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That lace won’t do itself. Bend and tie it up.
Look sharp, Stewart. You’re lucky to be in the squad, and don’t forget it. You and your scabby knees.
In here it smells of bleach, a coat of mildew, the ghosts of last year’s farts. No place for a pep talk this, not on your own. The boys joke someone died here once. Forget your vanities, and concentrate. Rest of the team’s outside, waiting. Coach is yelling.
He’s always yelling.
Bright. Brrr. Fucking freezing. Pitch like the surface of Pluto. Two laps, join in, quick quick. Coach would slap you if he could (so you suspect). He looks a comfy bastard in his gloves.
Cold wind. Like swallowing dirty milk. With luck it won’t rain. The team are finishing up their second lap, and here’s you, a lap behind. Always behind.
Yer ma bought you gloves, but you’re that clumsy, you lost them. Never told her, did you? Thank fuck you’re not in goal.
Despite your supplications, your pleading for a growth spurt, the God who gave Man football still has yet to intercede. Every other player’s bigger than you. No wait, not all of them. You’re not the smallest. It would be easier to be shorter. Callum’s shorter and plays on the wing, after all, and naebody teases him.
Callum’s quicker than you. Light touch, good reflexes. That’s why. He’ll never know. You’ll never mention.
You’re on the bench, of course. To keep it warm. A job a burning log could do.
Fuck’s sake. That lace only undoes itself. A million pairs of boots, and you got these. Bend and tie again, ignore their protestations. Other team’s here, warming up, on the other end of the pitch. An enemy nation. One of theirs is sidelined also, doing his stretches, in his skins. He’s bigger too. Oh wow. Half a grown man. What sort of team is this, who can afford to sub on Samson?
Maybe a loss is on its way. Maybe you won’t share in the blame.
Star jumps. Press ups. Push down the world; it pushes back. You’re number 6. Back when you joined, under the old Coach, there were no good players. You played worse, but more often. Had mair fun anaw. Since then, the bigger boys with higher numbers have eclipsed you.
Kick-off is inauspicious. They’re more technical than your team, but can’t guard so well. Ruaridh nearly scores. Daps up and hugs their centre forward; they know each other from school. Maybe. You can’t hear what they’re saying.
It’s windy out here on the edge. It’s lonely out here on the edge.
A goal for them. A goal again. When your team scores (at last!) you fist pump the air in silence. Here for the game, let’s not forget. A win’s a win.
A half goes past but you’re not on. Coach pours a hot concoction from his flask into a mug, eyes on the game. He might have forgotten you’re there. You try to talk to him but he hushes you, like an owner to a dog.
He talks to the others. You’ve seen him do it.
Once, Carl made you watch a show he likes. Old programme. Bunch of soldiers in a trench, all doing nothing. Mr Bean?! The jokes went right over your head. Carl laughed, tried to explain them. It was nice. Sort of. They wait for a battle which never comes, and waste time how they can. That’s it, just waiting.
True story: 1914, the Christmas Truce. They did play football. Ours and theirs. German and British. You wonder – you can’t help but wonder – about the soldiers who never got to join in.
Picture a mud-caked private; too short, too slow, offside. Would they have made him stand beyond the border? That made-up line of great importance? Watching, waiting. Did he do stretches?
In the sixty-second minute, your time comes. Musa’s fallen, hurt himself. Showboating bastard tried to slide and didn’t make it, but you don’t say that. Mouth’s shut like a gift horse’s.
No complaints when you jog out there. No one’s cheering, no one’s groaning. Maybe this’ll be the day.
Maybe it won’t.
You miss a pass, and then another. It’s the second one that counts. One of theirs gets it, really GETS it and you can only watch, dismayed, as the ball rockets toward your goal.
You shut your eyes. You hear the cries.
A thump. Eyes open. Angry teammate. Shouting, pointing. At you. Don’t start nuhin now. It’s all a game, it’s just a game.
More of them join in. You’re being whalloped verbally. You’d prefer if they just beat you.
Even the ref, who breaks it up, doesn’t offer consolation. You play three or four more minutes, then Coach bellows out your name, and back you go. Musa feels better. Apparently.
More minutes pass. Foregone conclusion. Your team’s lost. You shake hands with their players, not looking forward to the showers.
Arguments, against the tiles. They all lay into you, demanding and accusing. You defend yourself, but your heart’s just not in it. You know they’re right. You cannae play, Jasper, you daftie. You’re too slow. Tackle’s pish. Run like a walrus.
When you walk out, seeking Mum’s car, you don’t find it. A throb of panic. Lips are shaking. Like a cartoon of yourself, don’t let the boys see. You can’t let them see you greeting. You won’t ever live it doon.
But there’s Carl. At the far end. He’s leaning up against his car. Gives you a wave. Even a smile.
Not a big smile, mind. But Carl’s not one for smiling.
It’s the cold, the score, the taunts, the disappointment; you’re off running. Gym bag bouncing on your shoulder, boots (unlaced) kick at your armpits.
You’re a wave reaching the shore. You crash into him and, uncertain, he returns the hug, though not as tightly. Salt is pouring from your eyelids. You sniff. Wipe your nose upon your sleeve. Pull it together. He asks a question.
Nod an answer. Yeah, you’d like that.
It’s warm inside the car. Not warm like home, but like a refuge. Carl’s never one for putting tunes on, and so – content in silence – you sink into the front seat. Pull your jacket tight around you.