Big and Clever

by Dan Tunstall

  I start looking for Ryan. There’s something different about the Kop tonight. There’s a definite distinction between the civilians and the soldiers this time. The ordinary punters are down to the left. I can see Twitchy Bloke, Pessimistic Granddad and Big Fleece Woman a good thirty yards further across than they normally are. They know something’s in the air. Something it’s probably best to keep away from. Down to the right, it’s Lad Central. There’s not going to be any need for the NLLF army to join together before the final whistle. It’s already happened. And we’re out in force.

  I head down the terracing, scanning across the sea of shaved heads and sports gear, hoping to pick out someone I know. I’m halfway down when Ryan steps out into the gangway in front of me. His face breaks into a huge smile.

  “Fuck me,” he shouts. “Look who it is.” He grabs my arm and pulls me into the crowd.

  There’s a crush barrier up ahead. Gary, Jerome, Rob, Jimmy and Scotty are already in position. They’ve not seen us coming. I barge in amongst them, arms round Gary’s and Jerome’s necks.

  “Evening lads,” I say.

  Suddenly everyone’s all-smiles. I’m having my hand shaken, Jerome’s giving me a bear hug, people are ruffling my hair, patting me on the back. I’m being treated like the returning hero. It feels good. It feels like I’ve made the right decision.

  Gary shakes his head.

  “Thought you weren’t turning up,” he says.

  “Never doubt me,” I say, grinning.

  I look around, getting my bearings. We’re about five yards from the fencing separating us from the away section. The police and stewards are on full alert tonight. They’re already in place, more than I’ve ever seen before, a wall of green jackets on both sides of the wire.

  Pushing myself up on the metal bar in front of me, I peer over the top of the human barrier, trying to get a glimpse of the Mackworth mob. Seeing what we’re up against. The whole area is solid. Wall-to-wall bodies. Every time anyone steps to the side, ripples go off in all directions. My stomach twists, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Maybe it really could turn into The Battle Of Southlands II tonight.

  Ryan squeezes in next to me. He nods in the direction of the Mackworth support.

  “Not bad, is it?”

  “Mmmm,” I say. “How many do you reckon?”

  Ryan shrugs.

  “Difficult to tell. Definitely into three figures.”

  I nod.

  “Do you think we’ve got the numbers to deal with them?”

  Ryan grins.

  “We’ll be OK. We’ve got a reputation to uphold. The legacy of 1992.” He rubs his hands together, trying to keep the cold out. “Anyway, I texted you earlier on, but you didn’t get back to me. Where have you been?”

  “Just around,” I say. “Few things needed sorting out.”

  “Yeah?” Ryan raises his eyebrows.

  I change the subject.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes,” he replies. “All sorts has been happening this evening. Police escorts for the Mackworth buses. Coppers marching fans down from the town centre. Bit of naughtiness outside.”

  I nod.

  “Any action down The Shakespeare?”

  Ryan shakes his head.

  “Couldn’t even get in. Old Bill everywhere. It’s like I said earlier on. They know what’s likely to go down.”

  I flex my legs. My knees are starting to ache. I’ve done a lot of walking today. The noise of the crowd around us starts to build. I look towards the pitch. The players are getting into position. We’re kicking the right way. The ref raises his hand. He’s got his whistle in his mouth now. One shrill blast and we’re under way.

  Right from the start it’s pretty frenetic. A typical derby. A lot of steam is being let off. Tackles are crashing in, there’s an outbreak of handbags between Kevin Taylor and Danny Lee, the Mackworth number 6, and two yellow cards have been brandished.

  A lot of steam is being let off on the Kop too. Chants are bouncing back and forth between the two sets of fans. Mackworth are singing You’re Going To Get Your Fucking Heads Kicked In. We’re responding with You’re The Shit Of Lincolnshire. I thought there was vitriol in the chanting at the Castleton game, but compared to this, it was nothing. Vicarage tea party stuff.

  Dave Nicholson is coming in for a torrent of abuse from the Mackworth fans. They’ve never forgiven him for defecting to the enemy. Our lot would probably like to sing a song for him, show him that we accept him as one of our own, at least for tonight, but we haven’t got a song for Dave. He’s got too many syllables in his surname.

  There’s another coming together near the halfway line. Jeff Hawkins scything into Eddie Banks of Mackworth. The ref looks across, then waves play on, even though Banks is lying pole-axed. The Mackworth section is incensed, but we’re loving it. A chorus of Get Into Em, Fuck Em Up rings out.

  As the chanting dies down, I try to get my breath back. I glance up at the scoreboard. Fifteen minutes gone. Kick off was at 7.45. I look at my watch. Eight o’clock. Oliver time. A hot flush of guilt and shame goes through me. I wonder how Zoe’s feeling, looking out into the audience, realising I’ve let her down. I turn to say something to Raks, hoping he can give me a bit of moral support, but of course he’s not there.

  The rest of the half passes me by. I’m in a daze. I’m thinking about Zoe. I know her scenes are in the first act. I hope she’s doing OK. Out on the pitch, the pattern of the game is changing. It’s not blood-and-thunder now, it’s nervous, niggly football, players terrified of making mistakes. It’s only December, but already the match has the look and feel of a relegation 6-pointer.

  Everyone’s being affected by the tension, on the field and off. It’s spreading like a contagious disease. All the chanting of earlier on has died away. The hostility that was threatening to get out of control at the start has gone back down to a gentle simmer. At times the stadium is as quiet as a church. Individual heckles are coming across loud and clear. Come on Sharp you big stiff. Get stuck in Butterworth you nonce. Compete for the fucking ball Leroy.

  Gary and the other lads have already seen enough by the time the whistle goes to bring the half to an end. Me and Ryan head for the concourse. It’s the usual routine. I go for a piss, Ryan gets the coffees. When we’ve both finished, we nudge through the hot dog and pie eaters until we’re standing under one of the TV screens.

  It’s the Sky coverage of our match. They show a montage of highlights from the first forty-five minutes and then cut to George Gavin, sitting in one of the executive boxes at the other end of the ground. Next to George is Mark Sheedy, hair gelled, shiny pinstripe suit on. He’s not playing tonight. He’s serving his suspension for the sending off against Whitbourne. He reckons Letchford have clearly been the better side.

  Ryan tuts.

  “What fucking game has he been watching?” he asks no-one in particular.

  We listen to a bit more chit-chat from George and Mark and then we head back out onto the terracing. The Mackworth section is virtually empty, but the police and stewards are still on guard along the fence. They’re taking no chances.

  There’s a brass band out on the pitch, in front of the Family Stand. They’re a load of kids, the local Boys Brigade, something like that. At first I wonder why they’re not playing anything, but then it dawns on me. They are playing. It’s just so quiet you can’t hear it more than twenty yards away.

  A bloke behind us laughs.

  “They’re doing Silent Night,” he says.

  Two minutes later, the teams are back out. The crowd roars again, trying to get the players going, but almost as soon as the sound of The Boys Are Back In Town fades away, we’re back to the way things were for the majority of the first half.

  The whole match seems to be taking place in the middle third of the pitch. Nobody’s risking anything. Mackworth win a corner but only send four men up into our box and Jimmy Knapper claims the ball without a
ny trouble. Up at our end, Leroy Lewton has a shot from thirty-five yards but it sails high and wide.

  The tension is getting uncomfortable. A few of our fans at the back start a chant of Come On Letchford. Nobody joins in. Letchy The Lion is down at the front of the stand, kissing the badge on his shirt and raising his arms, geeing us up. It’s a waste of effort. We’re all too tightly wound. Nobody wants to sing. Nobody even wants to talk. I’ve not said a word to Ryan or Gary or anyone since half-time.

  The timer ticks over to 69:00. Danny Holmes starts warming up. After a couple of minutes of sprinting and stretching, he’s ready to come on. Leon Marshall makes for the dugouts and Danny jogs out into the middle.

  Ryan shakes his head.

  “It’s a red-letter day,” he says. “Danny Holmes plays twenty minutes of a match. They’ll be giving him a testimonial if he makes it to the end.”

  Danny’s immediately into the game. He takes a ball from Paul Hood on his chest and runs at the Mackworth defence, forcing a throw-in over on the right. A ripple of excitement goes through the crowd. Jeff Hawkins takes the throw, finding Danny Holmes again. Danny spins to his left, away from his marker, and starts weaving towards the Mackworth penalty area. Two defenders are blocking his path. Danny dummies to the left, does a step-over and falls on his arse. Straight away he’s waving to the bench, clutching his face. He’s tweaked something. Thirty seconds after coming on, he’s finished for the night.

  Ryan sighs.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” he says.

  Danny Holmes departs on a stretcher. The game never really gets going again after that. As we head into the last ten minutes, we’re back to extreme caution, the odd cynical foul and nothing in the way of goalmouth action. It’s like the teams have signed a truce. They’ll both be happy with a point. The crowd is hushed again. The only way the deadlock is going to be broken is if there’s a piece of stupendous skill or an absolute howler.

  And on eighty-seven minutes, Tommy Sharp provides that howler. A long, aimless punt heads towards him, twenty yards out from our goal. He brings it down, turns and knocks it back to Jimmy Knapper. Only Jimmy’s come right off his line, Tommy’s overhit the back pass, and the ball’s bouncing into the corner of our net.

  The Mackworth fans’ celebration is so loud, I swear I feel the ground shaking. The cheering seems to go on forever, and even when it dies away, they’re still going mad, stamping their feet, banging on the Perspex panels at the back of the stand, chanting Going Down, Going Down, Going Down. They’re probably right.

  In a few seconds, the atmosphere has changed beyond all recognition. The tension holding everyone back has evaporated and there’s danger in the air. The hostility that’s been bubbling quietly in the background has just boiled over in a big way. A huge surge starts on our side of the Kop, lads climbing over one another, trying to get at the Mackworth fans. The green jacket mob along the fence know they’ve got trouble, and they’re linking arms, advancing forwards, trying to drive people back. A couple of boys are wrestled to the ground, dragged down to the front and led away, struggling.

  Choruses of Whyman Out reverberate around. The stadium is emptying rapidly. People have concluded that the game is lost, and they’ve seen what’s brewing behind the goal. The tannoy announcer is giving out warnings from the Safety Officer, pleading with people to calm down, but no-one’s listening. The Mackworth fans are baiting us, singing Who The Fucking Hell Are You?, jumping onto one another’s shoulders to flash wank signs. They’re charging at the fence too, and one or two of them are breaking through the line of green jackets on their side, snarling at us, spitting, throwing coins and stones and cups of lukewarm coffee.

  My body is suddenly filled with electricity. It’s like all the tension of the evening has been charging me up like a battery, and now I’m up to full power. And if I don’t find a way to release some of the voltage that’s built up, I’m going to explode.

  I look at Ryan. There’s a sort of smirk on his face. Instinctively, I know what he’s thinking. The result on the pitch isn’t important. It’s what happens outside that really counts. I remember all the stuff the Mackworth lads posted on the Internet. All those words. Mackworth rule supreme over Letchford scum. It’ll soon be time to ram those words back down their throats. And I can’t wait.

  The scoreboard timer is showing 90:00. The fourth official has signalled there’s only one minute of stoppage time. The Mackworth fans are whistling. The game is virtually over.

  Ryan grips my shoulder.

  “Now,” he hisses.

  He doesn’t have to explain what he means. I know exactly what’s coming next. The NLLF is moving as one, bigger and stronger than ever, steaming up the steps and down through the concourse. I’m right at the front, Ryan and Gary next to me, Rob, Jerome, Jimmy and Scotty just behind. The police and stewards are lined up, bracing themselves, trying to hold us back, but it’s useless. We’re knocking them flying, charging through the exit gates, picking up momentum. We’re unstoppable.

  The Mackworth boys meet us head-on. There’s even less time to think than there was after the Whitbourne game. Seconds after getting into the car park I’m grappling with a short-haired bloke in a black leather coat, turning him round, throwing him down. I step to the side, but the bloke in the leather jacket is back at me. He grabs my legs and I feel myself losing my balance. The next thing I know, my skull is bouncing off the floor and I’m staring up through a forest of bodies, blinking against the glare of a searchlight shining from a police helicopter clattering fifty feet overhead.

  I spring back up, but my equilibrium is all shot. I can hardly hear myself think over the sound of the helicopter engine, and it’s hard to stand in the down-draught of the whirling blades. Dust and rubbish is spiralling up into the air. Savage fighting is going on everywhere I look. I take a step forward and walk straight into a right-hander from a big skinhead in a green check shirt.

  I’ve been hit before and I’ve quite enjoyed it, but this time I’m dazed and hurt and I’m starting to sense that something’s wrong. There are too many Mackworth lads. More and more of them are pouring out through the exits. The whole Mackworth away support seems to be piling in. The NLLF is outnumbered and we’re starting to cop a beating. I can’t believe it’s happening. This wasn’t in the script. But it’s happening all the same.

  A few more seconds of coming off second-best and the NLLF army is scattering. Deserting. And wounded comrades are being left behind. Ten yards over to my right, Rob is down on the ground with two Mackworth boys kicking the shit out of him. Gary and Jerome have seen what’s going on, but they’re backing off, eyes wide. Jerome might be built like a nightclub doorman, but this is one dispute he’s not going to try to sort out.

  I start to head across, see if I can do anything, but the big skinhead hasn’t finished with me. He grabs my head and pulls down, locking my neck between his elbow and his side. It feels like I’m trapped in a vice. My necklace is cutting into my skin like cheese wire. I’m coughing and spluttering, fighting for air, twisting my head side-to-side. There’s a sensation like something snapping and then I’m free. I straighten up, putting a hand to my throat, feeling for my necklace, realising that it’s gone. I feel cold. It’s too symbolic. A link to Zoe, broken forever.

  It’s complete mayhem all around me. The police and stewards are everywhere, but they’re powerless. The helicopter is no help at all. Riot vans are screeching into the car park, but it’s too little too late. The Mackworth mob is rampant. They’re roaming about in gangs, lashing out in all directions. They’ve done what they couldn’t do in The Battle Of Southlands. They’ve come onto our patch and taken over. Rob has finally managed to get to his feet and he’s running away across the car park, chased by a lanky Asian kid. Gary and Jerome have disappeared. I’ve not seen Jimmy and Scotty since the fighting started.

  I’m just about the last Letchford boy standing and I’m in real danger now. Three Mackworth lads are heading straight at me, ey
es filled with hate. The big skinhead, a bloke in a black coat and a smaller lad in a cream bomber jacket. Everything’s spinning out of control. My heart is racing. My breathing is shallow. My palms are sweating. I’ve got the metallic taste in my mouth again. My body is tingling all over. I’m experiencing all the sensations that first got me hooked on Letchford, on the NLLF, but it’s not bringing me any pleasure. It’s not excitement. It’s terror.

  I look around for someone to help me out, to back me up. I’m just starting to think it’s useless when I see Ryan. He’s over by Gate 20. He’s seen me, and he’s seen the mob closing in on me. He looks me right in the eye and shakes his head. He’s not bothered about the legacy of 1992 any more. He’s saving his own arse. Leaving me to it. I’ve been betrayed. A split second later Ryan has gone and I’m under attack.

  I’ve only really got one option. I duck down and start running. I head to the left, round the corner of the Main Stand and keep going, hurtling through the car park. I stop when I get to the main road, checking behind me, making sure I’m in the clear. It’s looking good at first, but then the crowd parts and the three Mackworth lads come careering through, knocking people over like skittles.

  In a flash, I’m off again, darting across the road and heading up to the right, aiming for the maze of passages through the Industrial Estate. It’s a risky strategy. I’ll be OK if I manage to shake the Mackworth boys off, but if I don’t, I’ll be fucked. I head right, left, right, trying to remember the route Ryan took us on after the Ashborough match. I come to another corner and spin through one hundred and eighty degrees, stumbling, nearly losing my footing, swivelling my eyes around, trying to see if I’m still being chased. I can’t see anyone, but I can hear footsteps running, voices shouting, getting closer.