Big and Clever

by Dan Tunstall

  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.

  five

  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 adver
tising 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.

  You’ve Never Won Fuck All from Castleton.

  You Dirty Northern Bastards from our lot.

  There’s real vitriol in some of the stuff that’s being bandied about, but we’re right in there, belting out each of the songs like our lives depend on it. Things get cranked up another notch when the Castleton fans start bringing up the history between the two clubs.

  Did You Cry In Ninety-One? they’re goading over and over again.

  At first there’s just booing from our section but then a chant of Wankers, Wankers, Wankers breaks out. It’s not the wittiest response, but it’s having the desired effect, drowning out any sound that’s coming from the Castleton lot.

  By the next time I look at the timer, it’s showing 87:00. The chanting is dying down. Over to the left I notice something going on in the technical area. John Whyman, the Letchford manager, is waving his arms around like a windmill, trying to get a message across, and the fourth official is heading towards the touchline flashing up the numbers 16 and 22 on his digital board. Leroy Lewton is being substituted.

  “Oh shit,” Ryan says, as Leroy starts trudging off.

  I turn towards him.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Have you seen who’s coming on?”

  I look across to the dugouts just in time to see Leroy shaking hands with his replacement. Blond hair. Blue boots. Danny Holmes. As the details of the substitution come over the PA system, the response from the Letchford fans is roughly fifty-fifty cheers and boos. The Castleton fans are a lot more certain about how they feel, launching into Rent Boy, Rent Boy.

  Danny doesn’t have much impact on the game. In fact for the first three minutes he’s on, he doesn’t even touch the ball. The scoreboard is showing 90:00, yellow digits glowing in the gloom. I didn’t see how much stoppage-time the fourth official put up, but the tannoy announcer has just given it as two minutes.

  Carl Butterworth has got the ball midway inside our half. The Castleton players are backing off, looking to run the clock down, and they’re letting Butterworth advance towards the centre circle. All of a sudden there’s movement in front of him. Danny Holmes spins away from his marker and hurtles into the Castleton box just as Butterworth launches a long ball over the top. Garry Puncheon, the Castleton goalkeeper, sensing the danger, comes flying off his line, then stops. He’s stranded. The ball arcs through the air, skims off Danny Holmes’s head, sails over Puncheon and nestles in the back of the net.

  There’s a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium breaks out. A huge roar erupts as a tidal wave of bodies crashes down the terracing towards where Danny Holmes is standing, back to the crowd, thumbs pointing to the name on his shirt. In a split second I’m lifted off my feet and carried over to the left, then the right, then finally back to where I started. I’m vaguely aware that I’ve cracked my kneecap against the crush barrier but it doesn’t matter. We’re 1-0 up in stoppage time. As the roar dies down I look around for Raks and Ryan. Ryan’s on my right, but Raks has been carried further down to the left. He’s making his way back up, eyes wide.

  “Danny Fucking Holmes!” he laughs.

  I start laughing too, but Ryan looks serious.

  “Don’t count your chickens,” he says.

  The game kicks off again. Castleton are attacking in desperation now, raining balls into our box, everyone apart from their keeper in our half, blue shirts everywhere. Worryingly, Letchford are defending deep rather than trying to keep things up at the Castleton end. It’s a dodgy strategy, but it looks like it’s going to work. The ref has checked his watch a couple of times.

  One last ball is hoofed into our penalty area and Tommy Sharp rises to nod it clear. He’s misjudged his jump and he heads it straight up in the air.

  “Razor, you daft bastard,” someone moans.

  The ball drops in slow motion. As it lands, spinning in the mud, a huge melee breaks out in our six-yard box. For some reason we just can’t get it away. Paul Hood tries, but his clearance cannons off Tony O’Neill’s backside and skids across the goalmouth. Jimmy Knapper dives to his right but it’s too late. Mark Young, the Castleton number 18, stabs it home.

  1-1.

  A deafening cheer goes up from the away support. Some of them were already heading for the exits, but now they’re spilling back down towards the front of the stand, dancing around, chanting Going Up, Going Up, Going Up.

  My head is spinning. Ninety minutes of garbage and then two goals in thirty seconds.

  “Bastards,” Raks whispers.

  I look at Ryan. His eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head.

  Right next to where we’re standing, a Castleton fan in his twenties starts hurling insults at us. He’s gripping the wire fencing so hard his knuckles are going white. As he pulls the wire mesh backwards and forwards, his eyeballs are bulging and his neck tendons are sticking out.

  “You wankers,” he’s screaming. “You fucking wankers.”

  There’s a blur of movement as three lads from our side of the barrier charge across aiming kicks at the wire and sending the bloke back a couple of paces. I’m shocked, but before I have a chance to do or say anything, another group of Letchford lads barges past me, squaring up to the mob that’s rapidly forming on the other side of the fence. I’m about to say something to Ryan when I notice that he’s not there. He’s jostled his way through the crowd until he’s standing virtually nose-to-nose with the Castleton fans, shouting and gesticulating.

  All hell is breaking loose. A phalanx of stewards is arrowing up the slope towards us. Some of the Castleton lads are trying to climb over the barrier into our section, while fans from both sides are tearing at the wire, trying to pull it down. The ordinary punters, the old blokes and the young kids, are taking evasive action now, backing away across to the left hand edge of the terracing. Out on the pitch the final few seconds of the match are being played out, but nobody’s watching.

  I’m just turning towards Raks when there’s a sudden jolt of pain at the side of my head, just above my ear.

  “Fucking hell,” I shout, hunching over, clutching my hand to where a lump is already forming on my sc
alp.

  “What’s going on?” Raks says.

  There’s a jingling noise and something lands on the concrete in front of me. A two pence piece. Things start to make sense.

  “Bastards are coining us,” I say, rubbing my head, checking my fingertips for blood.

  “You OK?”

  I nod. Adrenalin is surging through me now. My heart is pounding and there’s a strange metallic taste in my mouth. I feel dizzy and out of breath. The pain in my head is fading away and being replaced by something else. Anger. Raw anger. Looking past the scrum of bodies on our side of the fence and into the Castleton fans I swear I can see a bloke pointing directly at me, coin poised between his thumb and forefinger, laughing.

  As another penny whistles past my ear, some sort of primeval instinct takes over. Before I can think of the implications, I’ve vaulted over the crush barrier and charged towards the fence. I’m down past Ryan, kicking out, aiming at the hands of the Castleton fans still gripping the wire mesh. I’m completely out of control.

  Somewhere, through the chanting and the swearing, I hear the sound of the referee blowing the final whistle. Shooting a glance towards the pitch I see the players heading for the tunnel. The other three stands are already almost empty. It’s just the Kop that’s still heaving with bodies.

  As I swing another kick towards the barrier I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin round. It’s Ryan. Raks is right behind him.

  “Come on,” Ryan says, yanking at my arm. “Got to get a move on.”

  The tannoy announcer is thanking us for coming and telling us that the attendance has been 5,988. He’s wishing us a safe journey home. We’re not interested. We’ve got other things to think about. We sprint back up the terracing and bundle down the stairs. All around us the gangs of Letchford lads are spontaneously joining together now, like regiments forming themselves into an army. As he pushes his way to the front, it becomes pretty clear that Ryan’s one of the generals. The exit gates are open and we charge straight out, heading left towards where the away fans are starting to spill into the car park.