Читать книгу Hooper's Revolution - Dennie Wendt - Страница 10

THREE

Danny stayed in his flat all day Sunday. The phone rang four or five times. There were a few knocks at the door. A couple of the more aggressive local journos hollered at him. “Danny Hooper! I know you’re in there. Just like a word, Danny! Someone has to tell your story, might’s well be me! I’ll do right by you, Danny!” But Danny managed to get through the day without speaking with anyone, not even his dad.

At 11:30 P.M., and with the lingerers no longer lingering at his door, he put on a drill top, gray sweatpants, and trainers and went out for another bike ride. He knew where to go so that no one would see him, and when he returned over an hour later, he took a short shower and went to bed hungry, nervous, embarrassed, and as tired as he could remember ever feeling.

On Monday, Danny made the short bicycle ride from his flat to the Auld Moors for his morning training session. He wasn’t looking forward to it, and he timed his arrival to be as close to the beginning of the workout as possible to reduce non-footballing human interaction. To make matters worse, Dire Vale United had beaten the shorthanded Royals 2–1 on a goal in the waning minutes, something that almost certainly wouldn’t have happened had the home side remained at full strength for the entire match. East Southwich Albion was now out of the FA Cup, and he was well aware that he was being singled out as the villain.

He saw the newspaper headline on his ride in: “Hooper Out of His Gourd, Royals Out of the Cup.” The accompanying photograph, of Danny surrounded by aggrieved Dire Vale men, made Danny look like King Kong swatting at helicopters atop the Empire State Building, made him look like a criminally bonkers, maniacal brute. He shook his big head and mumbled something to himself even he didn’t understand.

He felt he owed his teammates an apology, and they would get one today—first by example: no one would train harder this Monday morning, no one would show more dedication to the club and to the lads. And then afterward, as the men dressed to get on with their non–FA Cup lives, he would speak up—he dreaded having to do it, but he knew it was the right thing, the only thing—and say that while he knew he’d been in the wrong, and he would do anything in his power to make it up to the boys, what he had done he had done out of passion for his teammates, for the club’s supporters, and for his deep desire to win something, anything. He was sorry, he would say, but the fact of the matter was he’d been dead determined not to let that little prick make his way down the left wing of East Southwich Albion’s pitch ever again, and in the event, big, strong Danny Hooper had, indeed, not let the poor kid down that wing. Sorry. I’m done talking now. All right?

The team would nod and murmur. Someone would say something meaningless: “Unlucky,” which would make no sense, but footballers say it all the time, or “Next time,” which made some sense anyway...; others, Danny knew, would remain silent, might never forgive him.

But when Danny arrived outside the ground, Aldy Taylor was waiting for him. Not what Danny wanted to see. Before Taylor could address him, Danny offered a contrite, “Hullo, Aldy.”

“That’s some black eye, Danny boy.”

“What are you doing out here, boss?”

“Waiting for you, lad.”

“Who’s with the team?”

“Ol’ Mumble’s mumblin’ at ’em,” Aldy said, referring to Mumble McCray, a gray, unintelligible man who’d given his life to East Southwich Albion AFC, with the exception of the three years he’d given Her Majesty’s Infantry during Her Valiant Defense of the Empire from Hitler’s Hordes. McCray had led the Royals to their only trophy of any significance, the Amateur Midlands Shield, scoring the only goal against Birmingham Villa (which was neither Birmingham City nor Aston Villa, but was usually and conveniently referred to as “B’rmin’h’m” or “Villa” for storytelling enhancement purposes) in the third replay of that august entity’s 1948 final. For this singular strike—which the real old-timers around the club would tell you was merely shinned in from a yard out, but he’d made a meal of it over the decades—he still had a job. No one could understand a word Mumble McCray said—not then (he’d had the nickname since he was nine), and not now—but as he was friendly enough, and otherwise unemployable, the club subsidized his meager existence in exchange for the odd service rendered. Danny said, “Well, they won’t get much done then, will they?”

Aldy smiled and said, “He can roll the balls out well enough. That’ll do for today.” He put his arm around Danny and said, “Now come with us, lad.”

Aldy guided Danny into the bowels of the Auld Moors Football and Sometime Rugby Ground. The euphemism “Auld” hardly did the thing justice: it was bloody old. It smelled of liniments and dirt, of tea and the drastic chemicals the women of East Southwich used to launder the club’s grubby apparel; it smelled of all of it, and of leather and boot polish and cologne, and of alcohol and the middling jumble of the Third Division. The old man and the young man shuffled past the changing room, the boot room, the tea room, and the boardroom to the end of a hallway Danny had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times—but in all these years since first joining the club as a schoolboy, Danny had never once made it all the way to the room at the end of the hallway. Aldy and Danny were now so deep in the stadium’s interior that Danny had no idea where they were relative to the main stand, to the pitch.

The chairman of the board of East Southwich Albion AFC rose as Danny and Aldy entered his office. But he didn’t come around from behind his desk, a monstrous dark slab of wood that very clearly separated His Eminence from the men—including Aldy—who muddied themselves on his behalf every Saturday and the occasional midweek. Danny had been in the club for over a decade and had never met the chairman face-to-face. Now he said, “Sit, men, sit.” The man did not smile. Aldy sat, slowly and with a light, regretful grunt, as an old footballer might, and Danny sat too.

The chairman said, “Danny, you’ve been a loyal servant to this football club for a long time, and I would like to believe that we have been of some service to you, helped raise you, to some small degree, hmm?” Danny nodded. The man went on: “We take great pride in the formation of strong young Englishmen here, as I believe you are aware. We aren’t a famous club or a rich club. We don’t win many trophies. We aren’t fancy or posh, but we do take care of our own, don’t we, Aldy? And you are one of ours, Danny. I know your father. He’s a good man. I knew your mum, may she rest.” He paused and looked down, a great show of sincerity. “You’re a good lad, Danny.”

The chairman leaned back in his giant leather chair and breathed a long breath through his long nose. Then he lit a cigarette and breathed it in as if he needed it, as if he really needed it. The smoke rose through the dark room and caught the beams of white winter morning light slicing in through the narrow windows near the ceiling. The smoke swirled, dipped, and rose again and for a moment captivated Danny’s attention before he remembered that he was in the chairman’s office with Aldershot Taylor, and no one was smiling.

“Aldy,” the chairman said, “would you please rise and face away from us?”

Aldy rose amid the mmms and ahhs of an aged and aggrieved body managing a terrific effort. He faced the wall like a resigned schoolboy accustomed to this sort of punishment.

The chairman sucked in a bit more smoke and gestured toward the back of Aldershot Taylor and said, “Danny, do you see what I see?”

Danny had a feeling that he did not see what the chairman saw. He didn’t want to say so, however, so he looked back at the chairman in the silent big and strong stupor that big and strong young men learn to get away with as soon as they come to the full realization of what big and strong gets you in the world, and did not say anything.

“Well?” said the chairman.

Danny said, “Sir, I, um, I’m looking at the back of, um... Mr. Taylor?”

The chairman stubbed his cigarette into a well-populated ashtray, leaned over his desk, and eased a stream of smoke in Danny’s direction before saying, “Ah, close, son. You’re warrrrm, bloody warm, my boy, but I am quite afraid you are not warm enough. Take a closer look. In the general area of Mr. Taylor’s arse, if you please.”

Aldy began to speak but the chairman cut him off. “Quiet, Aldy. Let the lad have a look. Look, Danny. What do you notice that’s... different about Mr. Taylor’s arse? Different to... last week, let’s say.”

Danny had no idea where the chairman was taking this. None. “I—”

“Don’t know? Then I will bloody tell you what’s different between the arse you are looking at right now to the last time you laid eyes upon it. It’s gone. It’s bloody gone, Danny, your manager’s arse, which last you saw it thought it might one day see the Sixth Round of the bloody FA Cup, did that arse. But it has been chewed down to nothing by this town’s miserable press, such as it is, by the despicable, dastardly, petty, and small people who run Dire Vale United Football Club, may they rot in hell, and by the fat bastards in bloody London who run the bloody Football Association itself who want a pound of flesh from little East Southwich Albion Association Football Club for what you’ve done, Danny. They’ve all chewed the arse right off of Aldershot Taylor, who fought in the goddamn war—you fought in the war, didn’t you, Aldy?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking—”

“Who fought in the war in a manner of speaking, whatever that means, and there must be a good story to that, and who got this club promoted from the inky depths of non-League football to the Leeside Conference and through the savagery of the bloody Fourth Division and to within one reasonably well-played match of the Sixth Round of the greatest tournament football has ever known—and now this man... has... no... arse. It was there, but now it is gone, as you and I can plainly see. Or plainly not see. It. Is. Gone.” He paused. “All right then, Aldy. Sit. On that bum you no longer bloody have.”

The chairman lit another cigarette, though he was so exercised he could hardly breathe. Danny, in his entire life, had seen few men as angry as the chairman was right now, and that included the Dire Vale men from Saturday.

Aldershot Taylor sat down on his former buttocks.

The chairman said, “Tell him, Aldy.”

Aldy looked at Danny, and Danny thought, well, Danny didn’t really think anything. After the chairman’s outburst, he could scarcely imagine—

“Danny, it’s been terrible. The press, the FA. The Dire Vale people. Even the poor lad’s family. They’ve been merciless. Just merciless. And our supporters—they wanted this so badly, son. They were so sure we were through to the next round. They’re furious. And the lads... they’re gutted, Danny. Gutted. They just can’t understand why you threw it all away like that. Why you lost your head.” He put his hand on his brow and paused to collect himself. “There’ve been rumors of charging you with a crime. Grievous assault. They’ve asked for your head, Danny. Everyone has.” He looked as if he might cry, if men who had fought in the war in a manner of speaking did that kind of thing.

The chairman said, “Aldy, tell the boy about the money.”

Aldy closed his eyes and breathed a long, resigned nasal breath.

“Danny,” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t want to, “the Fifth Round of the FA Cup is a real moneymaker, especially for a small club like ours. You cost us, son, you really did. Dire Vale United is on its way to Newcastle to play in the biggest stadium any of those players has ever seen. They’ll lose eight–nil and it won’t matter. The club will make a fortune. They’ll be set for years. Us, we’re stuck in the bottom half of the table—again—not close enough to the relegation zone to create any drama, and nowhere near even an insincere push at promotion. We’re nowhere, Danny, adrift in between something and nothing—”

The chairman interrupted. “We could have paid off years of debt and replaced the South Stand, Danny. The whole rotting goddamn thing—” He inhaled, and the end of his cigarette ignited bright orange. “The club just can’t bear under the weight of it, of what you’ve done. The Welsh lad’s finished. Maybe forever. You broke his leg in two places. Clean through. And they had plans for him. He was a good little player—”

Danny had finally had enough. “He was not,” he said.

The chairman sat himself up just a bit, annoyed and surprised at being contradicted on a football matter. “Oh, really, Hooper? He was not, was he? He was a Welsh under-21 international is what he was—”

“Exactly,” Danny said. “Spot on. A Welsh under-21 international. He was bollocks.”

The chairman’s face reddened. “There were four clubs in Manchester alone bidding for his services, a good four more than have asked about you, Danny. The transfer fee could’ve got that miserable club to 1980 without taking another decent decision. And who on earth knows what the money would’ve meant to his family. Now he’ll need a testimonial at nineteen...”

The chairman felt himself slipping, his anger getting the better of him, and he was disgusted with himself. He sputtered and waved his cigarette at Aldy, suggesting he handle the rest of this unfortunate business.

Aldy said, “Danny, I’ve known you since you were nine years of age. You’ve been...” And then he caught himself. He didn’t want to go down this maudlin road with this kid. Not today. He was still cross with Danny, and Danny had brought this all upon himself. What had he been thinking with all that Continental nonsense about short passing and clever dribbling and resisting the obvious benefits of being so goddamn big and bloody strong? And why had all that led to this? If he’d wanted to change his reputation, then why... What had he been thinking?

“Danny,” Aldy said, “you’ve been sold.”

The word hung in the smoky, close air of the chairman’s office.

Sold.

So final, so past tense, so done—and such an obvious expression of what Danny Hooper and all the Danny Hoopers were to East Southwich Albion AFC and all the East Southwich Albion AFCs: commodities, bit and pieces, odds and sods.

Sold.

No longer East Southwich Albion material, Danny Hooper.

No longer good enough for this midtable Third Division club that couldn’t knock little old Dire Vale United out of the FA Cup.

Sold.

“Danny,” Aldy said, “Danny, you’ll have been suspended for four matches, maybe more. London will throw the book at us, at you, if you stay. And we’ve naught to play for. We’ll have to move Rigby to the middle and bring in Figg from the reserves to cover for him. And the supporters—look, Danny... your season in the League is as good as done anyway, lad, done. So we’ve sold you.”

Danny looked at the chairman and then back at Aldy. “I—”

“Never a question of your commitment, son,” Aldy went on, an avuncular sympathy taking over his voice. “No one’s ever doubted your bottle, son. No one gets stuck in like you do—”

The chairman interrupted, belting out, “SOLD!” as if he had regretted giving the opportunity to say it over to Aldershot Taylor.

Danny sat back in his chair. He imagined the next headline: “Hooper Out of His Gourd, Royals Out of the Cup—Hooper Out of the Club.” He thought that his torso was very nearly tinged blue from wearing East Southwich Albion’s shirt for most of his young life; he thought that the Auld Moors wasn’t just his home away from home—the Auld Moors was his home, it was all he had; and he thought there was no other team in the entire ninety-two-team Football League he could ever imagine ever caring about. He thought, Who else would I play for?

Danny said, “You couldn’t have sent me out on loan until it blows over... ?”

“Ah,” the chairman said. “A thinker is young Danny. Suddenly your brain enters into it, does it? Thought occurred to us, aye, it did, it did—but I’m afraid we need you off the books entirely, my son. And off the books you are.”

So Danny cut to the chase and said, “Who?” which wasn’t quite right for the situation and which confused the two old gray men.

The chairman sputtered, “W-well, I’m the boss around here, lad, and I made the decision. I did. Aldy—”

“No,” Danny said. “That doesn’t matter to me. You’ve sold me. It’s done and dusted. Who bought me?” Danny braced himself for the worst. The only good news he could possibly imagine was that he’d been sold to a First Division club and would be soon staying in the finest hotels in London and Liverpool. But he knew just how unlikely that was—more likely he knew he was about to hear that he was off to Middlesby Town or Maidshead Tuesday or Bloat, or even more depressing, a non-League club, some club in a misty provincial conference that shared its ground with cricketers or greyhounds. “Just say it,” Danny said. “Say the name. Whatever it is.”

The chairman looked at Aldy and nodded Danny’s way, as if to say, Go on, man—tell the lad.

Aldy turned to face Danny and said, “You remember Graham Broome, Danny?”

“Graham Broome? Broomsie-from-Cloppingshire-United Graham Broome? He’s not in Cloppingshire anymore, is he?”

“Well, no. He is not in Cloppingshire. But where he is, he wants you. He always thought you could play, always liked your game. He’s got a new team, a team he thinks can win a championship, and he needs a number five.”

Aldy stopped, looked at Danny, looked over at the chairman, then back at Danny. “He called us, son. After he heard about what you did. We didn’t call him.”

Danny looked at the floor and then up at his former manager. “A championship?” Danny said.

“So he says.”

“That sounds good, I reckon. But I have one more question, and I expect you’ll know what it is.”

The chairman blurted a bitter “I should think you’ll have more than one, lad.”

Danny said, “The championship of what?”

The chairman sucked at his cigarette.

Aldy sat back in his chair and squinted once and then twice, as if wishing himself away. Then he said, “America.”

“America?”

“America, my son.”

The chairman exhaled more smoke than Danny had imagined his rotund body could contain and cracked a tiny grin. He extended a large, reddened hand. Danny didn’t—couldn’t—move. “Go on, son,” Aldy said to Danny. “Shake it.” Danny remained still. “Shake it, Danny. You’ll need to shake that hand, my son.”

And Danny shook the chairman’s hand.