The ball rolls straight to his foot, where it’s trapped perfectly between his sole and the pitch. Dead centre, dead on he pauses on the edge of the area and looks the keeper right in the eyes. The keeper shimmeys and shakes but the question is who is more scared, the striker with the ball at his feet and the world in his palm or the lone figure, the No.1 with a whole net to block/guard and nothing to lose? They’re lost for a second; a calm of complicity within this moment of chaos. They are together as predator and prey but which is which they cannot tell.
The hold is broken by the stamping feet of a defender running in to stop the unstoppable shot, to get near the ball, to put the striker off, to do anything, anything he can. Time’s up. The stiker breathes in one last breath and remembers the words of the legends who’ve gone before him.
‘Take your time and pick your spot.’
The time he’s taken. The spot he picks. With precious little space left he takes the shot with minimal back swing but maximum accuracy. The ball arcs away from the outstretched right of the wide eyed and beaten keeper and into the top corner of the net. 3-1. The game is won. The Bagel drops to his knees, sinking back onto his heels he crosses himself like an Italian footballer but it’s not the Madonna to who he grateful. He’ thanking a different mother altogether, the sweet mother of all that is good and Spurs.
My team mates are as unimpressed by my theatrics as the opposition are. I try a few tears to complete the picture but all I receive is a solitary round sardonic applause. Still chuffed to bits and thouroughly self-satisfied with my performance I end the show and rise to my feet. My smiles turn to a wince, accompanied by a sharp whinnying like when a slleping rotweiler is brought to life by the flick of an elastic band on its balls. Don’t ask me how I know what this sounds like. The skin on my legs tears a little more as I stretch the already well grazed flesh even further over my knees. The fresh cuts are already bloody with a little sand added in for good measure. There are two little red patches at the site where I struck my shot. Note to self, no dropping to knees on astroturf.
With the game up and thankfully so, my fitness is way below average and it’s not just my knees that’ll be hurting in the days to come, we pat our ‘well played’s onto soggy shirts, wiping hands when their backs are turned. No time for a drink. No time for any pleasantries or cursories, shin pads still on, I throw my money to the organiser of this 5 a-side, or 4 as it turned out and run straight out the gate not stopping until I get to Brixton station. It’s 2.30pm and I’ve a game to catch.
No ticket today, with not enough time or money or will or somewhere between the three to travel up to Birmingham, I’m rushing back home to get to my radio and my little piece of the action from the comfort of my own home, the new Bakery. Moving house must be like moving stadium it may be bigger, new, more comfortable and organised but no matter how much of yourself you bring to it straight away, it’s the history and the memories that’ll take their time. Legends are long in the making. Still, I’ve done what I can. The wall is already adorned with my Slavia Prague scarf, the trophey of a european tour. On top sits a sliver box with new Spurs logo, flanked by practised church candles and my season ticket sitting quietly/modestly to the side. The Tottenham shrine must be a killer blow, a panic alarm for any female lured back to my den (coaxed back to my lair) the same stark panic I feel in a princess pink bedroom of ponies and fairey wings. At least in my case the neighbouring dildo and sturdy bull whip should give them a clue that there’s more to my life than just football.
I arrive at the tube with 20 mintues to go. I’m not sure of my journey times just yet. All is too new and unfamiliar but I know that I’ll be missing the start and dispite myself, I relax in the acceptance and let the train do its/the work/chasing/worry. I pick up an abandoned tabloid and and turn straight to the back pages, no, not page 3. No point. They don’t print/You don’t get tits at the weekend.
‘Luke Moore is definitely out, as is Thomas Sorenson and Tottenham sweat on the fitness of defender Ledley King and striker Jermain Defoe.’
I note that they’ve left Aaron Lennon off the probable team sheet and bench. These papers are so far behind. After ten minutes of shaking my buried head at the pages I throw the rag away. There’s nothing it can tell me that I don’t already know. I look up with a start at the picture that greets me sitting on the opposite seat. There is an attractive lady but I can’t really tell you what she looks like. In fact, I don’t know at all. The only adjective that I can use is ‘green’.
‘Hello,’ I hear myself say though both of us know we’ve never met before.
‘Hello,’ she says back and we smile as she gives me time to take in the scene. The lady sitting beaming at me is propped up rather awkwardly forward at the front of her seat. She cannot lean back as there are balloons between herself and the unthinkable material of the London Underground upholstery. And the balloons aren’t just there. They’re everwhere on her from her knees to her neck and every one of them green.
‘I’m a bunch of grapes,’ she says as she answers my inevitable question.
‘Ahhhhh,’ I half comprehend, ‘any particular reason?’
‘I’m going to a fancy dress but I’m starting to think that this wasn’t such a good idea. I can’t get close to anything and I’m getting quite hot.’
‘You could always burst the balloons one by one as the night goes on,’ I suggest and add, ‘that depends just how naked you are underneath or maybe how drunk you get.’
There’s a beat. Have I overstepped the mark? She’s not sure either. It’s not that I’ve offended her necessarily but we’re neither of us sure of the protocal of this situtaion. A line between two stragners is one thing but what mark is there to overstep between a man and a bunch of grapes?
She laughs and we decide it’s ok. It’s her stop next and frankly I’m glad that the comfort of our silence does not have to be tested. She gets up to go and gives me a cheeky smile and wave as she waits for the anitque doors to slide open.
‘Have a good time at the party,’ I nod, ‘I’ll look out for you next time I’m not feeling so well.’ We’re neither of us sure what that was supposed to mean but we give me the benfit of the doubt as we know that it was meant well. She leaves my life and I’m just grapeful I didn’t crack any more gags and hope I didn’t just have sour grapes.
As the train rolls on, I feel the draft from the tunnel down the back of my neck, my muscles stifen and cool and my bosy begins to ache. The fresh pheromanal smell of my sweat is beginning to turn into stale B.O. and the seats around me empty one by one. By the end of the ride I’m sitting alone. Each new travellor making quick decisions to opt for the other carriage as they catch sight and smell of me on entrance. I’m grateful for the space. I’ve managed to strectch my limbs and sooth my pains.
It’s 3.10pm as I leave the station and my mind races as my body is back in action, the responsibilty of time is once again my own. I want to get back to my flat, I really want to but there’s a whole in my stomach like the Great Pit of Carkoon and the mighty Sarlacc within will not tolerate delay. It turns me towards the local shopping experience that is the Iceland supermarket, measuring 6.2 on the pikey scale, second only to Lidel. I stride through the aisles passing babies in prams pushed by babies with fags; no time to ponder the horror just now. 3.10pm and ten seconds when I’m queuing for the check out fishfingers, bread, spinach and tartar sauce in my basket. Guess what I’m having for lunch. What the hell. It was lucky last time.
A black lady and her family are packing their bags in front of me. Well, she’s packig the bags and her fifteen junior offspring of assorted young ages are fighting with packets of biscuits, bleach bottles, vats of ecomony shower gel, anything they can get their hands on. My patience is thin but I’m not suicidal enough to hurry them on. The poor lady is spending 4 out of every 5 seconds trying to control her brats and only 1 of them packing but a comment from me and she’d focus all that surpressed wrath just bubbling under the surface to the middles class white male behind her and all her kids would turn on me like piranah to an injured bull.
I wait. I bite my tongue. The minutes count down and it’s 3.20pm before I’m through my flat door and I throw the shopping bags down and dive for my digital radio. As I turn it on the commentators are lamenting ‘Yet another chance spurned by Tottenham this half. When will they start finding the back of the net?’ Doesn’t sound like I’ve missed much as they recount the three or four efforts already gone begging. A shot from Defoe, header from Dawson, a free kick from JJ and now a volley from Ghaly.
Shoes, shinpads and socks off my aching feet and I’m trying to figure out my new oven and grill, complete or incomplete with the very sleak and minimal effect of having no picture whatsoever by each setting. I turn the dial a notch every five minutes and hope that the element will start to glow. My stomch rumbles. The beast will not tolerate another failure.
It’s clear that the boys have got it in hand. We’re all over them as Villa suffer another escape, this time at the hands of Dimitar Berbatov and the Villa crowd has been silenced saved by the expected ironic applauses and comedy jeers at Paul Robinson’s every touch.
As the half time whistle blows the cooking is under control and I’m most of the way towards the food I’ve been missing all day. The commentators are concerned that we’ve not scored despite our dominance but I’m unphased until I remember the words of my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through.
‘You’ve got to score in those periods when you have the advantage otherwise it wont matter how well we play. The other team will always be capable of netting one if we don’t.’ Wise words and it takes a good two rounds of the finest comfort munch around to calm my fears. I lie down on my matress (no sofa yet) chewing quitely, my sandwich close to my chest like a secuirty blanket.
The BBC news rounds off on the radio and the shuffling of papers and bleeping of the hour turns to the sounds of the stadium again.
‘We’re back here at Villa Park, where Tottenham Hotspurs and Aston Villa are still even at nil all depsite Spurs clearly having the better of the first 45.’
My ears and whole body prick up, save the undigested lump in my belly and I’m comfident that we can get something out of this game. After minute one, Michael Dawson has sustained yet another injury to his head. Juan Pablo Guy Smiley has kneed him in the temple and I can only imagine what kind of leap he must have performed to get his leg up to that lofty height. A few minutes later and Safety First Michael Dawson is off the pitch, concussed for the second game in a row, leaving Callum Davenport, apparently sporting a broken nose as the only recognised centre half both in our team and on our bench. Chimbonda moves in to help him as fan favourite Paul Stalteri is brought on at right full back.
We’re a hell of a lot weaker at the back but as yet, Villa have not really taken advantage. The game has quietened down and I’m very nearly dropping off with all my blood gone to the rescue of my damaged muscles and bloated stomach when after 73 minutes all chaos has broken out. The commentators are almost drowned in the Birmingham din but I can make out that Davenport has fouled in the box. He’s off with a straight red and it’s a penalty and Angel has the ball at his feet.
I grip my head in my hands. ‘Come on Robbo, come on,’ I’m thinking. I’m willing our keeper to make the save. I know how he feels, I’m sure of it. The horrific moment to make up for in mid-week, the chance to put things right, not just for the press and England but for himself; vindication, absolution. I know that’s what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too. I stare fixed on the bricks of my wall, the colour, the rough surface, the joins of the mortar but I’m a hundred miles away with a man, who’s waiting at the end of a barrel of a gun.
The crowd quietens as Angel steps up and the whistle blows. There’s a comotion and for a second I don’t know what’s going on. I flounder in my panic until a voice comes over loud and clear.
‘He’s missed it! Angel has missed the target altoghether.’ Perhaps Robbo was not the hero I wanted him to be but I’ll take a miss too. Only ten men to their eleven but it’s still all to play for.
my heart soars with pride
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