Big and Clever (6 page)

“That's a classy piece of kit,” Raks says, pointing to the T-shirt.

Ryan and I laugh.

We're just about to cross the road into the stadium car park when there's a bit of a kafuffle behind us. Two police motorbikes sweep past and as I turn round I can see that a group of young lads, kids around our age, are running and shouting and banging on the sides of three tatty coaches that are cutting their way through the crowd.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Away fans,” Ryan says. There's an odd look in his eyes.

Before I have a chance to ask anything else, Ryan has barged his way to the edge of the pavement and he's giving the finger to the Castleton supporters leering and gesturing out of the windows of the coaches. As the third bus comes past I notice two blokes at the back, mooning, hairy arses pressed to the glass. The whole incident is probably over in less than ten seconds. I'm rooted to the spot, heart pounding, too shocked to move.

“Bastards,” Ryan says, pushing his way back through to where Raks and me are still standing.

“What was that all about then?” Raks asks. He looks as confused as me.

Ryan shrugs.

“Nothing really. Just ritual. There's a bit of history with Castleton.” He's completely back to normal now. It's like someone has flicked a switch and he's gone from one state to another in an instant.

“History?” I say.

Ryan does the dismissive wave of his hand I remember from the English Lit lesson.

“Bit of rivalry from days of old,” he says. “They sent us down in 1991. Beat us 3-2 on the last day of the season.”

“Ninety-one?” I say. “That's a bit before your time.”

Ryan shakes his head.

“It's ingrained in the DNA of all Letchford fans,” he says. “Never forget. Never forgive.”

My heart rate is slowing down. The away coaches have gone and everything's calm again. We head around the ground anticlockwise, along the side of the Family Stand, towards the turnstiles at the back of the North Stand. The Castleton team bus is standing in a bay on the far side of the car park.
Compton's Luxury Transport, Silloth
. It looks tattier than the supporters' coaches.

I hear my mobile beeping. It's a text from Zoe.
Hv fn tk cr Z X
. I smile. She sounded a bit dubious yesterday when I told her I was going to the football, although to be honest she was more interested in
Oliver
than in what I might be doing on a Saturday afternoon. She got the part of Mrs Sowerberry the undertaker's wife at the auditions on Thursday and she just wanted to talk about that. But at least she's thinking of me now. I'm about to send a message back, but there isn't time. I'm right up at the front of the queue now, at the point where it splits into two.

Ryan and Raks go through Gate 19 and I go through Gate 20. The bloke in the booth is about sixty with dandruff on his shoulders and wispy hair scraped forward to cover his bald patch. A comb-round instead of a comb-over. It looks like a grey snowball has exploded on the back of his head. For some reason I've got this horrible feeling that I'm not going to be let in, but I know it's stupid really. It's not the cinema. There's no certification system, and I'm not going to be thrown out for being too young.

Comb-Round Man looks up.

“Season ticket?”

I shake my head.

“Eight pounds, son,” he says. Simple as that.

I hand him the right money, relieved, and click my way through the turnstile. Raks and Ryan are waiting for me on the other side. The concourse smells of beer and cheap aftershave. People are lining up for food and drinks and waiting to put bets on, watching
Soccer Saturday
on the televisions bolted to the walls, swigging pints in plastic glasses. Music is blaring out of the PA system. Harry J All Stars.
The Liquidator
. Same as when I used to come with my dad. The playlist must be stuck in a time warp.

“Anyone need a piss?” Ryan asks.

Raks and me shake our heads.

“OK then. We might as well get out and see what's going on.”

Ryan leads the way up a flight of concrete steps. The nearer we get to the top, the louder the sound of the crowd is getting, bouncing down off the low metal roof of the Kop. The music has stopped now and the tannoy announcer is reading out the Letchford team. Each name is getting a cheer apart from Dave Nicholson. He used to play for Mackworth. I can feel the little ball of excitement in my stomach getting bigger and bigger.

The pitch is starting to come into view. It's only the sixth home game of the season and the grass is still looking lush and green. The Letchford players are warming up at our end, doing shuttle runs and taking shots. We climb the last couple of steps and then stand at the top, surveying the scene. The home terracing stretching out in front and behind us. The away supporters in the corner to the right, the orange seats of the Main Stand slowly filling up but the black seats spelling out LTFC still visible. The glass-fronted executive boxes at the far end, scoreboard perched on the top. The corrugated roof and wooden seats of the Family Stand away to the left. Old Trafford it isn't, but it still looks fantastic.

I look at Raks and Raks looks at me. We're both grinning like idiots, swept up in the atmosphere of the occasion.

“Now, this is better than fishing,” I say.

As the ref blows his whistle for half time, a chorus of boos rumbles round the Southlands Stadium. 0-0. And it's not exactly been Champagne Football. The players troop off towards the tunnel and the PA system cranks into action.
Let Me Entertain You
. Someone's got a sense of humour.

“What do you reckon, then?” Ryan asks.

I smile, picking a few flakes of black paint off the crush barrier in front of us, running my palm over its rough, pitted surface.

“Just like watching Brazil,” I say.

Ryan laughs.

“You're going to like it here.” He turns towards Raks. “What about you, mate?”

“We should be at least one up, shouldn't we?” Raks says. “How did Leroy Lewton miss that one near the start? He was only about three yards out.”

Ryan shrugs.

“That's Leroy Lewton for you. He'll play a blinder if he thinks the scouts are in looking at him, otherwise he couldn't hit an elephant's arse with a banjo.”

“At least he's looked like he's interested,” I say. “Not like Dave bloody Nicholson. How many times has that left winger gone past him?”

“Don't get me started on Dave Nicholson,” Ryan says. “The man's a donkey. Sometimes you wonder if he's only had the rudiments of football explained to him five minutes before kick-off.”

“Well you know what his real problem is though, don't you?” Raks asks.

I shake my head.

“He's a dirty Mackworth scumbag, isn't he?”

We all laugh.

Let Me Entertain You
is abruptly brought to a halt and the tannoy announcer starts to give out the halftime scores. Grimsby are winning at Swindon and Boston are drawing at home to MK Dons, so there's not much to get worked up about. The best news has been saved for last though. Mackworth are two nil down at Accrington Stanley. A big cheer rings out.

“See?” Ryan says. “It's not all doom and gloom.”

We make our way back up the terracing and go down the steps to the concourse. I head for the toilets while Raks and Ryan join the back of the food kiosk queue.

As I'm waiting for my turn at the urinals, doing my best not to inhale the smell of shit that's filling the air, I see a couple of familiar faces coming towards me. It's the two sixth formers who acknowledged Ryan in the canteen the other day. The DVD boys. As they come past, they both make eye contact and nod in my direction.

“Alright, mate?” one of them says.

I feel a sudden surge of pride. They know I'm a Letchford fan. They know I stand on the Kop. It feels good.

By the time I've finished, Raks and Ryan have been served. Ryan's balancing three polystyrene cups of coffee on top of each other, and Raks is clutching a jumbo hot dog smothered in mustard and tomato sauce. He's already eaten half of it.

As Ryan leads the way back up, Bon Jovi's
Keep The Faith
is coming over the PA. We're still in a musical time warp. Taking care not to spill the coffees, Ryan heads past the green-jacketed stewards and down the terracing. I'm assuming he's aiming towards where we stood for the first half, but instead of stopping when he gets there, he carries on going, eventually coming to a halt by a crush barrier right up against the fencing separating our supporters from the away section.

“This should be a better viewpoint for the second half,” he says.

Taking a coffee, I look over Ryan's shoulder and through the mesh towards the Castleton fans. They've come all the way down from Cumbria, but they've brought a decent crowd. Well into the hundreds. A big bald-headed bloke in a sweatshirt catches my eye and raises his middle finger. I quickly look away.

Out on the pitch there's some sort of kids' penalty competition going on at the far end. Letchy The Lion, our mascot, is acting as compere, but there seems to be some sort of dispute over who's taken a kick and who hasn't. It's started raining and everyone looks like they'd rather be somewhere else. The Castleton subs are doing stretching exercises in the centre circle, and the Letchford lot are playing keepy-uppy in our goalmouth.

“Who's that?” Raks asks, pointing to one of our subs. It's a youngish-looking lad with bleached hair and neon blue boots. He's keeping the ball up with just about every body part imaginable, like a performing seal. He finishes off by trapping it between the heel of his boot and his arse, turning to the crowd as if he's expecting a round of applause. He doesn't get one.

Ryan tuts, turning away from the pitch.

“That's Danny Holmes. Our record signing. Flash bastard.”

I nod. I've heard of Danny Holmes. He was some sort of whiz-kid striker at Man U, but then he did his cruciate, was out for eighteen months and never really got another chance. We still ended up paying a hundred and fifty grand for him, though.

“Why's he on the bench then?” I ask.

“He's not fully fit,” Ryan says. “He never is. If he manages ninety minutes all season we'll be doing well. He's always got a tight hamstring or damaged ligaments, or shin splints. Something niggling. The thing is, if he spent as much time in the gym as he does swanning around town in his Porsche, we might just get our money's worth out of him.”

Letchy's penalty competition has ground to a halt. It's starting to get dark and the floodlights are slowly flickering into life. I take a swig of coffee and check my mobile. No more messages from Zoe. There's a squeal of static from the PA system and then the opening bars of
The Boys Are Back In Town
. Another chorus of half-hearted booing breaks out and I look up to see the teams straggling back out onto the pitch. The ref blows his whistle and the second half gets under way.

Letchford are attacking our end now and almost straight from the kick-off a long diagonal ball from Tony O'Neill sails into the Castleton box. Leroy Lewton slides in from our left flank just as a Castleton defender slides in from the opposite direction. There's a collision, the defender flies in one direction, Leroy flies in the other and the ball harmlessly trundles out for a goal kick. When the players have finished picking themselves up and jogged back towards the halfway line, there's a huge muddy cross left behind in the penalty area. It looks like the site of buried treasure in a kids' pirate book. X marks the spot. Somewhere behind us a bloke's voice pipes up.

“Someone should get out there with a spade,” he says.

Everyone laughs. Unfortunately that's just about the entertainment high spot for the next thirty-five minutes. Dave Nicholson's still having a shocker. As the digital timer on the scoreboard flicks over to 80:00 he launches himself into a flying tackle on the Castleton number 16, misses, and demolishes the advertising hoarding for Silk And Satin Table Dancing Club. It's his most useful contribution to the afternoon.

“Ten minutes to go,” Ryan says. “It'll start to get interesting soon.”

I blink, wondering what he means. It looks to me like it's heading for a 0-0 draw. Both teams have settled for it.

“I don't mean on the pitch,” Ryan says. It's as if he's read my thoughts. “That's bollocks. I mean here. Look around you.”

I've been too busy watching the match to really take notice of what's been happening in the stands, but now for the first time it registers. Groups of youngish lads are starting to form, gradually edging towards our side of the terracing, nearer to the away fans. Looking behind me, I spot the DVD boys. They nod at me again, then grin at Ryan. Further up I can see some other lads I recognise from the back of the school bus. Without realising it, we've been absorbed into a gang too. All of a sudden there's excitement in the air. It's an odd feeling I can't quite put my finger on. A bit scary. But good.

I glance across towards the away section and see almost a mirror image of what's going on in our part of the ground. Gangs forming, advancing towards the fencing. It's probably nothing sinister. Just part of a ritual that I'm not used to yet. Still, it's hard not to conjure up the image of soldiers manoeuvring before a battle. But football violence died out years ago, didn't it?

I look at Ryan. There's a sort of half-smile on his lips.

“Told you it would be a better viewpoint from here, didn't I?” he says.

Strange things are starting to happen. The match is still going nowhere, but the crowd seems to be getting more and more animated. The chanting is getting louder, building and building as each set of fans taunts the other.

Shit Ground No Fans
from Castleton.

Your Support Is Fucking Shit
from our lot.