by Dan Tunstall
While the players try to keep themselves warm, the tannoy announcer reads out the teamsheets. We greet every Ashborough name with a shout of Who?, then cheer the Letchford side one by one. Even Dave Nicholson gets a cheer today. People must be feeling charitable. Eric Emanuel’s in for Paul Hood, but apart from that, it’s the same eleven who started against Castleton. Danny Holmes is on the bench again.
The niceties in the centre circle are just about over. Letchford are defending our end in the first half, spreading out into their usual 4-4-2. Leroy Lewton is psyching himself up, running on the spot, leaning forward and windmilling his shoulders round and round like a swimmer with no arms.
Up at the other end the Ashborough team are forming themselves into a huddle. They’re in all-red today. For some reason their shirts are a couple of shades lighter than their shorts and socks. The kit man must have used the wrong wash cycle. The huddle seems to be going on and on and boos are starting to ring out, getting louder and being joined by chants of Who The Fucking Hell Are You? Eventually the message seems to get through and Ashborough fan out across the pitch into their own 4-4-2 formation. The ref signals to both his assistants, checks his watch and then blows his whistle. We’re off and running.
Twenty minutes in and it’s still 0-0. The ball seems to have spent most of it’s time thirty yards either side of the halfway line, in the air. It’s like a big game of table tennis.
Raks shakes his head.
“How can Ashborough be second in the table?” he says. “They’re fucking useless.”
Ryan laughs.
“Everyone is, in this league. There’s just crap or slightly less crap.”
The crowd has been pretty subdued so far. There’s been the odd chorus of Come On Letchford and Letchford ‘Til I Die, but that’s about it. Since the last match I seem to have developed a sort of football fan’s instinct for knowing precisely when chants are going to finish, but other than that there’s been nothing to get worked up about. We’ve been trying to get some banter going with the Ashborough lot, but without any success. We’ve not heard a peep out of them yet. We hit them with a blast of Shall We Sing A Song For You? but again there’s no response.
Looking around where we’re standing, the distinctions between the different types of fans are getting clearer to me now. The sportswear and short hair crew, and the ordinary punters. Soldiers and civilians. The civilians are a funny bunch. There’s Twitchy Bloke in his camouflage jacket, flinching every time the ball comes into our box. There’s Big Fleece Woman, constantly checking scores on her mobile. And there’s Pessimistic Granddad, shaking his head and moaning, as if he thinks we should be carving teams up like Arsenal.
Out on the pitch, things aren’t getting any better. The goodwill towards Dave Nicholson is wearing pretty thin now. The man just can’t pass the ball forwards. Every time it’s sideways, safety-first, back to the keeper, or into Row Z. As the scoreboard flicks over to 44:00, Dave slices the ball into touch for what feels like the one hundredth time. Booing rumbles round the ground and a mass exodus starts as people make for the food kiosks.
“Enough’s enough,” Ryan says, leading the way up to the exits.
My bladder feels like it’s going to burst so I head straight for the toilets while Raks and Ryan join the food queues. Another rumble of booing lets me know the half-time whistle has gone. When I’ve finished in the toilets I stand in the concourse watching Soccer Saturday, checking the scores in our division. Mackworth aren’t playing, but Grimsby and Boston are both losing.
Ryan brings me a cup of coffee and we follow Raks up the stairs, onto the terracing and back to our crush barrier. We don’t seem to have any half-time entertainment today. Even Danny Holmes looks a bit subdued. No ball-juggling this week. Bon Jovi are on the PA again, and the scoreboard is flashing up announcements. Half Price Sale — One Week Only At The Club Shop. Happy 70th Birthday Ken From Doris And The Kids. Today’s Match Is Sponsored By JB Lynex And Sons Butchers.
Raks has got himself a steak and kidney pie. He lifts the pastry lid with his plastic fork. A musty smell wafts out and he shakes his head. I take a mouthful of coffee and grimace. It’s seriously strong stuff. I’m just lifting the cup to take another swig when someone ruffles my hair. Gary Simmons.
“Fucking hell Gary,” I say. “You’ll have to have to stop touching me up. People are going to say something’s going on between us.”
Gary laughs. His complexion is pinker than ever.
“Where are you today?” I ask.
“At the back.” Gary points up the slope towards Jerome and Rob. Rob’s absent-mindedly picking the spots on his forehead and Jerome’s just standing there looking huge.
I raise my hand in acknowledgement. Just to the right of them, I notice Jimmy and Scotty, the other lads from Parkway. We’ve got a full turnout again.
Gary looks across into the Ashborough section. “Piss-poor away support.”
Raks nods.
“Ryan still reckons we might get a bit of fun this afternoon, though. That right Ryan?”
Ryan’s been looking at his phone. He puts it away and pushes out his bottom lip.
“Well it’s not looking good,” he says. “But like I said, there are usually some opportunities if you know where to look for them.” He raises his eyebrows and leaves it at that.
Gary’s face lights up.
“If anyone can sniff out trouble it’s Ryan. He’s like a fucking bloodhound.”
We all laugh, and Gary heads back towards the rest of his crew.
A couple of minutes later, we’re into the second half. Dave Nicholson’s carrying on where he left off. With his first touch, he miscontrols a pass from Kevin Taylor and then clatters into the Ashborough number 12 as the ball spins loose. The Ashborough lad goes down like he’s been shot. Straight away the ref goes charging in, and a chant of Off Off Off goes up. But it’s not the Ashborough fans, finally waking up. It’s us. The ref reaches for his pocket. He flourishes the card in the air like a magician. Yellow. We all groan.
Dave trots back towards our goal, barking instructions to Eric Emanuel and Jeff Hawkins, trying to organise a wall. Before Dave’s turned round though, the ref’s blown his whistle and the free kick’s been taken.
“He’s behind you,” someone bellows. Twitchy Bloke’s got his head in his hands. It looks like it’s going to be one of those afternoons.
But then a funny thing happens. Football breaks out. One minute we’re hoofing the ball around like it might explode if someone tries to control it, the next we’re zipping it around like Tiger Woods with a pitching wedge. Suddenly we’re stringing together fourteen passes in a row. During the next move it’s seventeen. People start shouting Ole every time a Letchford player touches the ball. It’s amazing. Carl Butterworth’s bossing the midfield, Mark Sheedy is marauding up the left flank and Leroy Lewton is running the defence ragged.
Ryan scratches his head.
“Fuck me,” he says. “What’s all this?”
On 62 minutes, Tony O’Neill spots Leroy Lewton sprinting diagonally into the Ashborough box and sends a perfectly weighted ball right into his path. What the papers would call a Slide Rule Pass. Leroy lets the ball come across his body onto his right foot and then slots it, first time, into the bottom left corner.
1-0.
The usual tidal wave of bodies cascades forwards, but I’m prepared for it this time. As the cheering dies down and we start serenading our number 16 with a chant of Leroy, Leroy, Leroy, I’m still right where I started and so is Raks.
“I’ve got this crowd thing sorted,” he says, grinning.
Ryan looks at us both and nods in recognition.
The whole pattern of the match has changed. We’re only 1-0 up, but I already get the feeling that there’s no way back for Ashborough. They’re just not in the game. Even Pessimistic Granddad’s smiling now, although I think that’s got something to do with the hip flask of whisky he poured down himself at half time.
As we he
ad into the last twenty minutes, the Ashborough fans finally burst into song. A few rounds of Ashborough, La La La. It’s pretty pathetic stuff. We give them an ironic round of applause for making the effort, and then hit them with You’re So Shit It’s Unbelievable, Are You Mackworth In Disguise? and Can We Play You Every Week?
As the timer shows 86:00, Leroy Lewton trots off to a standing ovation, to be replaced by Danny Holmes, blue boots gleaming under the floodlights.
His first few touches aren’t up to much, but it’s a case of third time lucky. Jimmy Knapper hacks a long kick downfield, it bounces into the area and Danny’s onto it like a shot. He turns past the last defender with the ball stuck to his chest and sticks it between Martin Jones’s legs, spinning round again to point out the name on the back of his shirt.
We all start to celebrate, but the Ashborough players are running to the ref, signalling for handball. I’ve got to admit, Danny seemed to have the ball stuck under his arm as he turned. It looked like he was playing the bagpipes. The ref’s not bothered though. He’s given the goal.
The game’s just about done now. A lot of the Ashborough fans are streaming towards the exits and we’re sending them on their way with a chant of We Can See You Sneaking Out. The strange thing is though, as some of the fans are heading up the terraces, others are staying still. Standing their ground. It’s like the tide going out but leaving something dodgy behind on the beach. The Ashborough firm are showing their colours.
Ryan grabs my shoulders and gives me a shake. Then he does the same to Raks. He’s seen what’s happening. He looks ecstatic.
“Here we go,” he says. “Ashborough have grown some bollocks at last.”
The atmosphere has shifted into a higher gear. It’s not quite as intense as it was at the Castleton game, but it’s getting there. A group of about thirty Ashborough fans is heading across the deserted terracing, chanting and threatening us. Straight away gangs are joining together on our side of the fencing. The civilians are retreating and the soldiers are advancing. The adrenalin’s pumping now. My heart’s pounding and I’m feeling a bit light-headed. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is what I’ve been craving.
The stewards have seen what’s going on, and they’ve started inching up the steps on either side of the wire mesh, doing their best to keep the fans apart. It’s all pretty pointless though. We all know this is just the warm-up. The main event’s going to be outside, and there isn’t going to be fencing keeping us apart out there.
When the final whistle goes, it’s like someone firing the pistol at the start of the Olympic 100 metres final. In a matter of seconds, we’re up to the exit, down the stairs, across the concourse and through the gates. Just like before, all the Letchford gangs are joining together, becoming one big unit. The NLLF, ready for battle.
But as we turn left and track along the back of the stand, heading for the away gates, it becomes clear that the powers that be have come prepared today. There’s a human shield separating us from the Ashborough fans. Sixty or seventy green-jacketed stewards mixed in with half-a-dozen police in riot gear. By sheer weight of numbers we could probably break through. But that would mean tangling with he cops. And that’s serious business. We all come to a halt. The battle’s not going to happen. I feel completely cheated.
Raks blows out his cheeks.
“Fuck,” he says.
Gary shakes his head.
“Fucking pointless,” Jerome says.
Rob just looks miserable.
Slowly but surely, the Letchford lads start to drift away. Jimmy and Scotty have already called it a night. Ryan brushes past me, staring up past the police and the stewards, towards the Ashborough mob. They’ve cleared the area around the gates, and they’re being shepherded out across the car park. A couple of them are starting to feel really brave now that they’re out of danger, dancing round under the lights, giving us the finger.
“Wankers,” Raks says.
Ryan smiles but then he looks serious again.
“Time to move,” he says. Beckoning us to follow, he sets off round the corner and down the back of the Main Stand.
We’re travelling faster than the rest of the crowd, and by the time we’ve got to the other side of the players’ car park, cutting through the Range Rovers and Kompressors, the only people ahead of us are the ones who left long before the end of the game. I’m expecting us to turn left, go back through the Industrial Estate via the usual route, but Ryan’s got other ideas.
“This way.” He’s heading up to the right, crossing the road and leading us into an alleyway between two empty factory units.
It’s pitch black in the alley, but we keep going. A six-man Special Operations unit on a mission. My heart rate’s shooting up again, and it’s not just because we’re moving quickly. We head right, then left, then right again. I’m completely lost, but Ryan seems to know where he’s going. After a couple of minutes of ducking and diving we come out of the maze of factories and onto a lighted street. Over in the distance, across some wasteland, I can just make out the front of The Shakespeare. To the left, I see the digital clock at the front of Morrells. We’re almost back at the main road through the Industrial Estate. I know where we are at last. And I’m starting to get an idea of what we might be about to do.
Ryan heads straight for the wasteland, and we follow him again, through the muck and the rubble and the scrubby bushes and the burnt-out cars. Thirty seconds later we’re in a position parallel with the main road, under the pylons, hidden from view by a mud bank. Up to the left, black against the glare of the Southlands floodlights in the background, the first of the Letchford fans are heading back towards town. And coming through the crowd, picking up speed, are the Ashborough supporters’ coaches. It’s just as I thought. An ambush.
We’ve only got a few seconds to get ourselves set. Just before the coaches pull level with where we’re hiding, we break cover, jumping up onto the mud bank like Red Indians cutting off the wagon train at the pass. Instead of bows and arrows though, we’re armed with anything we can get our hands on. Ryan starts the barrage, a half-brick bouncing off the roof of the first coach, and then we all join in. Stones and bottles and spark plugs rain down on the tatty buses, denting metal and cracking toughened glass. The Ashborough fans are ducking for cover, putting their arms up over their heads, faces twisted in fear.
It’s an amazing scene, but it doesn’t last long. Just the time it takes two coaches to travel along fifty yards of road. As the buses disappear into the distance, we run back down the mud bank, whooping and screaming, psyched up to the eyeballs, giving high-fives all round.
Gary Simmons looks like he’s going to explode.
“I fucking told you,” he screams. “I told you Ryan could sniff out trouble.”
Ryan grins and bows, and then we all start laughing like idiots. Totally out of our minds. Totally out of control. It feels fucking fantastic.
As the laugher dies down, I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Savouring all the sensations. Taking everything in. I’m thinking about what Trev said in The Shakespeare. About how the memories never leave you. He’s right. I know I’m going to remember this moment, this feeling, for the rest of my life.
eleven
Raks pushes his phone into his coat pocket and shakes his head.
“Full time,” he says.
“Still 1-0 to Mansfield?”
“Yep.”
“Shit. We just can’t get it together, can we? I mean, we looked brilliant in the second half against Ashborough, but then we rolled over at Barnet last Saturday, and now this.”
Raks grins.
“At this rate we’re going to be playing Burton Albion and Northwich Victoria next season. At least we might win a few games.”
I shake my head.
“I wouldn’t be too sure. We’ve already been beaten by Kidderminster this year, and they’re just a mid-table Conference side.”
Raks nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’
s not funny.”
The bus stops. The doors swish open and some people get off. Another swish and we’re away again. I check my watch. Just gone five o’clock. Wiping condensation off the window, I look out into the darkness. We’re coming along the main road back into Thurston. Up ahead I can just make out the orange glow of the streetlights. We should be back in the village in a couple of minutes.
I take my phone out and check it. I’m hoping that Zoe might have been in touch, but there’s nothing. I puff out my cheeks and put the phone away again.
“No text from Zoe today?” Raks asks.
“No,” I tell him. “She’s round that Simon Matthews’s house. Mr Sowerberry. They’re rehearsing for Oliver.”
“Oh yeah?” Raks raises his eyebrows. “Rehearsing, eh?”
“Piss off Raks,” I say. He’s only trying to wind me up, and I know I should just ignore him, but it’s hard. Zoe seems to spend more time with Simon than she does with me these days. I used to see her almost every other night. Now it’s hardly ever. We still meet up in the mornings at the bus stop, but that hardly counts. And we seem to spend most of that time arguing, usually about Letchford Town. An unhealthy obsession, she reckons.
Raks knows he’s got me rattled, so he lets it drop.
“You still OK for tonight?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “The big Patel family knees-up. I’ll be there.”
Raks laughs.
“I wouldn’t get too excited. It’ll be exactly the same as it is every year. Just a load of my mum and dad’s relatives gossiping and moaning. Bragging about how much they’re earning and how big their cars are.”
I shake my head.
“It’ll be OK.”
Raks rolls his head from side to side, then smiles.
“Nanny Patel will be there,” he says. “She’s over from Leicester. She’ll be looking forward to seeing you again.”
We both laugh. Nanny Patel’s got a bit of a soft spot for me.