12 Yards Out

by Javi Reddy

  The Rosebank crowd did their best to motivate the team once more with withdrawn cries of encouragement, but the manner in which the Pretoria boys ran back to the centre circle signalled that the momentum had shifted. Pretoria began to use the battering ram approach to gain their equaliser. They were launching the ball forward, towards both their six-foot-tall strikers, at every attempt, but Rosebank kept launching it back.

  Rosebank’s captain led by example, clearing the ball as far away as possible. Thabo had had a physically daunting match thus far. He’d taken knock upon knock but continued to play. He did not wince but got on with the job.

  James could see why their coach had elected him to wear the armband. James looked over towards Jay and remembered that he had been in the wars as well. Not many of the spectators had noticed, but James could swear that Jay was not moving as freely as he’d been doing so a few minutes ago.

  Coach Zondi was the epitome of a paradox—a man roaring to his players to remain calm. Pretoria pushed and pushed—they had two minutes to save their dream. It seemed like two hours for Rosebank to defend theirs. Jay had been doing his best to defend from the front and when he nipped the ball off a Pretoria winger, the Rosebank crowd’s roar was mightier than it had been in the closing stages.

  Then, in a second, it turned to a gasp of disbelief. Jay passed the ball back to his keeper, so that his team were out of harm’s way. He did not see the pacing winger that had snuck up from the side and into Rosebank’s half. The winger’s speed made sure he latched onto Jay’s back pass and no one from Rosebank had time to react. The keeper galloped out and tried to smother the ball as best as he could, but the Pretoria boy was like a hyena with a bone in his mouth. Nothing would take the ball off him and the keeper brought him down in a moment of sheer hysteria.

  Penalty. But was that where the punishment would stop? It was a clear goal-scoring chance, so it could mean only one thing. The ref hoisted a red card into the tangerine afternoon skies and James could not remember witnessing an occasion as fleeting as that. Rosebank had ultimately snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Within seconds, they had capitulated. And their superstar, the catalyst for so many victories, was now the destroyer of dreams.

  The Rosebank crowd looked to Jay for some sort of sign of goodwill, that all would be restored if he got the chance in front of goal again. All he could muster up was burying his hands in his face. The problems kept coming.

  Zondi had already made all his substitutions for the game. He had brought on an extra defender in the last few minutes to sure up the back. No subs left, which meant no proper replacement keeper. Keith valiantly took the gloves. Unfortunately, his first act in his new role was to pick the ball out of the net. The Pretoria spot-kick taker duly dispatched the penalty, sending Keith the wrong way. The final whistle soon sounded and it would now go to extra-time. Ten minutes a half, with Rosebank down to ten men.

  * * *

  Vang hom! Hardloop, vinniger! – Afrikaans for ‘Catch him! Run, faster!’↩

  Chapter 26

  6 October 2013. 11:03 AM

  Layla and James let the breeze outside the Staffords brush their faces, as they continued to idle about the parking lot. She held his hand as they made their way back to the car. It was an unsettling contentedness. The uncertain future would always hold them back.

  “You were quite a performer that day,” she purred. She replayed all the events from that epic semi-final in her head and enjoyed them like a child revisiting her surprise party. For Layla, that was when James was truly someone she could be with again. He was the old James in a newer time. And that was all she ever wanted.

  24 August 2013. The semi-final. Extra-time

  James looked around. There was worry everywhere; in people’s eyes and in the lumps in their throats. They all thought they’d be on their way home by now, cruising through the Rosebank streets in their fancy cars, pressing hard on their triumphant hooters. Instead, they stood there—their feet growing hard against the turf, and their minds turning into fretful flakes.

  Rosebank had to play 20 minutes of additional football against a Pretoria side that was far fitter than they were. This, they had to do it with a keeper who wasn’t even a keeper. What really concerned James, however, were Jay’s gingerly movements. The aftermath of that tackle had seeped in. Jay couldn’t let Rosebank face this final hurdle with nine men. He had to go out there and fight with them, or his last touch in a Rosebank shirt would have been a kiss of death on his own team.

  Midway through the first half of extra-time, a clear pattern for the rest of the game had emerged. Pretoria continued to come at Rosebank, whilst the home team soaked up as much pressure as they could—their defence performing as heroically as possible. It was painful to watch. It was as if they’d been invaded whilst they were hosting a fancy dinner party, and their brutal conquerors were thrashing whatever fancy fittings they could come across.

  This was not how the script was supposed to be read. That was football though—not always about the victories that should have been, but rather the losses that came to be. The one positive light that came out of the shroud of anarchy was that Keith was beginning to shine in the nets. He was not as tall or commanding as the normal Rosebank keeper, but he was doing whatever he could to keep Pretoria out; racing off his line to boot the ball as far away as he could, punching the ball away from crowded areas, and hurtling low to his sides to keep out all the shots.

  The first period of extra-time ended and it was still 2-2. Jay had barely touched the ball and when he did, he held it up for a while before passing it on to a teammate. Ten minutes until a penalty-shoot. Within a minute of the restart, the dream was all but over. Pretoria pushed extra men into the box. The ball was squared back for their striker to complete his hat-trick, and gave his side the lead for the first time. 3-2. The end was imminent.

  The goal killed off any fighting spirit Rosebank had left in them. James scanned through the crowd. No one urged on their team. He was not sure what influenced him to do what he did next, but jumping onto the middle of a school stand seemed like the only thing in the world that made sense at the time. “People of Rosebank!”

  Everyone raised their heads up to him. Even players on the bench offered him their brief attention.

  “What are you doing? Get down from there!” Layla aggressively whispered her pleas to him. He remained rooted to the stand.

  "I came here today because I thought I would get a drink on a nice, calm afternoon.

  "Instead, all I’ve witnessed is you wretched lot taking beer after beer out of your cooler boxes, without even bothering to toss me one! That’s enough to drive a grown man insane.

  “What has saved me, however, are those lovely lads out there. They’ve made sure that this trip was not wasted. They ran, sweated and bled on that field. They don’t get paid for that. And I’m pretty sure it doesn’t help when they still have to get their homework done after a hard day’s toiling. What eases their pain though, after they leave the battlefield, is walking off to the people they love. Are you going to abandon them now, when they’ve been there the whole season for you? Giving you performance after performance? Is that really you? I don’t know about you, but I’m going to shake the hands of every single one of them after this. Win or lose.”

  People began to move around in their seats. Those standing began to slowly nod to each other. The noise grew, even if it was more than likely for the last time that season. Layla shook her head, but gave James an all-too-familiar grin. He knew it well—it meant she wanted to kiss him. They were interrupted.

  “Sorry, sir. You definitely earned this.”

  A man in a khaki fisherman’s hat handed James a can of Castle Lager. The cool beer quenching James’ thirst was like the freshness that had waved itself over the Rosebank fans’ returning support. With six minutes to go, the team gave it their all. They danced with the ball at their feet in their last waltz, with the chanting of the crowd as the final background track.
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  Jay had a bandage wrapped around his leg. The first-aid assistant had rubbed Voltaren gel on him during James’ mini-soliloquy. The boy had heard every word he’d said as he got his treatment right in front of the stand. He nodded to James—the stranger who had come into his life—and got back on the field. In the last minute, Rosebank’s captain hoofed the ball long. It was a hit and hope. The ball was headed out by a Pretoria defender and bounced to no one really.

  Jay was sitting deep in midfield when he ran towards it, biting against the pain. He hit it with his weaker foot—his left foot—as he had no other choice. He could barely even stand on his right. James had spoken to him much since that day, especially about his goals for Rosebank. That is the only goal he’d ever heard the boy call a fluke. He was allowed to have one. No, he deserved one.

  The keeper dove as high and as wide as he could, but he could do nothing to stop it. The ball was always going to beat him and it had nothing to do with Jay’s skill. The ball beat him because 99 times out of a 100, it would have gone hopelessly wide. But this was the one time it didn’t. Luck, whenever it is presented, must be taken without any questioning. Jay fell to the ground when he scored. He had no energy to celebrate. He held his other leg tightly as the ref blew his whistle immediately after. At least he would no longer have to run.

  Could he take a penalty though?

  The crowd was buzzing. They had witnessed the unbelievable. Theatre, cinema, concerts; they all drew immense entertainment, but sport somehow upstaged them all. Its realism, its flawed characters, the way it found hope and triumph in the darkest of times and against the toughest of adversaries, gifted its audience the most authentic type of drama known to man. And the drama would not stop there. It was time for the dreaded penalty-shootout. A cruel lottery that no player deserved to be part of, yet one that many found themselves embroiled in.

  12 yards out. The shorter the distance, the finer the line between glory and pain. 12 yards made champions. Pretoria won the coin toss which meant they had to go first, whether they wanted to or not. Those were the rules. A minute later, one of their centre-mids blazed the first spot kick over. It was so high and wide that it was no longer hard to see why rugby was such a popular sport at their school.

  Next up would be the older of the twin brothers for Rosebank. Caleb Bhengu placed the ball down calmly, as if he were in a Zen Garden and turned away to take his run up. He did not look back, nor did he pause to look which way he was going to hit it when he turned around. He just kept his head down and cantered towards the ball. He hit it high and to the keeper’s left. Even though the keeper guessed the right way, he could not do anything about it. It nestled into the roof of the net, and the crowd’s delayed cheer helped settle the players’ nerves.

  Up stepped Pretoria’s striker who had scored three goals in the game. It was debatable whether he was originally scheduled to go second, but because they were already 1-0 down, the Pretoria coach needed his team to make sure they got off the mark. Confidence was the key ingredient in any penalty-shootout.

  The boy placed the ball down like Dirty Harry. His cool stare let Keith know who was in charge. Jay had told James much about Keith. James knew this much: that Keith was one of those kids who did not care who you were. He would stand up to you, irrespective of what others thought he should or should not do. He often played the fool but Keith Holmes carried a hidden strength in him that perhaps he, more than anyone else, did not give himself credit for. He was determined to have his say in this shootout.

  The Pretoria striker went to Keith’s left this time. Keith somehow read that he would change his approach from his earlier spot kick and guessed the right way. It was the most stupendous of saves. How he dove that far and that high in such a short space of time was beyond everyone. In that moment, everyone knew that Rosebank would win. They could not lose from here. Not again.

  The crowd continued to roar and even Coach Zondi quietly pumped his fists. The cheers would have meant nothing if Rosebank missed the next one, so it was all the more important that someone stepped up, who exuded absolute belief at this stage. It was a no brainer. Keith took the ball. True, he was now a super-saver with gloves on, but first and foremost, he was one of Rosebank’s deadly attacking forces. He did not disappoint, sending the keeper the wrong way. 2-0. They could almost smell the freshly cut grass inside Ace Sports Arena.

  Pretoria scored their next one, but so did Rosebank which meant 3-1 after three each. Pretoria could not miss the next one. Keith was dancing across his goal-line, trying to put off the opposition. The body language of the next Pretoria spot-kick gave it away. There was no way he was going to score. He was shaking as he kept replacing the ball on the spot. The ref kept pointing to his whistle to let him know that he could only go once the ref said so. That killed him inside.

  When he eventually took his spot kick, he did find a target—Keith’s gloves. Game, set, match. That was a tennis term, but it seemed that Rosebank would have won any contest with Keith in this sort of form. The players ran over to huddle around him before lifting him onto their shoulders.

  “WE’RE GOING TO THE FINAL!” was the cry from the crowd. Jay hobbled over to Layla and James and received a big fat kiss on the cheek from her. James messed with him by leaning in to give him the same. Jay playfully pushed him away and they all landed up locking into that famous group hug once more. James caught sight of a small Indian man who was a lot more sombre than anyone else in the Rosebank crowd. He left the game and did not stay for the celebrations. His stoical demeanour was what made James notice him.

  James, soon, caught a glimpse of Vinny. He had watched the whole semi-final and was probably licking his lips. His Inkanyambas had demolished Germiston High 5-1 earlier. Rosebank were worked to the bone to get their final berth. The Inkanyambas had cruised there. Two of the strongest teams would be vying for honours in Soweto, in a week’s time. It was the final that everyone wanted. Whether it would be evenly contested, was a different story.

  6 October 2013. 11:15 AM

  James opened the door for Layla and let her into her own car’s passenger seat. He jumped into the driver’s seat. He wished that he didn’t take charge that day and cross paths with Jay’s father when he did. They’d all be better off now. He’d have not have been labelled a…

  “MURDERER!”

  James swiftly swung around to notice that a woman slightly shorter than him had snuck up to the car. He would even have deemed her attractive, had it not been for the lack of makeup she was sporting and the baggy clothes that sagged over her body.

  “You fucking murderer! I can’t believe they let you out. You’ll pay for your sins. You’ll pay!” Layla stormed out of the car and stood in front of him.

  “Take a walk, skank. You’re outta line.” She turned to James.

  “Get in the car, I’m driving.”

  “You’re helping him! You’ll rot in jail as well! He’ll ruin your life like he ruined so many others. You’ll see….”

  They were well on their way out, as the lady continued with her ranting. Thanks to Layla’s formula one exit; they left her and her resentment long behind.

  James sat in the passenger seat, aimlessly crossing his eyes over the pavements that flashed by as they returned to Rosebank.

  “She doesn’t know the truth. You’re not a murderer. We’ll fix this. Hey, hey, look at me. We’ll make it right.”

  James made sure he looked at her.

  “I know. But I didn’t even know that woman.”

  He no longer looked at Layla, opting to stare back outside the car window. As they entered a parking space in the flat, he eventually spoke again.

  “I don’t really care about her or her accusations. There’s just one thing she said that’s bothering me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said ‘I can’t believe they let you out’. Let me out from where?”

  Chapter 27

  6 October 2013. 11:50 AM

  Jay greeted them e
nthusiastically on their return to the flat, but neither James’ nor Layla could match his delight.

  “What did I miss?”

  Neither of them answered. Layla went about chopping and dicing vegetables on the wooden board in the kitchen, as James filled his glass with as much whiskey as possible. “Just a tiring trip, lad.”

  He ruffled Jay’s hair as he passed him by to take a seat on the couch. Jay joined him. “It’s time. We need to talk about it… about what happened to my father.”

  James took a sip—one that finished half his drink.

  “I saw your dad at the semi-final. At that time, I didn’t know who he was, nor did I care. All my focus was on Vinny. When I saw him at the game, I knew that he was plotting something depraved. I had to go and see what he was up to. I had to go into the lion’s den…”

  28 August 2013. The Tab

  After the night of the Art Exhibition, James kept replaying events out in his mind. He kept seeing Vinny’s eyes. Their light-green glint, normally associated with beauty or admiration, carried within them a sense of peril. Worse yet, his smile had a hold over people. When he grinned, he asserted himself in a sly yet powerful manner. James saw him flaunt it over Layla.

  Vinny had to disappear for both of them to be happy. She begged him to stay away from the man, and in typical Tait fashion, the very next evening, he decided to pop in and spy on his new friend. James knew that one day, having many a bad acquaintance in many a bad bar would eventually pay off. He found out that every Wednesday evening, Vinny would grab a bite at the Tab betting room in Melville.

  James sauntered in, cautiously calm. It was fairly dark—thanks to the dim rectangular lamps hanging over the round wooden tables in the room. The lamps were similar to those that hovered over pool tables in low-key lighting pubs. Wisps of cigarette smoke clouding the room put James at ease, as he lit up a Stuyvesant Blue. He could not see Vinny anywhere amongst those who chomped away at their steak, eggs and chips and guzzled down their draughts of beer. He wouldn’t have minded a cold one himself but did not care much for placing a bet.