Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  But Lassie definitely were touching the stuff and were taking advantage of the last days of freedom under Drab Dennis’s regime. He were knocking back a can of Boddies in the changing room at Royds before training. He gestured at us to look up at the small noticeboard as I walked in, so I trotted across to the board and spotted something I’d never seen at Royds before: a teamsheet. This always appeared at Starcot Lane or at an away dressing-room about an hour and a half before kick-off. The one in front of us were pinned up on the board a day before our trip to Bolton. I could feel the strap of the Puma bag cutting into my shoulder as I tried to digest the information.

  1. Sergei Krankov

  2. Ignacio Monzon

  3. Li Foong

  4. Mark Gates

  5. Kaijah Tete

  6. Lars Frohlander

  7. Grant Lister

  8. Tony Lemmings

  9. Magnus Rudbeck

  10. Matt Malone

  11. Ricardo Quesada

  Subs

  12. Sid Karim

  (At this point, I stopped reading, although I glanced at…

  14. Stuart Leonard

  GK Jeff Dixon

  …but that were about it. We could name seven subs but I couldn’t go any further down the list).

  For the first time, that Boddies can which Lassie were necking began to look appealing. But as soon as Lassie licked his tash after a swig, it were about as appealing as being at his house watching nobby movies on his 42 inch plasma.

  ‘So he’s dropped you then?’ he said, offering us the can. ‘This’ll take your pain away.’

  ‘Not for me, Lass,’ I said, walking to the door. ‘Just tell Dennis I were sick or something…’

  Too right I were sick, but not in that way. How could the new boss drop us and pick cloggers like Blister? Okay, I did call him a prick but I say that all the time, especially to refs and nothing ever comes of it. Although one time ‘Pernickity’ Peter Lane did come crying to my house late at night and threaten to slit his wrists if I didn’t take back what I said. I did and he’s given us plenty of free-kicks since.

  So I walked out of the changing-room and headed to Briar Street. There were no point in delaying this any longer. I’d pay my respects and have it out with her; man to woman. I’d nail this Ibrahim business once and for all. And then I could concentrate on getting back in the team and showing Bowker who were the real boss.

  The black door were open at 126 Briar Street and I suddenly realised that I’d actually never been there. Ibrahim always used to pick us up from Simpkiss Street or Ferry Barn and then take us to training. His house were right on the end of a terraced block, one row in from a main road. There were no front garden and the pavement were right outside the front door. There were also a pile of graffiti on the huge red brick area at the side of the house. The biggest, draped in white letters, stated ‘Bilal 4 Becky’, although somebody had written ‘69er’ after Becky.

  I walked in and the tight hallway were full of shoes, sandals and slippers. It were worse than the boot room at Starcot although it smelt better. I prepared to open the door but looked up at the top of the stairs and saw Rukhsana wiping her face with a towel, presumably after a trip to the bathroom. She were wearing a black, short-sleeved shalwar kameez and didn’t acknowledge us.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ I asked, trying to keep my balance in the sea of footwear.

  ‘Why weren’t you at his funeral?’

  She’d got me by the nadgers here, I admit. I should have gone to the Janaza at Roshni Mosque but I did have a game the same day after all. Okay, it were an evening kick-off and the Janaza were in the morning but death has a way of seeping into your performance, especially in the tunnel.

  ‘Can I come up?’ I said.

  She looked down at us in her black garb and the only thing missing were a whistle.

  ‘Okay, I haven’t got long,’ she said, moving onto the landing.

  I walked up the narrow stairs and watched her go into the bedroom. I followed her in and closed the door. She sat down on the bed and picked up what looked like a trophy or shield from the dressing table. The room were slightly dark because the dark blue curtains hadn’t been drawn. A big brown suitcase lay haphazardly and unzipped on the floor directly underneath. Some of the garments spilled out of the suitcase and were strewn across the carpet. The huge orange flowers on the wallpaper dominated the room with a small round mirror and a map of Pakistan the only other items on the wall.

  ‘Come on, I haven’t got long,’ she said. ‘Mama wants me downstairs to prepare the dhal for the visitors.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly and deliberately. ‘I do have one, you know.’

  Now, Granny Fatima always said, ‘The fruit from a family tree tastes the best but if one goes sour the whole lot will come crashing down’, and I were beginning to think there were something very sour going on here. I mean, a new husband pops up out of the blue after I say no, and Rukhsana’s mother might be here for good after years in the wilderness. Is Rukhsana on the ladder of liberation, or what?

  I walked over to the other side of the bed and sat down. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  ‘It was for his under 14s team,’ she said, holding the award which showed a foot-high, bronzed footballer kicking a ball. ‘He was named best footballer in the school. He’d only been in the country three years. He used to say he was much better with the ball at his feet than his hands. He started stitching balls in Sialkot at the age of four…so he was really proud of this award.’

  ‘…And is he proud of what he’s done lately?’

  Rukhsana swivelled round on the bed to look at us. There were thick black marks underneath her eyes and one of them seemed a little bloodshot. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who’s that guy you’re married to?’

  ‘Do you have no shame, whatsoever? Here we are with hundreds people coming to pay their respects and all you can think about is your selfish interests?’

  Hundreds of people? I play in front of THOUSANDS every week and if I weren’t so giving they wouldn’t keep coming back for seconds, thirds and fourths. I think your new Poundstretcher bloke’s messing with your head.

  She looked away from us and put the award down on the dressing table. She got up and drew the curtains: the crisp, emerging light drifted in to lift the murky atmosphere. She went back towards the dressing table and picked up a framed photo. Suddenly, she threw it across to us, and it were lucky that I’d taken a few slip catches in my time or the sharp frame may have caused some damage.

  ‘Bloody hell, teeny-boppers,’ I said, looking at the startling picture in front of us.

  It showed Ibrahim and Abujee, both looking about 16 or 17, standing next to each other outside Lings Mill. Their hair, shirt collars and flares all seemed to be as long as each other.

  ‘Must have been a right shithole…’

  She walked around to my side of the bed and snatched the picture from us. She took it and put it back on the dressing table. ‘You’ve got a cheek,’ she huffed, tossing her black nylon headscarf over her shoulder. ‘I’m going back downstairs now. There’s a lot of people here, and they’ll be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Well aye, but just tell us…

  ‘Right,’ she said abruptly, turning to face us. ‘…I’m getting a bit fed up with this. I don’t want to clock up any more tears because I’m a bit washed up already. So I’m going to tell you straight so you can just get off my back.’

  At last, some straight talking after all this shilly-shallying like a Pundick on Sky Soccer Saturday.

  ‘The most important thing for a Muslim father is to find a suitable groom for his daughter…’

  ‘But you’re not like that,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean not like that? You mean I’m westernized, Maddona-ised?

  ‘Aye…’

  ‘But you forget that my father meant the world to
me. He raised me; he worked night and day to make my life better. He was there for me through school; he paid for me to go to university. He did more for me in one day that you could do in a lifetime…’

  ‘Why did he go to Pakistan then…and stay there?’

  She sat down on the bed again, facing away from us.

  ‘He’d been trying to make up with my mother for about 10 years. He was in Pakistan for the last four. I don’t know what happened or how it came about, but they had a big bust up which lead to her living in Pakistan and me only seeing her once in that time. He wrote to me saying there was a chance of them getting back together. But then he got ill…’

  ‘What were the bust up?’

  ‘I don’t know, he never said.’

  ‘So you stayed on your own when he were over there?’

  ‘He waited until I got to university, so I wasn’t living at home anyway. This house was given out on rent until I was ready to come back.’

  ‘…So that man…your husband?’

  ‘Dad was going to wait a couple of years to ask you if you wanted to be with me, but the illness came and I suppose he was thinking of my future when he put the question to you. I know my mother didn’t want that. When you said no, he thought the only way he could repair the damage was to ask me to go along with my mother’s wishes – and marry Yousuf. I looked into his eyes and did exactly what he said. Nothing else mattered at that time and nothing else matters now. I did what was right.’

  ‘So you flew back when he were in the ward?’

  ‘That’s what he wanted. I was married within days and came back as fast as possible. Yousuf and my mother came in a few days later.’

  Now, I know the so-called community has a rep for quick marriages but this took the piss good and proper. I once heard a tale about a pair of toddlers getting married in a remote village but it all went belly up when the little lad pissed on the imam’s lap and the holy man scarpered into the woods. Obviously, Ruki and Yousufine weren’t as bad as that but once you set a president, you’ve got to ensure the vice is right.

  She took the framed photo off us and placed it precisely back on the dressing table. She looked at it again and crossed her hands on her lap. ‘I cringe when I think of what it was like in that Sialkot mud hut…the dust and the wear and tear. He used to say he couldn’t feel his arms anymore and he could hardly see…’ She rolled her eyes and smiled wistfully. ‘…and then he comes over here and works at Lings.’

  ‘What did he actually die of?’

  She gave us a strange look. ‘They just put multi-organ failure on the death certificate,’ she said, trailing off. ‘Anyway,’ she said, turning around and walking towards the door. ‘I think I’ve told you enough now.’ She opened the door but stopped, putting her hand on her forehead. ‘Oh look, I need you to find that ball.’

  ‘What is it with that ball?’

  She sighed and folded her arms. ‘When I was in the ward with him, he said there was something special with that ball. It has to be found.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where the fuck it is.’

  ‘We need to find it as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘JUST FIND IT,’ she said, putting her hand on the door again. ‘Now, can I go please?’

  ‘I’m not wasting time on that kind of shit.’

  She gave us a stern look. ‘I’ll help in trying to find it…okay? Satsified now?’

  ‘Aye, but just tell me one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So how are you going to live with…what’s he called, Yousuf?

  ‘The same way you live with your conscience.’

  Bowker finally introduced himself to the players before the game at the Reebok Stadium but I couldn’t care less. He’d banished us to the dead zone – the bench – so I were hoping we’d get shafted good and proper against a more established Premier League team. But they rested a lot of their first-team players and Rico, Iggy and Lassie all scored in an easy 3-1 victory. This meant I were left with Ray on a shivering bench, mostly to talk about Burnden Park, the club’s old ground. Ray said there used to be a supermarket behind one of the goals and then spoke for ages about the time he used to work in a similar trade. He said he used to do keepy-uppies with a lettuce and loved to see the same one being picked up by a customer. It felt like Bolton were kicking a lettuce about the way they constantly fell over and miskicked.

  The only good thing about the night were that Molly got the lads to join him in the nappy celebrations and I didn’t have to do them. After Molly scored, they all dropped their shorts and sported a row of tight, white nappies like some baby sumos. The only problem were Lassie didn’t have his nappy secured and ended up shining in front of the Bolton fans. Luckily, the coppers saw the funny side but the video’s now doing the rounds on YouTube.

  So it were onto Anfield and my ambitions had lowered so much that I just wanted to ensure I touched the ‘This is Anfield’ sign before coming onto the pitch. But I were so pissed off I weren’t playing that I brought some special red paint along and wanted to add a W and a K to the sign to make it Wankfield. But when kick-off time came it were a bit congested in the tunnel, so I just dabbed my right palm onto the sign. If I weren’t going to play on the hallowed turf then I’d sure as hell leave my imprint.

  The result were again a nightmare. Liverpool were ripping into the boys early on but we landed a shock 3-2 win, with Rico grabbing the winner 14 minutes from time. I tried to celebrate in the dressing-room but I faked the high-fives, back-slapping and congratulations. Pearly was standing on the bench singing You’ll Never Walk Alone, Lassie were doing a slippery jig of delight in the centre and Rico were holding a Liverpool shirt bullfighter-style as Iggy lowered his head into it. I quickly got changed as most of the players stripped off and ran hysterically towards the steaming, overflowing bath. I walked out of the dressing-room and headed towards the coach. Jimmy and Lino were standing outside the coach, looking happier than I’d ever seen them.

  ‘Wasn’t that glorious?’ said Jimmy, tapping us on the shoulder.

  Lino tapped us on the other shoulder. ‘Well played son, you did us proud.’ He looked like he were ready to burst into tears. ‘I think that’s the greatest night of my life.’

  ‘But I didn’t play,’ I said, lifting my bag over my shoulder so I could get in the coach.

  ‘It’s all about the team,’ said Jimmy, looking across to the other side of the coach. ‘Look what it means to them.’

  A group of about 50 Town fans were cheering so loud it were difficult to hear Jimmy and Lino. One fan had a banner saying ‘Heroes in Liverpool’ with small pictures of John Lennon and Lassie underneath. Another group had taken off their replica shirts – despite the cold – and were waving them over their heads. Some others had fake Scouse wigs and moustaches.

  ‘Anyway, Sid, I need to have a quick word with you, if that’s okay,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, I’m not contributing much else right now.’ I shrugged, getting onto the coach.

  ‘You go on Jim,’ urged Lino. ‘I want to carry on enjoying this Anfield air.’ He breathed through his nose as loud as he could. ‘There’s only one Danny Bowker…’

  And there’s only one Lionel Trevelyan too. The Bald Bachelor, as the lads like to call him, were always being ribbed about his obsession with the club. He used to tell tales about the 60s and 70s when players were on a few shillings a week, but most of us swiched off and thought he needed to get some female company. In the mid 80s, he did finally get off with Lesley Cripps – who liked snazzy hair-dos and fur coats – and brought her along on match-days with the team. Unfortunately, one time on a trip to Portsmouth when all the players were at the service station and Lionel were getting some money from a cash machine, she got so bored that she drove the coach away herself all the way to Brighton. She said she needed fun and she’s been there ever since. Lionel’s vowed never to go near a woman again.

  I wa
tched him out of the window as I settled down at the back of the coach. He were usually so paranoid that he kept turning his head to make sure the coach were still there but tonight he just smiled and watched the fans streaming from the stadium.

  Jimmy joined us at the back of the coach. ‘Ooh, that’s better…some comfy seats at last,’ he said. He sat down, pulled out his notebook and started flicking through the pages. ‘Look Sid, I’ll be quick about this because it’s been a great night…’ He pulled out a blue-halved Parker pen and clicked down with his thumb.

  ‘Is it about Bowker?’ I asked. ‘It’s too early to lay into him yet.’

  ‘No, no…’ he replied, peering down intensely into his notebook. ‘It’s something else…oh yes, here it is…’ He turned over the page and rested his notebook on his lap. ‘We had this man come into the newsroom. He was called Terry Rathbone. He said he had something to tell us about some footballers at Tiffs.’

  His name may have been Rathbone but it had the impact of Al Capone after the kind of stuff that had been thrown my way. Okay, he may have been in a shellsuit but after Ibrahim’s death wish and my dumping out of the team, his name were the last thing I wanted to hear.

  ‘What it’s to do with us, anyhow?’ I asked, unzipping my bag and pulling out a coconut smoothie.

  ‘Probably nothing, because he’s finally been arrested but he did name some of the team…and you were one of them.’

  I took a swig of the smoothie and put the bottle away. ‘What did he say happened?’

  ‘He said someone was injured at Tiffs because one of the players had booted the ball and it ended up messily. He also said you all fled the scene.’

  As you probably know by now, I do a lot of running. I run at Royds, at Starcot Lane and up and down the stairs at Shaw Crescent. But I’ve never run from a bar or nightclub before. There’s always a first time, I suppose, but it would have been better if we’d stayed put like real table football figures. After all, those iron handles through the stomach make sure you can never escape.