Short Story: Sunday League
So I’m done with university. I have my degree.
‘What’s next?’ Everybody asks me.
‘What’s the plan?’
I want to write novels. My old man says I should follow my dream. My mum says I should be more realistic. I’m working in a dive of a pub while I figure stuff out.
Last night was a real killer. The pub was packed to the rafters with Edmonton’s finest. I pulled pint after pint after pint, all for minimum wage and no tips. I was friendly and polite when it pained me to be so. I listened attentively as boozed up morons spouted their right wing views. I flirted with their dolled up wives’. Four idiots gave me a shed load of grief all night, making me the subject of their awful jokes. I knew it would get heavy at closing time.
‘Can you start making you’re way out please gentleman?’ I asked them.
‘Don’t be like that son. What’s the hurry? Be a good boy and pour us all another one. Go on son. Pour us another one,’ said the fattest idiot with the red face.
‘Sorry gentleman, we’re closed now, can you start making you’re way out please?’
‘He ain’t fucking asking you son. He’s telling you. So on your bike. Go and pour us another one,’ said his slightly slimmer mate.
The group exploded into hysterical laughter.
‘I’m only having a laugh son. Look at his fucking face. Bless him. I’m only having a laugh.’
Yeah. He was hilarious. They had been calling me son all night, even though they weren’t much older than me. I really hate that. But they piped down and I cracked on with the cleaning. The corrupt manager was already in his office greedily counting the takings.
I was behind the bar stacking glasses when the flash idiot, with his sun tan and side sweep, approached me. He had been bang on it all night, more so than the others, sinking drink after drink. He was off his face.
‘Son…son…I’ve got a question.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you wearing lip gloss or what?’ Cue more hysterical laughter.
My grip on the pint glass I was holding tightened. I ignored him and kept on with what I was doing.
‘I’m serious son. Are you wearing fucking lip gloss?’ He grinned at me stupidly.
I continued to ignore him. The rage was beginning to bubble and hiss inside of me. He asked me the same question again. He blew a kiss in my direction.
The rest of the idiots approached the bar. My adrenaline kicked in and although I didn’t fancy my chances, I would’ve happily gone out swinging.
‘Listen you little poof, if you don’t fancy pouring us all a drink then I’ll do it,’ said the flash idiot as he crossed the line and staggered behind the bar.
The waste of space on shift with me had scuttled away and was furiously polishing a table in the corner. What a hero.
‘Alright lads…what we fucking having then?’
‘I’ll have a pint Paul my good man. You are a fucking legend,’ said the fattest idiot.
Paul poured himself a pint. He poured the other idiots a pint, blowing kisses and winking at me while he did so. He completely mugged me off. I should’ve smashed him to pieces. The other idiots would’ve had to drag me off of him. I should’ve smashed his pointy face in.
But I didn’t. I let it happen. I was tired and I wanted to go home and I let it happen. The corrupt manager waddled down the stairs, rambling and sniffling, he was on the gak and hiding it very badly. He got all friendly with the idiots and let them finish their pints and shook their hands when they left.
‘Thanks guys,’ he said.
‘See you again guys,’ he said.
What a tool. I didn’t bother telling him that the ‘guys’ had just robbed him of some precious stock. I went home and I took the dog for a walk and I went to bed, football in the morning, the highlight of my week. Happy days.
My alarm wakes me at eight thirty. I go through the same perfectly timed routine every Sunday: strong black coffee at eight forty, hot shower to relieve the stiffness in my legs at eight fifty, sweet milky coffee at nine, get dressed at ten past, knock last week’s mud off of boots at twenty past, pack bag at half past, stop at shop and buy Red Bull at quarter to, meet the boys at ten.
The car park at the playing fields is totally full. I stick my banged up old motor on a side street and head towards the changing rooms. Being with the boys is like being at a United Nations conference. I love the diversity. Andy, our coach, skins up a big spliff to smoke on the touchline. The South American contingent lace up their boots in the corner while discussing yesterday’s football results in their native tongue. Dawid the goalkeeper poses topless in the mirror. He calls himself ‘Cialo’, Polish for ‘The Body’. Taka the Japanese midfield enforcer shares a joke with the Jamaican strikers while the Greek brothers announce the team and whom we are playing.
This morning we’ve got Rangers in the cup. It’s common knowledge that Rangers are a team made up of local coppers. The old boy that coaches them is a senior officer. He is infamous. We call him a ‘The Sergeant’. This is the Edmonton and district Sunday league, and the police get no love in Edmonton, none at all. Every game against Rangers is a welcome opportunity to exact a little collective revenge for all of the racial profiling and unnecessary stop and searches and heavy-handed tactics.
Kick off is at eleven. I’ve been gearing up for this moment. For ninety glorious minutes I can lose myself on the pitch. I don’t have to be a novelist. I don’t have to be a bar man. I can be the footballer I dreamt about being as a kid. We all can.
It’s cool and wet, perfect football weather. The ball moves quickly across the pitch and good control is crucial. I keep my first few touches nice and simple, no Hollywood passes. I want to get a feel for the game.
The coppers are their usual selves, obnoxious and patronising. They are sycophantic towards the referee, who must be seventy odd years old. The tackles fly in. Some of them are hard and fair but most are deliberately late. We’ve got more flair but they are strong and well organised.
They’ve got a lump of a striker who is causing our defence a few problems on the break and he scores a powerful header after twenty minutes. Andy is unhappy. He curses us in Patois and lights his joint. I’m stuck out on the left wing and can’t get into the game. All of the play is on the right. Dean, the hot-tempered striker, catches their right back high on his knee with his studs while contesting a bouncing ball. The right back goes down in a heap. His teammates surround granddad and remonstrate with him.
‘You’ve gotta send him off for that ref. He’s tried to bloody do him,’ their centre back points his finger at Dean accusingly.
‘Never ref. I’ve gone for the ball. Swear down.’
‘You were a little late son,’ granddad says as he reaches for his pocket and shows Dean a yellow card.
Dean shrugs his shoulders in mock disappointment. He knew the card was coming.
‘That’s bollocks ref. He should’ve gone. That was a straight red. He should’ve gone,’ the centre back says.
Dean points towards his mate who is receiving the magic sponge and water treatment from one of the substitutes.
‘Help him up and tell him it’s a fucking man’s game.’
The match ebbs and flows. The right back is ruined. I start to see a bit more of the ball and skin him a couple of times, putting in decent crosses that nobody gets on the end of. The third time I beat him with a cheeky step over and pick out Tiago on the edge of the box. He hammers one right in to the top corner. What a strike. We celebrate as if the television cameras are on us.
The half time whistle blows and we gather on the touchline. Andy blasts us. He blasts us every week, no matter how well we’re playing. My old man rocks up late with the dog as he usually does and blasts us as well, despite the fact that he hasn’t actually seen any of the action. A couple of the boys light up cigarettes, I crack open my Red Bull and down it in one. The caffeine and sugar re-focuses me. We return to our positions.
The right back can’t continue. He limps towards the changing rooms in the distance. His replacement wearily crosses the white line and makes his way across the pitch towards me, encouraged by his teammates. He looks as though he’s had a heavy night.
‘Head on the game Paul, straight from the off.’
Paul? Paul. Paul! The rage boils again. He looks in my direction. I know he recognises me. He looks away uncomfortably. He’s a copper. I’m tempted to go and have a word with ‘The Sergeant’ patrolling the opposite touchline. I could tell him that Paul is a dirty little thief but I’m not a grass. Play resumes and all I can think about is retribution.
The match follows a familiar pattern. We have a lot of the ball. Their defence holds tight. Our attacks break down and they hit us on the counter-attack. The tackles continue to fly in. We force a corner. I attach myself to Paul. He tries to pass me on to a teammate.
‘You pick up the number eleven. I’ll have the near post,’ he says.
I stick to him.
‘You alright Paul?’
He ignores me.
‘You look fucking rough mate.’
He ignores me.
Tiago swings in a wicked delivery. I stamp down on Paul’s toes. He cries out in pain and hits the deck. Nobody notices. There is chaos in the box. Their defence manages to scramble the ball away. Paul gets back to his feet and looks around for some sympathy from the granddad. He glares at me. I blow him a kiss.
We start to dominate and create a few chances. Taka misses an absolute sitter.
I pick the ball up wide and beat a man. Paul fronts me up and shows me down the line. I move to go past him and he goes to ground in an attempt to stop me. I hurdle the challenge but make sure I land heavily on him.
‘Get off me you little fucking poof,’ He moans as he struggles from underneath me.
Granddad blows his whistle and rightly gives the free kick in our favour. I take the free kick and Pani meets it at the back stick with a sweet volley. Their keeper has no chance. Goal! My teammates acknowledge the quality of my delivery and come to embrace me but I wave them away.
I take every opportunity to leave a mark on Paul; I pull at his shirt, I push and shove him when defending or attacking set pieces, I clean him out with a series of strong tackles. He wants to break my legs. I can see it in his eyes.
The momentum of the game swings in Rangers’ favour. They pile on the pressure.
‘We’re not fucking losing to this mob,’ ‘The Sergeant’ barks from the touchline.
We concede possession and territory. They launch countless long passes up the pitch, hopeful that their lump of a striker wins a header and someone picks up the loose ball and sticks it away. As the final whistle approaches they win a corner. ‘The Sergeant’ sends his back four up. I attach myself to Paul again. He grabs a handful of my shirt.
‘I’m gonna fucking do you,’ he says.
The corner is taken. I’m not interested in the flight of the ball. I drive my elbow into his pointy nose. I feel a crack. He hits the deck. Fuck the police. Granddad has missed the incident. Paul’s teammates haven’t. The game erupts. I’m momentarily surrounded. The boys intervene. Andy is on the pitch. ‘The Sergeant’ is on the pitch. My old man is on the pitch. The dog is barking. Paul is covered in claret and battling to get at me. A couple of his teammates restrain him.
‘You fucking little poof, if I wasn’t a copper I would…’
‘Still be a cunt.’ I interrupt.
Granddad has totally lost control. He gives his linesmen the signal and the game is abandoned. The collective anger gradually dissipates and we all return to the changing rooms exchanging insults.
I shower. The hot water washes away the last dregs of rage and I’m calm again. I feel no guilt for wrapping Paul’s pointy nose around his face. He had it coming. I dress quickly and apologise to the boys for triggering the mass brawl.
‘No worries Rob, it’s a minor ting brother,’ Andy reassures me.
He rolls another spliff and passes it around the changing room. I have a couple of blasts and leave feeling a little spaced. Paul lingers in the car park. He’s on his phone.
‘Babe…babe…listen. You’re gonna have to take me to A & E…fucking little poof broke my nose didn’t he…’
He avoids eye contact with me as I pass him. He knows what’s done is done. These things happen on the football pitch. No hard feelings and all that.
My legs are aching. The short walk back to my car is exhausting.
‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
The driver’s side window has been smashed in; broken glass glistens on the seats. My CD player is gone. My glove box has been emptied. Gutted.
I reach into my pocket for my phone. I dial 999.
‘Police please.’
‘
