on both occasions they scored. I was rubbish throughout the game.” They for the first time that day burst into tears. I find you can take disappointment more easily when it is solely your own. It is far more difficult when it is shared with one you really love. She looked so beautiful, her hair all scruffy and she’d not showered: she looked a real little tomboy. Oh why did I marry a Lady Footballer? It is bad enough when I’m playing; however I get over my defeats in a day or two. This defeat will be burnt into my soul. She said, “I wish you’d been there. You’d have gone at me; I’d have got angry and played a blinder. But I was a wimp, I bottled out of challenges, didn’t clatter anybody. My mind was somewhere else. I did not want to get hurt” “That’s not like you”, I said, “Normally you make Attila the Hun look like the queen of the fairies.” She replied, “Yes, but normally, I’m not perhaps, two weeks pregnant; we could be having a baby.” And we were. It was a boy, I’d suggested calling him Costa, cos he’d cost her the game but we settled on Owen you know as in Owen Goal. Whenever the baby wakes at night, it’s me that goes to his room and picks him up. I’ll change his nappy and then talk to him. God help me if the fans or my team mates were ever to see me like this. I always tell the same story, you know, the one I’m telling you. I looked down at him all snuggled up in my arms, he was getting sleepy by the time I’d said, “So Owen Smith son of Psycho the goal getter and hardman; the least that you can do to make it up to your mother; is to play for England like daddy did, get the winner against Germany as he did and then a winner against Brazil, which I never did.” Owen was now asleep so I laid him down gently in his cot and tiptoed out, quietly closing the door behind me. A thought struck me, that despite a father who had played 17 times for England and a mother who had been the England Ladies’ first choice goal keeper; he might grow up to hate Football. Worse still he might want to play Rugby. If he did I’d have him adopted.
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