by Dan Tunstall
I laugh.
“So that’s you, Steve and Dave. What about Trev?”
Dave leans forward. His gold identity bracelet jangles against the table-top.
“Oh, Trev’s the real fuckin’ naughty boy,” he says. “One of the ringleaders, they said in court. Trev has to report to the fuckin’ Police station every Saturday afternoon during the football season, and on all other Letchford match days. Isn’t that right Trev?”
Trev grins. Dave carries on.
“And that’s not the whole fuckin’ story is it, Trevor?”
I look at Trev and he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he growls. “I ran into a spot of bother at Euro 2000. Got arrested in Charleroi. Spent a bit of time in the Belgian nick. So now I have to surrender my passport whenever England are playing abroad.”
“Bloody hell,” Raks says. “So you’re banned from all football. Domestic and international?”
Trev nods. Just for a second, his huge frame slumps forward. For the first time he actually looks a bit sad.
“Yeah. But I’ll always have the memories.” He smiles, straightening up again, confidence instantly restored. Leaning back in his chair, he pushes his hand into his jeans pocket and brings out his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulls out a dog-eared photograph and lays it on the table, taking care to avoid the beer splashes.
Craning my head round, I look at the photo. It’s five blokes, early to mid twenties by the looks of it. They’re all in shorts and white trainers. Four are wearing red England tops and the fifth is in a white T-shirt with a bulldog on it and These Colours Don’t Run across the bottom. They’re all badly sunburnt. I squint, looking more closely, and then things start making sense. I recognise four of the faces. Trev, Steve, Dave and Chris. They’re much younger and much thinner, but it’s definitely them. The other face, I don’t know. It’s a big bloke, built like a brick shithouse.
Trev picks the photo up again. He coughs, clearing his throat.
“England versus Holland. Cagliari, Sardinia, June 16th 1990.” He recites the date like it’s something that’s indelibly etched onto his heart, like a special birthday.
Dave takes the picture from Trev and shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “What a day. Fuckin’ Eye-tie police with rifles. Baton charges, tear gas….” His voice trails off and he shakes his head again.
“So was the match any good?” Raks asks.
Chris laughs.
“The match were shit. 0-0. Stuart Pearce scored a free kick right near the end but it were disallowed. The thing is though, it didn’t matter, yeah? The day were about much more than just the football.”
Steve leans across, looks at the photo and then sits back again.
“And we had the big fella with us back then, too. Letchford’s Top Boy.”
“So who was he, then?” I ask. I glance at Trev’s picture again, assuming that Steve means the fifth bloke.
“Mickey,” Steve whispers. “Mickey Dawkins.”
I blink.
“Dawkins?” I say. “So he’s…”
Ryan finishes the sentence for me.
“My dad.”
Nobody says anything for a while after that. I look across at Ryan, but he just stares at the floor. Trev puts the photo back in his wallet, and the wallet back in his pocket.
“You see lads,” he says eventually, voice deeper and growlier than ever, “that’s what it’s all about. Times like that, experiences like that. The Battle Of Southlands, representing Letchford at Italia 90, Euro 2000. Those were the days of our lives. There’s not much else on offer when you’re a dosser from Letchford. But those times, those memories, they’ll stay with you forever. The LLF was something to have a bit of pride in.” There’s real conviction in what he’s saying. I swear I can see a tear in his eye.
Dave takes up the theme.
“And you boys are the next fuckin’ generation,” he says. “It’s a young man’s game these days. You’ve got to carry the fuckin’ torch for us now. We were the Letchford Lunatic Fringe. You lot are the New Letchford Lunatic Fringe.”
Spontaneously, everyone picks their pint up, slamming them together in the air above the table.
“Here’s to the NLLF,” I say.
“The NLLF,” everyone echoes.
The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur. Trev and the lads keep us well supplied with beer while giving us a blow-by-blow account of the chequered history of the LLF. In their heyday they seemed to have had a run-in with every major firm in the old third and fourth divisions, not to mention a few skirmishes with the big boys in cup competitions. Scars on knuckles and eyebrows are pointed out. Dave shows us an indentation on the back of his head caused by a flying chair leg in a pub in Cardiff. Ryan’s probably heard it all before but me and Raks are hanging on every word.
We’re chipping in with more and more way-out accounts of what happened after the Castleton match. By the fourth or fifth telling, it’s sounding like a scaled down version of World War Two. If Dave or Chris or anyone knows we’re bullshitting though, they don’t mention it.
By ten to three I’ve put away nearly four pints of Carling. It’s easily the most I’ve ever drunk in one session. On an empty stomach too. I’m starting to think I could quite happily curl up into a ball and go to sleep in the corner of the pub, but it’s not really an option.
“We need to think about getting back to Parkway,” I say to Raks. “We’re going to miss the bus back to Thurston if we don’t get a move on.”
Raks rubs his eyes, trying to focus. He shakes his head from side to side. I’m pissed but he looks shitfaced.
“What?” he says.
“Parkway. We need to get back to Parkway to get the bus. It’s Thursday. I’ve got the Argus to deliver tonight.”
Ryan looks at me.
“I’m staying here,” he says. “And I don’t think I’m going to bother with Parkway tomorrow. So I’ll just meet you in the Café Rialt at about quarter to two on Saturday.”
I nod.
“Okay. One forty-five, Saturday.”
Ryan nods. He looks pleased with how the afternoon’s turned out. We’ve not let him down in front of his mates. I’m pleased that he’s pleased. It’s a strange thing, but Ryan looks more at home here than I’ve ever seen him before. With Trev and the lads, he fits right in. It’s like he’s a middle-aged man trapped in a teenager’s body.
I take a breath and stand up. My legs feel like they want to go in different directions. Raks starts levering himself out of his seat, steadying himself against the edge of the table. For a split second it looks like he’s going to fall over, but Chris pushes him upright.
“Careful there, Raks lad, yeah?” he says.
Raks grins a pissed grin. Him and Chris have been getting on like a house on fire since their rocky start.
“See you then lads,” I say, looking at Trev, Chris, Steve and Dave. It takes a fair bit of concentration not to slur my words. “Good to meet you.”
Trev, Chris and Dave hold their hands out and I shake each one. As I turn towards Steve I notice that he’s looking at me closely, tilting his head to one side.
“I’ve got to ask you mate,” he says. “Do I know you from somewhere? It’s been nagging away at me all afternoon.”
I shrug, puffing out my cheeks. I’m pretty sure I’ve never come across him before, but it’s hard to think with this amount of lager sloshing around inside me.
“Dunno.”
Steve shakes his head.
“I know your face. I’m sure I do…” His wispy little voice trails away and he furrows his brow, trying to make the connection in his mind.
I shrug again. There’s nothing much I can say. I feel like I’m letting him down in some way.
“What’s your surname?” he asks.
“Mitchell.”
Steve sits bolt upright. He clicks his right thumb and middle finger and points at me.
“I knew it,”
he says. “Your dad’s Tony Mitchell.”
I nod, surprised.
“Yeah. Tony Mitchell. Hollywood Tony.” Steve’s smiling now, relieved to have made the breakthrough. All of a sudden he’s speaking three times louder than normal. “I used to work with him at Morrells. Good bloke. You’re the absolute spitting image.”
I stifle a laugh. Steve can’t have seen the state of my dad recently.
“So how is he, your dad?” he asks.
“Oh, you know, he’s surviving,” I say. “He’s still not working. My mum died a few years back and he’s been in a bit of a bad way.”
Steve runs a thumb down one of his sideburns.
“Shit. I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Still, you tell him Steve Fisher said hello.”
“Will do.” But of course I won’t. It would take far too much explaining.
I’m about to start heading for the door when Steve puts his hand on my elbow. He’s not finished with me.
“And Tom,” he says, voice dropping right down again, “you take care with this football violence thing. It’s not for everyone. I’ve seen people get hurt. Fucking badly hurt.”
Before I can say anything, I’m interrupted by a burst of laughter from Chris.
“Give it a break, Steve. Don’t start getting fucking sentimental. You’re pissing about with him, yeah?”
Steve ignores him.
“You’re just at the entry level now,” he says. “Cracking a few heads, that sort of stuff. It seems like a bit of harmless fun, yeah? The shallow end of the hooligan pool.”
I nod.
“Well, just be careful that you don’t get pulled into the deep end before you’re ready.”
I look into his face and I see that he’s serious.
“OK Steve.” I nod again. “Thanks for the tip.”
ten
Saturday November 18th. Kick-off against Ashborough Town is about an hour and a quarter away, and we’re in the Café Rialt, sitting at the corner table, waiting for Ryan to turn up. I’ve got myself a Danish pastry and a can of Red Bull, and Raks has got himself a can of Coke and a plate of chips and beans again.
“He’s late,” Raks says.
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t start all that bullshit. He’ll be here. You know what he’s like.”
Raks shrugs and sticks another forkful of beans into his mouth. I take a swig of Red Bull and look around. The café is much busier than it was last time. It’s three weeks nearer to Christmas and the rush is on. The buggy-pushing mums with their heaps of shopping bags are really out in force today. On my left, a fat family in matching Lonsdale sportswear are tucking into all-day breakfasts. On the next table along, an aggressive-looking woman in a long oatmeal-coloured cardigan is trying to feed a Greggs pasty to a kid in a high chair. A sign on the wall says Customers Must Only Consume Food Purchased On The Premises. It doesn’t look like anyone’s going to say anything.
I notice someone’s left a copy of The Sun on our table. I flick through to the middle pages and find Super Goals, scanning through the League Two match previews.
Letchford boss John Whyman has no new major injury worries for the visit of high-flying Ashborough. Visiting boss Tony Jagger could be without defender Ady Samuel.
I put the paper down and look up. Ryan’s arrived. He gets himself a bag of crisps and then comes across to our table, pulling his earphones out and sitting down next to me.
“Alright lads?” he says.
We both nod.
Ryan glances up at my hair, then across to Raks’s.
“Another trip to the barbers?”
I laugh.
“Yeah. Expensive business, keeping your hair short. Got it done on a number one this time, so it should last longer.”
Ryan grins. He reaches over the table and pulls down the zip on the front of Raks’s jacket. Raks hasn’t got his replica shirt on today. Ryan’s grin gets wider. He picks up his crisps and squeezes the bag until the top pops.
“So did either of you go to college yesterday?” he asks, pushing the first couple of crisps into his mouth.
Raks nods.
“Anyone say anything about Thursday?”
I sniff.
“Greeny had a go, said how concerned he was, all that bollocks. Nothing major.”
Ryan nods.
“I doubt Sankey’ll say anything to me,” he says. “He’s always happiest when I’m not there.”
I take another swig of my Red Bull and bite into my Danish pastry. It’s not the freshest cake I’ve ever tasted.
“I felt dog rough on Thursday evening,” I say.
Ryan laughs.
“I bet you did. You were putting it back like there was no tomorrow.”
“And I had to deliver the Argus when I got back to Thurston. By the time I’d finished I was dying. Then I had my missus coming round.”
“Bet she was well chuffed when she saw the state of you.”
I grin, shaking my head.
“She wasn’t too pleased.” That’s putting it mildly. She took one look at me and went home.
“Still,” Ryan says. “It was a good laugh, wasn’t it, Thursday afternoon?”
Raks pushes his plate away.
“It was sound. They’re good lads aren’t they?”
Ryan crunches into another crisp.
“Yeah. They’re alright. Chris is a bit of a twat, but it’s just because he’s so thick.”
We all laugh.
My watch says nearly ten past two. I finish off my cake and my drink, then lean back, stretching my arms above my head, yawning. The fluttering in my stomach, the feeling that’s been there more or less all the time since the last home match, is getting too big to ignore. It’s time to get going.
We head down the back stairs of the centre. The old bloke with the Hammond organ isn’t here today. In his place is a stall selling dogs, cats and vintage cars hand-crafted from British coal. Over to the left, one of the empty shop units is being converted into Santa’s Grotto.
“Are Ashborough any good, then?” Raks asks, as we push our way through the doors and go out into the car park.
“They went up to second in midweek,” Ryan says. “Beat Walsall away. Three points today and they could go top.”
Raks nods.
“We could do with a win this afternoon though, couldn’t we? Losing at Hereford and then getting knocked out of the FA Cup by Kidderminster Harriers. It’s a fucking joke.”
“Mmm,” Ryan says. “I don’t think John Whyman’s going to be getting Manager Of The Month for November.”
Ryan and Raks are talking football, but my mind is wandering. I’m thinking about events off the pitch. Post-match entertainment.
“What are the Ashborough fans like?” I ask. I’ve been trying to think where they were in the hooligan league table, but it’s not coming to me.
Ryan waves his hand in the air.
“Nothing special. Don’t usually bring very many.”
I feel a twinge of disappointment.
“So there’s not much chance of any trouble then?”
Ryan shrugs.
“Who knows? There are always some opportunities if you know where to look for them. Every club’s got a firm, even if it’s just a few enthusiastic amateurs. Ashborough might have got some boys together this season.”
I give a half-smile. It doesn’t sound so bad after all.
Winter’s definitely in the air today. As we head down the side streets it’s noticeable that padded overcoats are outnumbering bombers now. Woolly hats are starting to appear too, but there are still a few short-sleeved orange Letchford shirts on show. There’s three blokes up in front. Two LEWTON 16’s and a SHEEDY 7. It makes me cold just looking at them. I pull my scarf up a bit closer to my chin and keep walking.
It takes us about twenty minutes to get to Southlands. We’ve missed the away supporters’ coaches, so we just head straight past the merchandise stalls and the burger vans and the programme kiosks and make f
or the turnstiles at the back of the North Stand. For the sake of superstition, I go for Gate 20 again. Comb-Round Man takes my eight quid and I click my way into the concourse to wait for Raks and Ryan to come through Gate 19. Right on cue, The Liquidator comes on the PA. I smile. I feel like a veteran now.
There’s still about twenty-five minutes until kickoff. It’s too early to go out on the terraces, so we edge our way through the blokes with polystyrene trays of chips until we’re in a good position to see the television bolted on the wall next to the toilets. There’s a live match today. Man United – Everton. My phone starts beeping. It’s a text from Zoe. HV fn tk cr Z X. It’s exactly the same as last time. Still, it’s the thought that counts.
By ten to three, Man U are 3-1 up. There’s only a couple of minutes stoppage time left.
Ryan shakes his head.
“This game’s as good as over. We might as well make a move.”
I lead the way up the steps. As we come to the top, the teams are just leaving the pitch after the warm-up. I look across to the right, to see what Ashborough have brought in the way of travelling support. It’s nothing like the turnout from Castleton. My heart sinks.
Ryan jerks his thumb in the direction of the away section.
“Said it might not be too impressive, didn’t I?” he says.
We head down the terracing and take up station by the crush barrier we stood behind for the second half of the Castleton match. Down in front of us, a new advertising board has sprung up. Too Much Bling? Give Us A Ring. It’s a police hotline for people to dob in their neighbours if they’ve been looking a bit too flush recently. I rest my elbows on the barrier, casting a few glances through the fencing into the Ashborough fans, seeing if I can catch anyone’s eye. It’s not looking promising.
The clock on the scoreboard gradually trundles towards 14:58. The Boys Are Back In Town blasts out and the teams come through the tunnel, hoofing yellow balls towards the goalmouths. Just down to the left someone throws some confetti. It’s a pretty halfhearted effort. A couple of torn-up betting slips and a shredded football supplement fluttering through the air. After the formal handshakes, Tony O’Neill and Tommy Sharp head towards the Kop, applauding us for applauding them, while Carl Butterworth leads the mascots into the centre circle for photographs with the match sponsors.