MORE THAN a GAME

by Sylvester Young

  Ian had gone to her house to tell her that he was not going to see her again. He gave her the line about concentrating on football but it didn’t come out as well as he had rehearsed. Ruth said that she understood but then, to his surprise, she began to cry and said she would miss him. Ian was ready to go at that point but Ruth insisted, for old time’s sake, that they go upstairs just one more time. He didn’t feel like it but he hated the way she was crying and he let her lead him by the hand, the way she had that very first time. Unlike that first time, he needed some coaxing into bed, but it didn’t take him long to forget his regrets about coming to her house instead of telephoning – that was until the bedroom door crashed open. He was out of her bed with one of his legs already in his trousers before Ruth was shouting, ‘Harry! It’s all my fault!’ It was enough to distract the three men while he got his trousers on, if not properly fastened.

  Ian looked at the three men, wondering which one was Ruth’s husband, as none of them looked like the guy in the wedding photos. ‘Tell them, Ruth, tell them you told me you were divorced!’ he said while a hand reached down to find his shirt.

  But Ruth hadn’t heard Ian and then said something that would echo in his mind for years to come. She said, ‘If you have to hurt him, don’t touch his legs, he’s going to be signed by Aston Villa next week. Please don’t touch his legs.’ The barrel-chested man with the crew cut gave her an evil smirk. ‘Get your shoes on, sambo, we ain’t going to hurt you. But I want you out and I want you to promise me that you’re never coming back here.’

  Ian didn’t bother with his socks and pushed his feet into his shoes. ‘Right, right, anythin’ you say, man,’ he said, as every fibre of him trembled. ‘I didn’t know she was married, I swear.’

  Ruth stayed in bed with the duvet pulled up under her chin. As they went downstairs Ian could hear her crying while shouting out to the men not to hurt his legs. But of course that’s exactly what they did, once they had him outside and after they had punched him to the ground. While one man knelt on his chest and another pinned his feet, the guy with the crew cut produced a hammer from the back of his car and brought it crashing down onto Ian’s kneecaps and shins. Ian screamed out in agony before the pain had him blacking out. He came to as they pushed him onto the backseat of the car. He had never felt so cold; his teeth could not stop chattering as his muscles went into continual painful spasms. He remembered seeing a stream of blurry orange streetlights and then nothing else until he woke up on a trolley as it was being pushed to a ward from the A&E department of the Royal Hospital.

  Three hours later, his parents and Mark came to his bedside once the police had finished questioning him. He had told them he had been walking along the Tettenhall Road when a car stopped and three white men got out, racially abused him and attacked him with a hammer. It wasn’t dissimilar to an attack that had taken place a month before in which a young black guy was stabbed. His mother wept, and so did Clovis as he took Ian’s hand. Despite the pain, Ian felt happy right then. ‘I love you, Dad,’ he said, and Clovis did not pull away his hand. Once he was alone with Ian, Mark asked him for the truth. ‘You went to Ruth’s?’ Ian made a slow nod and Mark continued, ‘an’ the husband came back.’

  ‘Somethin’ like that,’ Ian said with a painful swallow. ‘But that’s between me an’ you, okay? It ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ but add to the hurt if mom an’ dad found out wha’ really happened.’ He looked down to his legs, which were encased in plaster. ‘I want you to go now an’ get some sleep, Mark. There’s a big game to play an’ I want you an’ the rest of the guys to go an’ win it for me. Tell Horace you have to bring me that cup to see.’

  Mark squeezed his brother’s hand and said he would do his best. As he left he heard Ian begin to cry. He knew Ian’s tears were flowing not just because of the pain in his legs but also over his shattered dreams of becoming a professional footballer. In the corridor, Mark pushed his back against a wall before going outside. He had thought about not turning up for the match but as he wiped away a tear of his own, he silently promised his young brother that he would do his best to bring him that cup.

  33

  Horace McIntosh hadn’t slept well; there had been too much going on in his head about the final. He’d long stopped thinking about tactics; he was mostly preoccupied with thoughts of whether he would even have a team to field. In hindsight, too much had been made of Sabina Park Rangers being the first black team to reach the final of the Watney’s Red Barrel Challenge Cup, which teams throughout the West Midlands had competed for since the 1960s. The little bit of hullabaloo it had caused had given his players the idea they had already achieved something but Horace knew that history rarely remembered losing finalists. He had so badly wanted to go into the record books by winning this match but now he would simply settle for avoiding the ignominy of being the first team in the history of the cup that was unable to put out a full side for the final. In desperation, he had taken the precaution of registering himself and Frank Grant as players. He knew that not to turn up with a full team would further entrench the stereotype of black players being ill-disciplined and undependable and he was determined that that was not going to happen – even if a good proportion of his players just so happened to be ill-disciplined and undependable.

  When he set off for the YMCA there was no room in his troubled mind for the fact it was his wife’s birthday, or that he had not seen Mervyn Palmer for a few days, or even any worries about the money that he had given to Nestor. All he could do was to cling to the remote hope that, against almost impossible odds, he and his team might be making history very shortly.

  Frank Grant turned up with the hired minibus but the only players to have arrived by nine o’clock were Norman Longmore, Courtney Wright and Buckshot Pinnock. Out of the three, it was only Norman who had got there without any trauma. Courtney had had another violent argument with his two brothers over the right and wrongs of playing for Sabina Park Rangers because of the supposed treachery of Horace McIntosh and he had ended up giving Patrick a smack in the mouth. Buckshot still had to cope with the aftershocks of bringing his sister back to their mother’s home. He had also brought his father there the following night, which turned out to be a big mistake, and amid all the recriminations Shannon had screamed that she hated her family and wanted to kill herself. In short, it wasn’t the best preparation for a match that Buckshot had ever had. ‘Right,’ said Horace, ‘we give it five minutes an’ den we go haul ras.’

  ‘Scarab beetles, to rasclart,’ grumbled Frank when the five minutes had elapsed. ‘Me an’ Horace are like dem scarab beetles lookin’ fe lickle balls-a dung to push aroun’ de place.’

  No one had a clue what he was talking about as they headed off to begin their search. They started by calling to the houses that were closest to the YMCA and tried for Bryce McBean first. A puffy-eyed woman with a stocking on her head called out from a bedroom window that he wasn’t there. The next to be visited was Desmond Palmer’s place. Jas’s appearance at the door brought about a bit of head scratching inside the bus before Desmond climbed on board. It wasn’t just the dressing gown and furry pink slippers but from the minibus it looked like Jas had lipstick smudged across his mouth. Someone said it was probably strawberry jam. ‘Mi rahteed,’ gasped Norman Longmore, ‘me tell you guys straight, if dat was happenin’ back-a-yard, people would jus come an’ burn him out. No, sah, dem nah tolerate dat sort-a carry on in Jamaica, to ras.’ It was on all their minds that if Jas was of a different sexual persuasion, then that raised questions about Desmond’s real reason for bringing him into his home. In the mind of the ‘super-macho’ Jamaican male there was no room for any sort of conduct that could call into question his masculinity. Crying in public, or holding hands with a woman while out shopping, tenderness toward a boy child (in case he grew up to be chi-chi), wearing ankle socks while playing a racquet sport (hence the real reason for the dearth of black male tennis players) were all deemed unacceptable. But what Desmond was doin
g was going way beyond this sort of highly suspect behaviour. Up until then, he had conformed perfectly to the stereotype of the archetypal black man (although many people would call it playing up to the stereotype). In the rankings of what a black man ‘should be’ he was a ‘five star-rahteed-general’. He had possession of several highly-polished and expensive cars, which could screech to a halt on seeing a crisp-looking girl walking along the pavement; the ability to chat up the crisp-looking girl no matter how much traffic was building up behind him; an uncaring attitude toward the women who had bore him children; and the natural inclination to drink barley wine straight from the bottle. Yet, Desmond seemed to be willing to fritter away his status and not just get busted down to private but maybe even dishonourably discharged from the ranks because of a hitherto unheard of tolerance of an alternative lifestyle. As the guys on the minibus saw him leave the house with a broad grin on his face they muttered that the guy must be mentally ill – he just didn’t seem to care what it looked like.

  But Desmond did not like the way his teammates looked at him as he took his seat and he immediately guessed what had brought about their wary expressions. ‘Look, man,’ he explained, ‘Jas does im own ting, right. Me beat im sorry ras last night but him say it nah change him. So I tell him me nah give a bloodclart ’ow him dress as long as him look after mi cars dem.’ As a few sniggers went up he said, ‘It about time some-a you guys matured yuhselves. Jas wearin’ a dress don’t change him bein’ the best mechanic me know … no disrespec’, Buckie, but me talkin’ about a BMW specialist.’

  Buckshot bristled at this. ‘Tell you wha’, Des, come check me Monday an’ me put on a nice red halter back while me change this clutch an’ then let me know wha’ you think.’ Amid the laughter and Desmond’s muttering for the need for more understanding, Courtney directed Frank to another house where, this time, they did find Bryce McBean. After shooting a warning glare at Desmond, Bryce in turn gave directions to where Cecil would be. Cecil was not being very co-operative until his Uncle Frank kicked the door and using several dozen Jamaican profanities told him he had one minute to get on the bus or he was coming in. Frank Grant was still cussing, even though Cecil was on board, as Horace told him to go to Mark Beckford’s house. The absence of the Beckford brothers had troubled Horace the most as they were not only his best players but also amongst the most dependable. Mark trotted out, his eyes bloodshot, to break the news that Ian had been injured and was in hospital.

  ‘How bad is he?’ asked Horace.

  ‘Very bad, H. He’s got two fractures in both legs an’ there’s talk about him havin’ pins put in.’

  ‘So wha’ happened to the guy?’ asked Buckshot.

  Mark hesitated. He was torn between telling them that his brother had been the victim of a racist attack (as the cops had been told) and the truth about how he had come by his injuries (which would have to include some embarrassing and salacious details). What Ian had told his parents and the cops was partly true, even if it certainly wasn’t quite in the proper context. ‘So wha’ happen?’ asked Norman Longmore.

  Mark made a snap decision to go for his own version of the truth. ‘As far as I know it was an argument over some woman.’

  Everyone in the bus sucked at their teeth and shook their heads in a knowing way. Women, or more precisely men’s pursuit of women, had led to many a downfall, especially in football. Horace surveyed the bus: so far he had only seven players and even if he and Frank donned the strip, he would still be two short. ‘Let’s head to Nestor’s,’ he said.

  As they drew up Nestor was piling luggage into the back of his Ford Capri. He looked momentarily startled and then very worried when he saw who was inside the bus. Horace was not taking no for an answer, even when Nestor said he wasn’t eligible to play because he had been sent off in the semifinal. ‘You can be Audley,’ Horace responded. With great reluctance, Nestor clambered onto the minibus to be met with hostile stares from Cecil, Beanie and Desmond – who asked if he had been going somewhere. Nestor wanted to make it clear he was no longer associated with Desmond (in case it was rumoured they were involved in some bizarre threesome with Jas) and so he directed his reply to Cecil. ‘My ole lady, she wants me to tek some stuff to a jumble sale.’ A disbelieving Cecil was about to issue a threat when Horace called out from the front passenger seat to ask if there were any suggestions about where they should head to next to find someone to play for them. ‘Blouse an’ skirt,’ muttered Norman Longmore, ‘dis is a disgrace, man. Dis look bad fe black people if we nah turn up with a whole team. Wha’ about if we go around to Audley an’ I talk to de guy?’ Horace immediately said that Audley had made it plain that he was not going to play for Sabina Park Rangers ever again and Horace was not going to let anyone beg Audley. Buckshot and Courtney offered a few names but at so early in the morning (almost ten o’clock) it was doubtful if any of them would be awake. ‘This is a waste-a time,’ said Nestor. ‘I might as well go an’ help mi ole lady with the jumble sale if we nah have a whole team. Cha, man, jus let me out ’cause me have better tings to do back at mi yard.’

  Beanie leaned over and prodded a finger into Nestor’s chest. ‘Me nah think so,’ he said, ‘you an’ Des ain’t goin’ nowhere today unless me an’ Cecil go wid you. We ’ave some cars to sell later.’

  Norman Longmore picked something up in Beanie’s tone and words. ‘Wha’ happen?’ he asked. ‘Is mi money a’right?’ Beanie said, ‘Your money garn, my money garn, heverybody’s money garn. The coolie teef it an’ garn.’ ‘Jee-sas!’ howled Norman. ‘Me knew it too good to be true, to rahteed! From the first time me heard about it at Aldersley me knew it was a skank. Me say coolies would not let a black man in on a deal dat was any good! Dem coolies are damn teefs me-a tell unno. No, offence, Bucks.’ For the second time that morning Buckshot was bristling. It was bad enough to be relegated behind the cross-dressing Jas as a mechanic but Norman Longmore had hit his most sensitive button. Throughout his childhood he had listened to derogatory comments about people who originated from the Indian subcontinent only for someone to turn around and say they weren’t referring to him. Until they had mentioned it, he hadn’t thought they were. His mother, her parents and grandparents – and maybe her great-grandparents – had been born in Jamaica and he was sick and tired of the prejudice of people like Norman Longmore who made out they were all less Jamaican than he was. It was the same with Bob Marley, who was then lying on his deathbed. Norman, the self-appointed spokesman for all Jamaican cultural affairs, had said that Marley’s music was a sell-out version of reggae. ‘An’ you know why dat is?’ he’d said, ‘’cause im daddy a white man. It de white man in him dat is sellin out black people’s music, to ras.’

  ‘You know wha’, Norman,’ Buckshot snarled, ‘Me sick an’ tired of the racism comin’ outta your big mout’ an’ I do tek offence.’

  ‘Racism,’ huffed Norman, ‘ras, bwoy, black people can’t be racist.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Nestor in an attempt to create a diversion, ‘Norman, me hear more sense come outta your batty-hole, ’cause most-a the time it-a pure bullshit that come outta your mouth. Man, me don’t know wha’ you teach but the pickney mus come out more stup-pid than when them go into your class. Buckie right, man, you too racist the way you go on ’bout coolies.’ Within seconds, the inside of the bus was a mass of heaving bodies as Norman tried to grab hold of Nestor (as he thought of his lost money) and Buckshot jumped over a seat at Norman. It took Horace and Frank to restore order by opening the rear doors and pulling people out and separating them. ‘Hol’ on a minute, hol’ on,’ said Horace, ‘dis nah de time an’ place to sort dis out.’

  The rest of the guys came out of the minibus, while Norman squeezed his head with his two hands as if he were trying to stop it exploding. ‘Me want mi money back!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘When me tried to give five hundred him insist on a t’ousand, dat’s what’s vexin me!’ He turned to Courtney and Buckshot. ‘Wha’ about you guys, don’t you fee
l the same way?’ Truth was, they didn’t – but they knew what the money had really been used for and the consequences for people like Shannon were too fresh in their minds for them to get as agitated as Norman. And besides, there was no way Buckshot was going to agree with anything Norman said from now on. Courtney said, ‘Put it down to experience, man. No one forced we.’

  ‘No, sah,’ said Norman, ‘me nah put it down to nutten but a skank an’ me want mi money back.’ To Horace he said, ‘Sorry, coach, but me nah play wid teefs. Me go home.’

  It was then that Mark Beckford spoke up. ‘Hey, Norman,’ he said, ‘you said a minute ago that it would be bad for black people if we don’t turn up with a whole team; so is it all changed now ’cause you lose some money?’

  ‘Me nah call a t’ousand pound “some money”.’

  ‘Tell him how much I put in,’ Mark said to Nestor.

  ‘Twenty grand, to ras, him put in the most,’ he replied.

  It was enough to stun everyone into silence. ‘Life savin’s,’ explained Mark. ‘But you know wha’, my kid brother is lyin’ in hospital with his two legs broke an’ he arksed me to go win this cup for him. He knows he might never play football again, a young guy, jus seventeen an’ about to sign for Villa, the First Division champions; can any-a you guys imagine how that mus feel? Jus think ‘bout if it happened to you when you were his age. I tell you wha’, in comparison, twenty grand is nothin’. All I arks you guys is to stop arguin for the nex’ couple-a hours, an’ that we go win this cup for Ian.’

  For a few moments the players of Sabina Park Rangers stood in the street with their heads bowed in shameful contemplation – until a car pulled up. It was Donovan Brown with his brother Elroy and Danny Rankin coming home from a blues party. ‘Hey,’ Donovan called out. ‘You guys are hard to find. We’s lookin’ to come give you some support.’