White Lines

by Mel Stein

  ‘Sure, Mark, a bunch of kids; but what dangerous children to play with.’

  But then, as the referee finally led the players back on to the field of play, anything else he had to say was lost in a wall of noise.

  CHAPTER 17

  Nathan Carr, sitting in the stands at the Colombian National Stadium, was one of the few English spectators to view the violence and interruption of play with any pleasure. He’d tried to get the rights to screen live England’s friendly internationals played outside Wembley for Jet TV and had failed. He did not take kindly to failure and worst of all he had lost out to Ball Park. He was tired of losing to Mo Halid, his so-called former friend. It was bad enough that he had lost his wife to him without also losing every sporting contest that was on offer. This was going to be the last time.

  Mo Halid was beginning to think he was unbeatable. He had money, power, connections and a track record. Even Nathan Carr could not honestly criticise the professionalism of the coverage that Ball Park gave to the game. There were always more than enough cameras, commentators and experts. They had their pick of the bunch, including the latest one Mark Rossetti. A real find, considering his past. Carr knew all about Rossetti’s background. He made it a point to discover everything about anyone who was in any way connected with Halid or his company. He never knew when it might come in useful.

  He’d come to Bogota because, yet again, Jet had the crumbs from the rich man’s table. They were being given the chance to show recorded highlights late in the evening. Recorded highlights. What good were they? He knew exactly what the viewing figures were likely to be. Who was going to watch thirty minutes of a game on one cable channel when they could have seen all of it live on another three hours earlier? The advertisers knew what the viewing figures were going to be as well, and advertising revenue was the life-blood of his station.

  He’d not come to Bogota just to supervise his team recording and editing the highlights. He still had enough people capable of doing that. He had people capable of doing everything that Ball Park did, better probably. They just needed to be given the chance to do it. He’d come to Bogota not only to keep his station’s foot in the door of televised football, but also to listen and learn.

  Although this was a friendly there was enough interest in both teams for everybody who was anyone in football to be here. FIFA and UEFA administrators and officials were here in numbers and of more importance there was the fact that those who would decide upon the future of ESL in Zurich in a few weeks’ time were also present.

  Carr was a little more subtle than simply going up to the members of the committee and asking what it would take to bring the contract home to Jet. He’d wanted those rights since way back in 1992 when he’d first thought they’d be available. He’d seen them snatched from him in 1997 and now they were back on the table. That, too, was thanks to Halid, although he had no intention of showing him any appreciation. Indeed, he’d had a long private laugh when his arch-rival had won his battle to re-open the tender. All those legal fees, all that effort, all that manpower and he, Nathan Carr, had not had to lift a finger, not had to spend a penny. He’d had it all fed to him on a plate.

  He’d made sure that he’d be staying at the same hotel as Jacques Vicheron, the Chairman of the ESL Committee, who was here merely as an interested spectator. There was no harm in him knowing that with Carr he was dealing with a man of substance. Vicheron’s luxurious suite was paid for on an expense account, whilst Carr’s own company was footing the bill for him. He’d brought Alissa Bland with him. Again, he was not so naive as to believe that she could seduce Vicheron into bed and guarantee success that way, but people would talk to her, confide in her, when they might look upon Carr with some suspicion. It had worked up to a point. They’d gleaned a few hints as to the sort of levels at which the tenders would need to be aimed, a few comments as to the kinds of items in the presentation that would impress. And he had every hope now that those hints would not have to be put to any meaningful use. It had certainly not been a wasted trip. He knew for certain that Ball Park and Jet were going to be the only serious bidders from the UK. That made it simple. Not easy, but simple. Nothing that involved Mo Halid was ever going to be easy and in a way Carr would have been disappointed if it was. What was the point of gaining a victory over Halid if it were easy? He wanted to work at it and knew for certain that if he was working at it, then so was Halid. And when Halid lost then he would know that he had lost something he really wanted. It wouldn’t be like losing a wife though. Susie had been something he’d really wanted.

  The pair of them had thought they were so generous, so sophisticated, so understanding, telling him to his face. They’d been waiting there, drinks in hand, in his own lounge when he’d come home from work. Home from a hard day’s work to keep Susie in the manner to which she’d become accustomed. They’d even had a third glass on the table expecting him to drink with them, to toast the future of the woman he loved and the partner he trusted.

  They’d told him the whole story, how nothing had been planned, an evening spent together when he had been travelling for the company, their company as it then was. He recalled the trip all too well. Over to Vienna for a day to land a major contract. A mad dash to the airport only to find they’d reallocated his seat. An argument with the girl on the check-in desk to no avail and by the time somebody senior had been summoned the plane was already taxiing along the runway.

  Apologies to a regular first class passenger, the offer of a complimentary night in a five-star hotel. It had all seemed enough at the time as he’d luxuriated in a bath and phoned home whilst still in the water to say he’d be away for the night. Susie had sounded all charm and solicitude, amused by the sound of splashing water down the line. She did all that very well and perhaps, during the good times, for the most part, she meant it.

  She’d reminded him that Mo had been coming over for dinner. Poor Mo, poor lonely Mo, who’d separated from his wife, who needed feeding up, looking after. How many times had they asked him round, listened to his problems, listened to his ambitions for the company, his dreams for all of them. They were going to go all the way. Mo, with his great ideas was going to make them seriously rich. Together they’d build the company up, float it, sell out and then do what? He could never envisage doing nothing, could not imagine Mo doing nothing either. Susie would have done it very well. She’d always liked to spend money even when it had not been there to spend. So what would she have been like if Mo’s plans had reached fruition? What was she like now when doubtless she had her limitless credit cards, the keys to the most expensive shops in the world?

  There were times when he could even convince himself he was well rid of her. It had not been the happiest of marriages, because he had always wanted not just to own her, but to flaunt her. She was indisputably attractive with her fair hair always looking freshly washed, her slim, boyish figure that she still persisted in squeezing into clothes at least one size too small. She was the kind of woman who turned heads in restaurants, whose bejeaned backside drew men’s eyes to swivel in their heads as she walked down the street, who exhibited a clear preview in her skin-tight outfits of what she would look like totally naked. He’d been surprised when she’d had Mo’s baby. He didn’t think she would have wanted to risk losing her figure, didn’t think she would have put up with all the mess and inconvenience that came with motherhood. Doubtless she would have done whatever was necessary to minimise the inconvenience. The best maternity hospital, nurses, nannies, all part of the supporting cast as she showed off the child in public, successfully playing the role of tender, caring mother.

  When he’d first met her she’d just finished at drama school. She’d told him she was waiting for the big break, the main chance. It never came in her acting career, it only came the night he slept alone in Vienna and she slept with Mo in his matrimonial bed. He’d spurned their offer of friendship. Yes, he’d raised the glass they’d offered him from their celebratory bottle, celebrating the
ir liberation from him. Then, just when they thought he was joining them in the toast, taking it like a gentleman, he’d thrown the liquid full into their faces. Tossing their honeyed words back in their faces, he stormed out, directionless and alone.

  It was a bad move to have left his own house, his lawyer told him later. He’d not been impressed by the advice, and nowadays he used a man in whom he had total confidence. Lars Clinton was half-Swedish, half-American, English qualified and one of the leading experts in the world on communication law. Fight fire with fire. Halid was using the high-profile Ben Rubens rather than his family solicitor, Henry Freeman. Smart and Jewish. Smart enough to make it all the way up the ladder in the big City firm in which he was a partner. He’d done a good job on the re-opening of the bid. Clinton had confirmed that.

  ‘You understand, Nathan, I’m only a lawyer who interprets regulations. I can tell you what to put in your submissions, I can’t tell you how to put it.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I’m paying an arm and a leg to consultants to do just that. Anything you can do to boost up our bid, anything to undermine Ball Park.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Clinton had said. At nearly £500 per hour, he bloody well ought to be doing his best, Carr thought. He ought to be performing miracles for that sort of money. Still, the thing about Clinton was he did at least give the impression you were getting value for money, but only time would tell if that impression was correct.

  It was with a slight feeling of disappointment that Carr saw the match resume. He had his team back in London analysing Ball Park’s coverage, dissecting it clinically like a surgeon searching for a cancer that might or might not be there. If they’d focused too much on the violence then he’d home in on that. Concentrating on the wrong part of the game, sensationalizing the coverage. Surely ESL wouldn’t like that.

  ‘Do we have to stay, Nathan? I’m hot and I’m bored and I’m not sure they’ll keep our table for dinner, or even if they understood that we made a reservation. This country really is the armpit of South America,’ Alissa said.

  ‘They’ll keep our table until breakfast. Don’t worry, they may not understand English but they certainly understood the tip I left them.’

  He leaned forward in his seat trying to concentrate on the game. Despite the fact it was such a vital part of his business he really did like football. He not only liked it but when he bothered to talk about it he could also demonstrate that he was very knowledgeable. Young Barry Reed was impressing him on his debut. He looked a real find, playing with a maturity far beyond his years. Not for the first time Carr idly wondered about acquiring or establishing a sports agency within his company. It would complement the media side very nicely.

  He clapped appreciatively as Reed received the ball out on the left and hit the ball cross-field to the right wing with a startling accurate volley. The focus and the pressure off him, he began to make ground towards the Colombian goal and instinctively was in the right position when the ball was returned to him some three passes later. He took it on his left foot, hit it first time and there was just a blur as it flashed past the keeper to put England in the lead.

  Even the Colombian supporters for the most part reacted with applause. They had already shown the violent side of their nature by venting their spleen on the referee, now it was time to show that they could also appreciate a piece of footballing genius.

  ‘What a great goal,’ Alissa said, forgetting her boredom.

  ‘Wonderful,’ replied Carr, but within seconds the moment of euphoria that arose from being there when something special occurred had passed. All he could now contemplate was the endless showing and reshowing of the goal on Ball Park. Jet would eventually have the footage, but the instantaneous moment would have passed. He also knew that Ball Park would also get to the goalscorer. There was obviously a relationship with Mark Rossetti that the rest of the media, Jet included, could not hope to challenge.

  The referee blew his whistle for the end of the match as soon as the exact ninety minutes were up on the clock. There were still a few cries of protest from the Colombians, who clearly felt he should have played on until the home team had equalised, but the referee was racing down the tunnel before they even had time to complete their arguments. He had a wife and family and wanted to see them again.

  As they rose to leave, Carr saw a distinctive redhead in the row in front of him talking to a stylish man, who, in his ice-cream coloured suit, seemed totally unaffected by the heat. Carr’s sharp ears picked up an English accent within the conversation that was being conducted in Spanish.

  ‘I’ve told you before not to look at other women. You know it makes me jealous,’ Alissa said in a bantering tone, ‘and in any event she’s spoken for.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Patti, Patti Delaney. Mark Rossetti’s other half.’

  Carr nodded, but continued to stare. Patti’s side of the conversation was becoming animated, bordering on the heated and anybody not knowing the couple would have taken her for the South American rather than the man. She was asking for something and the man was shaking his head calmly in denial. But Patti was evidently a woman who did not take no for an answer.

  Carr caught the eye of the other man. Patti followed the direction of his gaze. Was there a hint of recognition or was it simply the bonding of two men of the world where an attractive woman was involved?

  Carr had hesitated for only the briefest of moments, then held his arm back and, with a sweeping gesture, escorted Alissa out of the ground. He was tired and he was hungry and, for the moment at least, had had his fill of the world of football.

  CHAPTER 18

  Barry Reed sat in the medical room beneath the main stand of the stadium and tried to prepare himself to urinate. By his side was Juanito Ferrera, the Colombian goal-scorer who had already given one sample and was just waiting to give a second if the need arose.

  It had taken the edge off things being selected for a random drug test. He’d left his problems behind when he’d got on to the pitch, just as Mark said he would, but sitting here waiting to pass water gave him too much time to focus, too much time to think. Yes, he’d made a goal and scored one. Not just one, but probably the best he’d ever scored in his career. But the glory of a goal didn’t last for ever, however many times it was shown on the box. You were always going to be judged on what you did today not what you had done yesterday. It was a little bit like going on holiday when you were a kid. You spent months looking forward to it, and then the second half of the break realising the days were ticking away to your return. Yet a part of him wanted to talk through the performance, to sit before a video with Mark and relive the game and the goal before they shifted too far in his memory.

  The FIFA official and the local doctor returned and this time Barry succeeded in giving the sample. The official, a round, squat Swiss, shook Barry’s hand, whilst the doctor removed the sample for testing having carefully labelled it up with identification.

  ‘A great goal,’ the round man said, ‘one about which I will be proud to tell my grandchildren. I’m sure you’ll score many more in your career.’

  Ferrera gave his second sample and made to leave.

  ‘You played good. You think maybe I could play in England one day?’ His English was flawed and heavily accented, but he could make himself understood.

  ‘Too right,’ Barry replied with a grin that made him look about sixteen. ‘You’d be a top man back home. You’re built like an English striker, took your goal well. How old are you, mate?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Spot on. Do you want me to have a word with a few people?’

  Ferrera looked at Barry, puzzled by the confidence in one so young.

  ‘Do you mean agents?’

  ‘Nah, I can’t stand the fuckers.’

  ‘You are clever for your age. Me, I don’t like agents either. In South America it is hard to find an honest agent, one who works for you and not for himself. They take money from you for
doing nothing and you never know how much the club pays or what you earn.’

  He produced a visiting card, which, with its gold edging and embossed letters looked more suited to a private banker than a professional footballer.

  ‘Give me a call if you think there will be interest. If I come I think you and me, we will be friends.’

  ‘Sure,’ Barry said, looking up at the Colombian with admiration as he tucked his Armani shirt into Calvin Klein jeans and adjusted the solid gold necklace around his neck. He was a big man in every sense of the word, with wide slanting eyes, a broad nose contrasting with the almost girlish lips. His complexion was remarkably fair but his hair was jet-black, worn long at the back and tied into a pony-tail. He clearly had some European or perhaps even Scandinavian blood in him somewhere, and with his stylish and sophisticated appearance, it would not have surprised Barry if he had a Harley-Davidson parked outside ready to shoot off into the night at a hundred miles per hour. Ferrera finished dressing by slipping on Gucci sneakers and finally tossing a cotton jacket over his arm with, again, the Armani label in evidence. His total outfit looked as if it must have cost more than Barry earned in a month at Hertsmere.

  He’d meant it when he said he disliked agents, but he really did need to do something about revising his contract at the club. Lennie Simons had been involved last time around, he of unblessed memory. Even if he’d still been around he’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t have gone back to him again. The man had screwed him for five per cent of the total value of his contract and then gone back to Hertsmere and had the gall to ask them to pay his fees as well. David Sinclair, the chairman, had given him short shrift and had made sure that Barry knew all about it.

  He’d ask Mark when he gave him the post-match interview he’d promised. Mark would know, Mark knew everything. He was happy at Hertsmere, he liked the chairman and the manager, but realised their limitations in respect of the depth of their pockets. Mr Sinclair had tried to explain it all to him at their first get-together after the summer break. This could be their last season at their old ground. Moving cost money, but if they could only win the Premiership, then there’d be as much money for the players as there was at any other major club. Winning the Premiership meant entry to the ESL. Barry had never been much good at arithmetic or maths at school and he had never attempted the mysteries of economics, but even he could understand just how much was at stake this season.