Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 27

Saturday dawned cool and pale. The sky was a weird shade of cloud-less grey, and it stayed that way all day.

I’d eaten another one of those depressing pastas at the club last night (with bugger all ‘erbs an’ chilli) but had limited myself to one pint of Carlsberg and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Not many of the team were there. The only one I knew reasonably well was Trevor, but he was asleep in a booth. Jaffa was out with Dennis and a couple of birds (as he called them) so I left fairly early to sleep off the last of the jet lag.

Despite the unlikelihood of me playing, I had my usual pre-match breakfast of muesli, fruit and black coffee and read the local paper from the day before which had a short article on the game against Havant and Waterlooville (well, the first team’s game). We were expected to win. We were second in the league, but, having qualified for the second round of the Cup for the first time in 53 years, Bentham was “on a high” and expected to make light work of the visitors. There was no preview of the Reserves game.

About 11.00 a.m., I decided to make my way down to the ground and see what was happening. Most Conference clubs had more than one ground for Reserves and Youth league games, but Bentham United had to make do with just Kentside. In daylight, the ground was a bit sad looking by Premier League standards, but fairly similar to many of the grounds I’d played on all my career. Only one stand, on the western side, probably held about 300. There were a few benches either side of the stand and more on the eastern side. All up, seating for about 600 with a grass and concrete bank all around the pitch that would probably accommodate 4000 at an absolute pinch - in the unlikely event that so many would ever want to see Bentham United play (the 2nd round Cup tie was scheduled for the following week - away to Barnet).

The spectators were separated from the pitch by a low wire fence covered with rusted, metal hoardings - advertising places like Graham’s Motor Repairs and the West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

The 17s were playing (the Youth team were away to East Finchley) so I stood at the corner of the field, checking out their form. Not bad, but no better than I was used to seeing back in Australia at that age. The red and gold strip looked good.

Trevor was sitting on a bench near the stand with his head in his hands - not exactly raring to go.

“What’s up, Trev?” I asked him.

“Fack off,” he mumbled, to the dismay of a handful of the 17s parents, who moved a little closer to the stand to get away from the former third division star.

Well, this is great, I thought. I’ve been busting a gut to get into a side captained by a pisshead. What fuckin’ next?

At that moment, Ron Wellard appeared at my side.

“Yer on the sheet, but don’t get yer fahkin’ ‘opes up. You won’t be playin’ if I’ve got anyfin ter do wiv it.”

I glanced at him and then turned back to watch the 17s, setting up pretty relentless pressure round the box.

“They hold possession well,” I observed. “Our number seven’s got pretty good vision.”

“Young Mikey? Only 15, that lad. Play for England before too long.”

“Will you be able to hang onto him?”

As we watched, Mikey sent two larger boys the wrong way with a dip of his shoulder, then hit a perfect ball to the far post where it was nodded ten feet over by his gangly team mate.

“Naahh. Wouldn’t try,” said Ron. “What can we offer ‘im ‘ere? ‘E needs better players around ‘im to improve, an’ I won’t stand in ‘is way. If he goes on to play Premier League I’ll have somefin to tell me grandkids.”

We stood together watching the game for a few seconds. Then, it was like Ronnie realised he was being civil to me when he hadn’t meant to; and if anything, that made him angrier than before. He suddenly turned on me and snarled: “I won’t be doin’ you no favours, son. Son? You’re older ‘n me. It’s a fahkin’ disgrace!”

With that, he stormed off to his sanctum under the stand.

“Whorra bastard.”

It sounded like a tortured soul lamenting from the deepest pits of hell, and sure enough, when I looked around it was Trevor speaking.

“Eric, can yer get us some water, mate?”

I sighed, and wandered off towards the shed where a tray of water bottles sat on a rusty old card table. I grabbed a couple and took them back to Trevor who, at least, was sitting up slightly straighter.

“Cockie says yer can play,” he said.

“What Cockie says don’t matter if Ronnie doesn’t want me.”

We sat and watched the game for a while - Trevor swilling down water, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms and generally stinking of beer. Suddenly he straightened up, breathed deeply a few times, then stood.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get stripped.”

* * *

The Bentham United goalkeeper’s strip was orange and black - quite smart looking. I pulled on the shorts and socks and then I pulled the small linen bag from my kit - the bag that contained Uncle Jimmy’s boots.

I’d tried them on, but never played in them. They were very soft and ultra-light, and best of all, they came with three sets of studs, which I’d never really needed in Oz, as the condition of the pitches doesn’t change that much (either hard or fucking hard). Surreptitiously, I watched to see what sort of studs the other blokes were going for and locked in what seemed to be the popular choice.

“Are yer reet, Eric?” asked Cockie with a wink. “Ma shulder’s feelin’ well dodgy the day. Yer’d best be oan yer toes.”

I gave him a grin and we trotted outside for a bit of a warm up. The 17s had just finished: a 3-0 win, and if anything the crowd was getting slightly smaller in the lead up to the Reserves match.

Cockie and I went to his favourite spot just to the right of the posts at the southern end and I started putting him through some of my old drills. He particularly liked the one where I got him to face away from me and I would hit gentle shots, calling “Now!” as I hit the ball, and he had to turn and make the save.

“Och … tha’s no bad fer the reflexes,” he said. “C’moan, yer’d best do it yersel!”

Trevor seemed like he’d recovered a bit. He was just trotting up and back around the middle of the pitch.

“Is he gonna be alright?” I asked Cockie.

“Dinnae worry aboot Captain Dutch Courageous,” he laughed.

“Eh’s well capable to look after umsel.”

* * *

I took my place on the end of the bench. As far from Ronnie as it was possible to get.

“Hey, Eric! ‘Ow’s it goin’, mate?”

I turned round to see Jaffa, Dennis and a few of the other first team blokes milling about on the other side of the fence, as the whistle went. I nodded at Jaffa and turned to watch the game. It wasn’t a bad standard, but it certainly didn’t scare me.

The next thing I knew, fucking cigarette smoke was stinking us out, and without even turning, I said, “Jaffa! Put that fuckin’ fag out will ya?”

As I spoke, I happened to glance in the manager’s direction as he looked in mine. He nodded, then went back to watching the game.

* * *

At half time, the Reserves led 1-0. It had been a fairly low-intensity spectacle. Havant and Waterlooville Reserves were almost last in the league and our Reserves were third. I hardly knew our team, but I could tell we weren’t getting out of second gear. Trevor, despite being old and pissed, was a class above at this level, and Cockie was untroubled.

Ronnie didn’t have much to say to the team. It was clear that Havant were already beaten.

“Keep yer fahkin’ shape,” he said. “Nuffin’ fancy, just stay tight. An’ keep the fahkin’ ball fer chrissakes. I want a second goal, but don’t get pulled out o’ shape lookin’ for it.”

Cockie gave me wink in Keeper’s Corner - the part of the shed he usually shared with Charlie, and now me.

“Are yer fit?” he asked, under his breath.

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant but I nodded, and he gave me a grin.

“If we go two up, make sure yer stretched.”

* * *

Of course, it took most of the half for us to go two up. The team just weren’t interested in getting out of a gentle trot and Havant sat back, defending in numbers - content to be beaten but not thrashed. It went completely against my grain and I just felt myself getting more irritable as the half wore on - or wore down, more accurately. And what the hell was wrong with Ronnie? Why wasn’t ‘e getting into ‘em?

With about 12 to go, and before I could help myself, I’d made a contribution. We had the ball just near the bench. Our left back was just strolling, being vaguely shut down by their wide midfielder who was careful not to commit himself out of position, and the rest of our blokes were just standing watching! Well, I’d had enough: “Billy!” I shouted, to one of Mervyn’s nephews. “Give him an option! Get square!”

Billy jumped like he’d been hit with a cattle prod, but moved square and the left back (whose name I didn’t know) gave him the ball. All of a sudden, we were in their half, in space, and a small spark of energy lifted the team. Trevor made a short run into space on the left, got ball to feet, and slipped it into the path of young Andy whose legs were swept from under him on the edge of the box by the massed defence.

The whistle went, but the team were in righteous uproar - all clamouring for cards and jostling for space over the ball. The card came (yellow) and Trevor shoved the other free kick pretenders out of his path. He placed the ball about twenty-three yards out and slightly left. The whistle blew long and portentous. He paused, looking over the wall, then curled the ball into the top right corner as the keeper stood and watched.

Immediately, the whole bench was on its feet and punching the air - with the exception of Ronnie, who sat and stared at me, shaking his head. Then, in the midst of the excitement, we realised that Cockie was lying on the ground, clutching his shoulder. I all but laughed, as the trainer (Rossy Parker) shook his head and waved to the bench with the old twirly-fingered sub signal.

“Oh do me a fahkin’ favour!” swore Ronnie. “Get up, ya fahkin’ blouse!”

Cockie climbed to his feet with his right arm dangling like a broken wing.

“‘Ow’d yer fahkin’ do that?” demanded Ron as Cockie approached the sideline under Rossy’s tender care. “You weren’t in the play, mate!”

“Punchin’ the air in celebration, Boss,” replied Cockie, in apparent agony.

Ronnie turned to me in a state of some agitation: “What the fack you waitin’ for?” he enquired and, suitably encouraged, I crossed the white line for the first time in England.

But I wasn’t content to just make up the numbers. If being 40 years old had (finally) taught me one thing, it was not to take a back seat when opportunity grudgingly knocked. I trotted straight over to where the boys were just dispersing from the congratulatory ruck, and before they could escape back to their positions I said, “I got news boys. The first team are watchin’ this game, an’ you know how they feel?”

There were a few blank looks, as I continued: “They feel relaxed.”

Trevor understood exactly what I meant.

“‘E’s fahkin’ right lads,” said Trevor, pointing at the woebegone Havant boys. “They’re not the fahkin’ enemy.”

He then pointed at the first team stretching on the sideline.

“They’re the enemy. It’s your duty, as a member of this side, to put pressure on those fuckers an’ maybe take their places. Awright?”

“Awright!’ shouted Billy, punching fist into palm, and as I retired to tend the ol’ onion bag, I could already feel the hardened edge about the team.

After that, it was carnage. I did a lot of barking, but only touched the ball once in my eleven minutes - and that was a back pass that I hit first time to the left back (I still didn’t know his name). When the final whistle blew, it was 6-0. Andy got a hat trick, Trevor got two - I can’t remember who got the other, but the noise in the shed was deafening.

Billy, in particular, was in excellent spirits. He’d been in the middle of everything in the last ten minutes - winning the ball - giving it straight to Trevor or playing it down the inside channels for Andy.

Somehow, he knew that I’d had something to do with the result, even if he wasn’t sure what.

“Yer had a great fockin’ game, Eric.”

“I only touched the ball once, and I didn’t make a save.”

“Aye. Still but - great game.”

Far from being jubilant, Ronnie was, if anything, in a sulk. Cockie had made a miraculous recovery and was claiming his place on the bench for the first team.

“Yer said you were done in, mate,” peeved Ronnie. “‘Ow can I ‘ave any confidence you’ll do a job if I need yer?”

“Well don’t pick me then,” said Cockie. “Pick yon Aussie wi’ the can-do attitude!”

Ronnie just fumed, but it was Cockie’s name that went on the team sheet.

Trevor flung an arm round me in Keepers’ Corner, where he was not, by rights, entitled to be.

“Well done, mate. You fahkin’ got us goin’!”

I was gagging for a beer, but beer wasn’t allowed in the change room, except on special occasions. I said I reckoned 6-0 was pretty special, but I gathered that “special” did not apply to the Reserves.

Gradually the celebrations subsided as we emerged from the shower in twos and threes and drifted outside to watch the first team. I had an eye out for Doreen, but the first bloke I saw when I got outside was Bernie Malone.

“G’day, Bernie. How’s Danny?”

“Much better t’anks. ‘E’s much obliged.”

“I don’t know what for,” I said. “If you think about it, it was me that got ‘im beaten up.”

“Sure an’ dat’s bollocks,” replied Bernie. “It were no fault o’

yours.”

We stood watching the first team finish their warm up, and you could tell straight away there was a jump in class between the two teams. The snap and swagger of the firsts was in stark contrast with the studious restraint of the Reserves before the match. Jaffa, in particular, was a star in the making - pity about the fags. He trotted about the edge of the box, occasionally juggling a ball, occasionally knocking thunderbolts into the empty net. Charlie the Cat was warming up with Cockie, and I was delighted to see that Cockie was introducing Charlie to the turn away drill I’d showed him.

“Glad yer still in London,” continued Bernie. “When Danny gets out o’ hospital, ‘e wants to express ‘is gratitude. Maybe hit the town together? Danny’s buy.”

“Bernie!” I moaned, absolutely delighted. “There’s no need for that.”

“Doesn’ matter. It’s whut ‘e wants.”

The whistle went to start the game.

“Well,” I said, glancing about for Doreen, “if that’s what he wants.”

* * *

Bernie and I sat with Trevor in the stand. The rule against beer did not extend that far, and Trevor produced a few long cans from somewhere or other.

We watched in satisfied silence for a while, sipping Carlsbergs, as the two sides felt each other out. I was a bit disappointed with the Santos brothers, Juan Pablo in the centre of the park and Juan Marco at right half. They weren’t exactly taking charge, but Rags, the captain (ex-Crystal Palace Youth and Reserves), was all class at sweeper and Gareth was like a rock at stopper, cutting out everything that came within the danger zone and straightaway slipping the ball to either Dennis on the left or Juan Marco on the right - both of whom would, more or less, give it straight back to Havant with long balls that suited neither Jaffa, nor Vince - Jaffa’s partner in crime up front.

“The Santos boys are in the wrong positions,” I remarked, and immediately, Trevor was off on a rant.

“‘Ow fahkin’ long ‘ave I been sayin’ that?” he demanded. “They got brilliant skill, mate, don’ get me wrong, but they’re not ‘ard enough in the engine room. We need someone oo can put ‘is foot on the ball in the middle o’ the park.”

“Like you,” I said.

A spasm of pain seemed to cross his face.

“Aaarhh … I dunno. Probably too old,” he said.

“Crap!” said Bernie. “Off the bevvy. That’s whut yer need.”

“Too late for that,” muttered Trevor, and I felt really sad for him.

All of a sudden, out of totally nothing, Jaffa got the ball to feet with his back to the goal - feinted one way, slipped the ball under his heel, spun and slammed the ball into the roof of the net from 25 yards.

“Farrr-kinell!” muttered Trevor, as the three of us stared in admiration. “That was still risin’ when it hit the net.”

“That’s ‘im, though,” said Bernie. “Got his goal. Won’t see ‘im fer the rest o’ the 90 minutes.”

* * *

They led 2-0 at half time. Jaffa didn’t score the second, but he set it up with an absolute piece of class down the right channel. And Juan Pablo of all people ran on to his final pass and slipped it inside the near post.

“Yer see,” said Trevor. “JP’s fahkin’ useless in the middle o’ the park, but look at ‘is understandin’ wiv Jaffa. Ought to be up front, yeah?”

“‘E’s fast an all,” agreed Bernie.

“Least ‘e don’t smoke like fahkin’ Jaffa,” sneered Trevor.

Bernie and I just glanced at each other, but Trevor laughed.

“Yeah … fahkin’ got me, yer bastards. So Jaffa smokes … Trevor bevvies.”

There was a bit of a silence as we watched the two teams troop off to the sheds.

“It’s not like you’d have to go on the wagon completely,” I ventured. “You could just try an’ limit yerself the night before a game. You’ve still got a lot to offer at this level.”

Trevor just shook his head.

“Eric, yer know a great deal abaht football; that’s perfectly clear. But yer know fack all abaht pissheads.”

* * *

At that moment I saw Doreen, walking up the stairs and waving, and a small tinge of pleasure washed over me.

“Hi, Eric. Are you playing?”

“Naah. Got a short run in the Reserves.”

“‘E was brilliant,” exclaimed Bernie, to my embarrassment, but a huge smile lit up Doreen’s face.

I stood up and went to give Dores a peck on the cheek, but she kissed me enthusiastically on the lips.

“Erm … Doreen. This is Bernie …”

“Very pleased I am ter meet yer,” said Bernie, automatically turning on the Irish charm for a woman.

“And this is Trevor.”

“Awright darlin’, d’yer like a drink?”

“Oh, not just yet thanks.”

Doreen sat close to me, gazing around the ground and taking it all in.

“This is my first English football match,” she said.

“Mine too,” I replied.

* * *

The second half was not unlike the second half of the Reserves match. That is, the first thirty-three minutes, and I could sense that Doreen was losing interest - as was I.

“What is it with Ronnie?” I asked. “Why isn’t he putting 50,000 volts through ‘em to get ‘em going?”

“It’s the Cup,” said Bernie.

“Eh?”

“‘E’s worried abaht injuries fer the Cup match at Barnet,” explained Trevor, and I suddenly understood why Ron had been so surly after the 6-0 win. By getting out of second gear we’d risked the health of his precious Reserves, and thereby jeopardised progress to the land of plenty - the third round.

“We’ve never made the third round,” said Trev. “It’s a big deal, mate … .when all the Premier League boys come in and a chance of makin’ ‘istory.”

“Not to mention a chance of a massive pay day,” said Bernie. “Yer get drawn away at a big club like Arsenal or United, yer get half the gate! Yer know what sort o’ money we’re talkin’?”

The other thing about the second half was the complete absence of Jaffa. It must have been the fags, because he spent the whole time either walking or doubled over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.

Then, completely out of the blue, Doreen asked, “So why do you call yourself Mr Cleansheets?”

Immediately, Trevor burst out in incredulous laughter: “Mr Cleansheets? Sounds like a rubber johnnie!”

“A rubber what?” asked Doreen.

“Erm, a gentleman’s prophylactic device,” interpreted Bernie, slightly embarrassed.

“You mean a franger?” asked Dores.

Trevor chuckled: “Mr Cleansheets … that’s fabulous, that is.”

And then Havant scored. The back four had been far too pedestrian in closing down the Havant centre half (by miles their best player) and he’d suddenly changed gear, gone straight through and given Charlie no chance from fifteen yards.

We watched in silence as the enemy clustered and celebrated.

“Now you’ll see a different side of Ronnie,” said Trevor, and no sooner had he spoken than the manager was off the bench and screaming at Gareth.

“Can’t be fockin’ everywhere!” responded Mervyn’s nephew, with a meaningful glance at Sam (one of the centre halves), and it suddenly occurred to me that Mervyn was not present - which surprised me.

There were nine minutes to go, and the Bentham boys had the wobbles. Wave after wave of Havant attacks were negated more by good fortune than good play, and Doreen’s nails were gripping into my arm as the seconds ticked away.

It was all Havant now, and Bernie, forgetting his manners in front of a lady, said, “They focken’ need yer, Trev. Y’ ought to be in good enough nick ter go on an’ do a job.”

Trevor just shrugged, but Bernie was right. We badly needed someone in the middle of the park who could take charge. Juan Pablo was lost under these circumstances, and it was unfair to expect a player of his type to win the middle.

“Shape!” shouted Ronnie. “Rags … Gareth! Get the fahkin’ shape back! Get ‘em back behind the ball!”

Then they scored again - from a corner. You could just feel the momentum swinging their way - and these guys were second last fer chrissakes!

There was a silence about the ground - 500 people were staring at their watches, willing time onwards. Doreen’s nails were slicing into me and Trevor and Bernie were leaning further and further forward in their seats.

Our guys were out on their feet and the Havant boys worked a series of triangles down our left, leaving Dennis and Glen Boyd (the left back) chasing shadows. It was suddenly two on one - seconds to go - their right winger drew Charlie then squared perfectly for the centre forward, who struck the cross bar from eight yards.

A roar went up around the tiny ground as the Bentham boys managed to regroup and get back behind the ball. And then the whistle blew. The game was over.

Trevor and Bernie fell back in their seats, exhausted from the sheer holding of breath.

“Are we going out?” asked Doreen.