Big and Clever (15 page)

Ryan laughs.

“I bet you did. You were putting it back like there was no tomorrow.”

“And I had to deliver the
Argus
when I got back to Thurston. By the time I'd finished I was dying. Then I had my missus coming round.”

“Bet she was well chuffed when she saw the state of you.”

I grin, shaking my head.

“She wasn't too pleased.” That's putting it mildly. She took one look at me and went home.

“Still,” Ryan says. “It was a good laugh, wasn't it, Thursday afternoon?”

Raks pushes his plate away.

“It was sound. They're good lads aren't they?”

Ryan crunches into another crisp.

“Yeah. They're alright. Chris is a bit of a twat, but it's just because he's so thick.”

We all laugh.

My watch says nearly ten past two. I finish off my cake and my drink, then lean back, stretching my arms above my head, yawning. The fluttering in my stomach, the feeling that's been there more or less all the time since the last home match, is getting too big to ignore. It's time to get going.

We head down the back stairs of the centre. The old bloke with the Hammond organ isn't here today. In his place is a stall selling dogs, cats and vintage cars hand-crafted from British coal. Over to the left, one of the empty shop units is being converted into Santa's Grotto.

“Are Ashborough any good, then?” Raks asks, as we push our way through the doors and go out into the car park.

“They went up to second in midweek,” Ryan says. “Beat Walsall away. Three points today and they could go top.”

Raks nods.

“We could do with a win this afternoon though, couldn't we? Losing at Hereford and then getting knocked out of the FA Cup by Kidderminster Harriers. It's a fucking joke.”

“Mmm,” Ryan says. “I don't think John Whyman's going to be getting Manager Of The Month for November.”

Ryan and Raks are talking football, but my mind is wandering. I'm thinking about events off the pitch. Post-match entertainment.

“What are the Ashborough fans like?” I ask. I've been trying to think where they were in the hooligan league table, but it's not coming to me.

Ryan waves his hand in the air.

“Nothing special. Don't usually bring very many.”

I feel a twinge of disappointment.

“So there's not much chance of any trouble then?”

Ryan shrugs.

“Who knows? There are always some opportunities if you know where to look for them. Every club's got a firm, even if it's just a few enthusiastic amateurs. Ashborough might have got some boys together this season.”

I give a half-smile. It doesn't sound so bad after all.

Winter's definitely in the air today. As we head down the side streets it's noticeable that padded overcoats are outnumbering bombers now. Woolly hats are starting to appear too, but there are still a few short-sleeved orange Letchford shirts on show. There's three blokes up in front. Two
LEWTON 16
's and a
SHEEDY 7
. It makes me cold just looking at them. I pull my scarf up a bit closer to my chin and keep walking.

It takes us about twenty minutes to get to Southlands. We've missed the away supporters' coaches, so we just head straight past the merchandise stalls and the burger vans and the programme kiosks and make for the turnstiles at the back of the North Stand. For the sake of superstition, I go for Gate 20 again. Comb-Round Man takes my eight quid and I click my way into the concourse to wait for Raks and Ryan to come through Gate 19. Right on cue,
The Liquidator
comes on the PA. I smile. I feel like a veteran now.

There's still about twenty-five minutes until kickoff. It's too early to go out on the terraces, so we edge our way through the blokes with polystyrene trays of chips until we're in a good position to see the television bolted on the wall next to the toilets. There's a live match today. Man United – Everton. My phone starts beeping. It's a text from Zoe.
HV fn tk cr Z X
. It's exactly the same as last time. Still, it's the thought that counts.

By ten to three, Man U are 3-1 up. There's only a couple of minutes stoppage time left.

Ryan shakes his head.

“This game's as good as over. We might as well make a move.”

I lead the way up the steps. As we come to the top, the teams are just leaving the pitch after the warm-up. I look across to the right, to see what Ashborough have brought in the way of travelling support. It's nothing like the turnout from Castleton. My heart sinks.

Ryan jerks his thumb in the direction of the away section.

“Said it might not be too impressive, didn't I?” he says.

We head down the terracing and take up station by the crush barrier we stood behind for the second half of the Castleton match. Down in front of us, a new advertising board has sprung up.
Too Much Bling? Give Us A Ring
. It's a police hotline for people to dob in their neighbours if they've been looking a bit too flush recently. I rest my elbows on the barrier, casting a few glances through the fencing into the Ashborough fans, seeing if I can catch anyone's eye. It's not looking promising.

The clock on the scoreboard gradually trundles towards 14:58.
The Boys Are Back In Town
blasts out and the teams come through the tunnel, hoofing yellow balls towards the goalmouths. Just down to the left someone throws some confetti. It's a pretty halfhearted effort. A couple of torn-up betting slips and a shredded football supplement fluttering through the air. After the formal handshakes, Tony O'Neill and Tommy Sharp head towards the Kop, applauding us for applauding them, while Carl Butterworth leads the mascots into the centre circle for photographs with the match sponsors.

While the players try to keep themselves warm, the tannoy announcer reads out the teamsheets. We greet every Ashborough name with a shout of Who?, then cheer the Letchford side one by one. Even Dave Nicholson gets a cheer today. People must be feeling charitable. Eric Emanuel's in for Paul Hood, but apart from that, it's the same eleven who started against Castleton. Danny Holmes is on the bench again.

The niceties in the centre circle are just about over. Letchford are defending our end in the first half, spreading out into their usual 4-4-2. Leroy Lewton is psyching himself up, running on the spot, leaning forward and windmilling his shoulders round and round like a swimmer with no arms.

Up at the other end the Ashborough team are forming themselves into a huddle. They're in all-red today. For some reason their shirts are a couple of shades lighter than their shorts and socks. The kit man must have used the wrong wash cycle. The huddle seems to be going on and on and boos are starting to ring out, getting louder and being joined by chants of
Who The Fucking Hell Are You?
Eventually the message seems to get through and Ashborough fan out across the pitch into their own 4-4-2 formation. The ref signals to both his assistants, checks his watch and then blows his whistle. We're off and running.

Twenty minutes in and it's still 0-0. The ball seems to have spent most of it's time thirty yards either side of the halfway line, in the air. It's like a big game of table tennis.

Raks shakes his head.

“How can Ashborough be second in the table?” he says. “They're fucking useless.”

Ryan laughs.

“Everyone is, in this league. There's just crap or slightly less crap.”

The crowd has been pretty subdued so far. There's been the odd chorus of
Come On Letchford
and
Letchford ‘Til I Die
, but that's about it. Since the last match I seem to have developed a sort of football fan's instinct for knowing precisely when chants are going to finish, but other than that there's been nothing to get worked up about. We've been trying to get some banter going with the Ashborough lot, but without any success. We've not heard a peep out of them yet. We hit them with a blast of
Shall We Sing A Song For You?
but again there's no response.

Looking around where we're standing, the distinctions between the different types of fans are getting clearer to me now. The sportswear and short hair crew, and the ordinary punters. Soldiers and civilians. The civilians are a funny bunch. There's Twitchy Bloke in his camouflage jacket, flinching every time the ball comes into our box. There's Big Fleece Woman, constantly checking scores on her mobile. And there's Pessimistic Granddad, shaking his head and moaning, as if he thinks we should be carving teams up like Arsenal.

Out on the pitch, things aren't getting any better. The goodwill towards Dave Nicholson is wearing pretty thin now. The man just can't pass the ball forwards. Every time it's sideways, safety-first, back to the keeper, or into Row Z. As the scoreboard flicks over to 44:00, Dave slices the ball into touch for what feels like the one hundredth time. Booing rumbles round the ground and a mass exodus starts as people make for the food kiosks.

“Enough's enough,” Ryan says, leading the way up to the exits.

My bladder feels like it's going to burst so I head straight for the toilets while Raks and Ryan join the food queues. Another rumble of booing lets me know the half-time whistle has gone. When I've finished in the toilets I stand in the concourse watching
Soccer Saturday
, checking the scores in our division. Mackworth aren't playing, but Grimsby and Boston are both losing.

Ryan brings me a cup of coffee and we follow Raks up the stairs, onto the terracing and back to our crush barrier. We don't seem to have any half-time entertainment today. Even Danny Holmes looks a bit subdued. No ball-juggling this week. Bon Jovi are on the PA again, and the scoreboard is flashing up announcements.
Half Price Sale — One Week Only At The Club Shop. Happy 70th Birthday Ken From Doris And The Kids. Today's Match Is Sponsored By JB Lynex And Sons Butchers
.

Raks has got himself a steak and kidney pie. He lifts the pastry lid with his plastic fork. A musty smell wafts out and he shakes his head. I take a mouthful of coffee and grimace. It's seriously strong stuff. I'm just lifting the cup to take another swig when someone ruffles my hair. Gary Simmons.

“Fucking hell Gary,” I say. “You'll have to have to stop touching me up. People are going to say something's going on between us.”

Gary laughs. His complexion is pinker than ever.

“Where are you today?” I ask.

“At the back.” Gary points up the slope towards Jerome and Rob. Rob's absent-mindedly picking the spots on his forehead and Jerome's just standing there looking huge.

I raise my hand in acknowledgement. Just to the right of them, I notice Jimmy and Scotty, the other lads from Parkway. We've got a full turnout again.

Gary looks across into the Ashborough section. “Piss-poor away support.”

Raks nods.

“Ryan still reckons we might get a bit of fun this afternoon, though. That right Ryan?”

Ryan's been looking at his phone. He puts it away and pushes out his bottom lip.

“Well it's not looking good,” he says. “But like I said, there are usually some opportunities if you know where to look for them.” He raises his eyebrows and leaves it at that.

Gary's face lights up.

“If anyone can sniff out trouble it's Ryan. He's like a fucking bloodhound.”

We all laugh, and Gary heads back towards the rest of his crew.

A couple of minutes later, we're into the second half. Dave Nicholson's carrying on where he left off. With his first touch, he miscontrols a pass from Kevin Taylor and then clatters into the Ashborough number 12 as the ball spins loose. The Ashborough lad goes down like he's been shot. Straight away the ref goes charging in, and a chant of
Off Off Off
goes up. But it's not the Ashborough fans, finally waking up. It's us. The ref reaches for his pocket. He flourishes the card in the air like a magician. Yellow. We all groan.

Dave trots back towards our goal, barking instructions to Eric Emanuel and Jeff Hawkins, trying to organise a wall. Before Dave's turned round though, the ref's blown his whistle and the free kick's been taken.

“He's behind you,” someone bellows. Twitchy Bloke's got his head in his hands. It looks like it's going to be one of those afternoons.

But then a funny thing happens. Football breaks out. One minute we're hoofing the ball around like it might explode if someone tries to control it, the next we're zipping it around like Tiger Woods with a pitching wedge. Suddenly we're stringing together fourteen passes in a row. During the next move it's seventeen. People start shouting
Ole
every time a Letchford player touches the ball. It's amazing. Carl Butterworth's bossing the midfield, Mark Sheedy is marauding up the left flank and Leroy Lewton is running the defence ragged.

Ryan scratches his head.

“Fuck me,” he says. “What's all this?”

On 62 minutes, Tony O'Neill spots Leroy Lewton sprinting diagonally into the Ashborough box and sends a perfectly weighted ball right into his path. What the papers would call a
Slide Rule Pass
. Leroy lets the ball come across his body onto his right foot and then slots it, first time, into the bottom left corner.

1-0.

The usual tidal wave of bodies cascades forwards, but I'm prepared for it this time. As the cheering dies down and we start serenading our number 16 with a chant of
Leroy
,
Leroy
,
Leroy
, I'm still right where I started and so is Raks.

“I've got this crowd thing sorted,” he says, grinning.

Ryan looks at us both and nods in recognition.

The whole pattern of the match has changed. We're only 1-0 up, but I already get the feeling that there's no way back for Ashborough. They're just not in the game. Even Pessimistic Granddad's smiling now, although I think that's got something to do with the hip flask of whisky he poured down himself at half time.