I spotted Lino coming onto the coach and were thankful that he were about to save us. ‘Jim,’ he shouted. ‘A couple of the players are coming out now, if you want to get some quotes and stuff…’
‘Yes, coming…’ said Jimmy, getting up from his seat. ‘Look Sid, we can’t run anything in the paper anway because it might prejudice his court case, so I wouldn’t worry too much. We’ll talk about it later, hey?’
‘Okay, you can talk to the real heroes now.’
Jimmy smiled and walked off the coach. I looked out to the right and the Town fans were singing even louder. Luckily, they couldn’t see us because of our blacked-out windows; Bowker had insisted on them. Suddenly, I recognized a couple just to the left of the bare-chested group waving their replica shirts over their heads. The man seemed calm and unruffled but the small, blonde-haired woman next to him were more excitable. She had a Town scarf wrapped neatly into a stylish coat and were chatting to the group next to her. She were laughing and poking one of the men in the nipples. It were Stephanie, the woman who were in the same intensive care unit as Ibrahim.
It’s a fuckin’ miracle, I thought, as the chants of You’ll Never Walk Alone got louder. I wanted to go out and see her but saw the bare chests of some of the fans and thought better of it. After all the miserable shit I’d been through, here were a moment to treasure. But how come she’d made it and Ibrahim hadn’t? My small message of hope must have had an impact. Not only that but what about my imprint in the Anfield tunnel? It were all to do with my right hand, of course. It were the Hand of God. Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart…
SEVEN
It were bad enough that I felt knackered even though I hadn’t played for the last two games, but to answer the door while watching Jeremy Kyle with a bowl of Coco Shreddies on my bare legs were a step too far. Eventually, I got up and walked to the door in my boxer shorts. When I opened it, an overweight woman in a tight-fitting, purple shalwar kameez looked down straight away, instead of looking at my face.
‘You’re responsible for his death,’ she said, tightening the knot on her white headscarf.
At this time in the morning, the only thing I felt responsible for were the turd in the toilet.
‘What do you mean?’ I said, scratching my head wearily. ‘And who are you anyhow?’
‘You don’t know who I am?’
‘No, I’ve got more important things to think about.’
‘I’m Ruki’s mother.’
It were like Beefy Botham hitting his most famous six into another country. His immortal words about sending his mother-in-law to Pakistan as a form of punishment rang around in my head like a batsman blitzed by a bouncer. Surely, I’d have had the same problem if I’d have married in to this family and this woman would have been my prime in-law? Luckily, I said no and don’t have that problem. But I were a top sports star, after all, so I could probably send her back whenever I wanted.
‘I think you should leave now,’ I said. ‘It’s mad to blame us for anything, it just happened.’
‘You don’t know anything, do you?’ she said, stepping forward. ‘They did a deal. Ibrahim and Tahir Karim.’ She scrunched her face up when she said Abujee’s name.
‘A deal?’
‘Karim was desperate for you to become a footballer and he made an agreement with Ibrahim that Ruki would eventually become your wife – if you achieved your big dream.’
‘Look, I know you’ve lost your husband,’ I said, ready to close the door. ‘But all that’s over now. It doesn’t matter what deals they did, I couldn’t care less. I’ve got other things to think about now.’
‘Of course you have,’ she said, looking halfway down again. ‘Dirty boys like you always have things on your mind. Don’t even think about coming near my daughter. Ibrahim wanted it, but thank Allah it didn’t happen.’
‘Just leave before I get really angry.’
‘I wouldn’t step into a Karim household anyway,’ she said, as she began to walk away down the path. ‘He saved you once and this is how you repay him.’ I got off the doorstep and ran down the path.
‘What did you mean by that?’ I said, touching her shoulder.
She carried on walking, holding her shalwar in her hands. She turned to look at us and smiled. ‘You know nothing, do you?’ She carried on walking and pulled up her shalwar so the wavy, lower edges avoided the ditch just before gate.
‘I know more than you think, you old hag,’ I shouted.
I walked back in the house and didn’t eat any more Coco Shreddies.
I thought it were the right time to go into the boss’s office and apologise for calling him a prick, so I could get back into team. Obviously, I’d compounded the problem by skipping training the other day but if he were a fair man, which his nice suit suggested, then he would take us back in a jiffy.
I knocked on the rickety wooden door and walked in after not hearing a response. It were the first time I’d been in the office since Partington had been sacked. Bowker weren’t at his main desk but sat at the side behind a computer. He had his finger on the mouse and didn’t look at us as I walked in. He looked immaculate in a bright blue shirt and dark red tie and had his suit jacket on the back of his chair. His slicked-back hair, sharp brown eyes and high cheekbones gave him the intimidation Partington lacked. But his main desk were a mess with newspapers, files and stationary strewn all over it. The filing cabinet to its left had files on top of it as well as one drawer, which were at bursting point. The floor beside the TV and video were full of DVD covers and videotapes. The tactical white board were impenetrable with arrows, formations and names written in many different colours.
‘Come in and sit down,’ said Bowker, after a number of clicks. ‘I’m just looking at your stats.’
‘Sorry boss,’ I said, sitting down on the green and black swivel chair. ‘It just came out…’
He didn’t answer and continued merrily with his clicking. I always thought managers enjoyed humiliation and torture and Bowker were just proving my point. They loved messing with players’ heads and I’m sure they had DVDs of The Mancunian Candidate, where they take players from the North West and make them listen to Sinatra songs until they beg for mercy. They’ve probably got a group of agents called M62 who do this dirty work: you know, Managers 62. I mean, there’s more than a 100 bosses in the league, so you’d expect at least 62 to be involved. One thing’s for sure, though, I heard Come Fly With Me round Partington’s house years ago and I ain’t listening to it ever again.
‘I were under a lot of pressure at the time,’ I said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Bowker laughed a little longer than I expected. ‘So you think I dropped you because you called me a couple of names?’ He shook his head and continued his clicking. ‘Oh Sid, who’s the prick now?’
‘So why did you leave us out of the team, then?’
Bowker stopped clicking and got up. He got off his chair, walked round towards us and leaned on the front of the desk. He folded his arms and rested his shiny black shoe on the edge of the swivel chair.
‘You know Sid, I was at an Asian Fair a couple of years ago and I sat down for a meal in this marquee-like thing. I’ve got to tell you it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I haven’t forgotten it.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know, but there were all sorts of people of all colours and creeds there mixing…’
He looked at us as though I should have known what he were talking about. Bosses had a habit of talking shite regularly: I mean what’s zonal marking and playing between the lines when it’s at home? Bowker’s bringing colours and creeds into it now. It ain’t right.
‘I’ve been looking at your ProZone stats,’ he said, turning round to look at the computer. ‘They’re not pretty. You’re not putting in the shifts your team-mates are.’
‘I do as much as I can.’
He sighed and walked back towards the computer. ‘Just goi
ng back to that Asian Fair,’ he said, clicking his mouse again. ‘There was togetherness, teamwork and a shared interest that day. Three things you’ve lacked.’ He walked back towards us and leaned on the desk once more. ‘The reason you’ve been dropped has nothing to do with your name-calling – I could understand that because of your problems off the pitch – but the reasons are more simple. First, you used my dossier to play tig and then you missed training. That’s two reasons. The third is that Partington always used to pick you no matter what…I won’t be doing that.’
No matter what. This stuck in my head for so long and repeated itself that it sounded like an extra in a Jackie Chan film. But when it cleared another, more deadly, thought entered my head: was Partington so gutted about missing out on Ibrahim – the greatest young player he’d ever seen – that he picked us all the time because he felt guilty?
I got up off the chair. ‘Well thanks for telling us anway,’ I said, walking towards the door.
‘Who says I’ve finished?’
I sighed and looked across at the tactical board. He followed my eyes and looked in the same place. He nodded his head and walked across to the board. He pointed at one of the red dots on the board with his finger.
‘See Sid, this is you…’ he said, turning to us for acknowledgement. ‘You’re one of a number of dots I have to join up.’
Jesus and Mohammed, this knobhead’s about as clued-up as Dot Cotton on smack. I thought he were a former player himself and now he thinks we’re all dots. What a cheek. Wait till I tell the lads about this pillock. He’ll be out in a few weeks and I’ll be back in the team.
‘So how does this dot…’ he added, moving his finger across the board, ‘…get back on the pitch Sid?’
‘I’ll work hard in training…’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that…you will. You see, Sid, the game’s changing. There’s too much luxury and not enough struggle. That’s a bad combination for a balanced life.’
‘Anything else?’
‘God, you haven’t half got an attitude on you.’
I’d been nobbled for this before. Partington said I’d watched my A-Team boxset too many times and took the B.A. in B.A. Baracus too literally. I didn’t agree, although I admit to giggling during a minute’s silence for the Boer War, which Mr Starmer weren’t too happy about. Kai were also cited for a Bad Attitude and were carted in by Mr Starmer who told him about the sacrifices made by British soldiers for freedom. He were told he’d be shipped off back to Liberia if he didn’t sharpen up.
‘Can I go now?’ I said, getting up again.
He sighed and walked back towards us. He stopped just a few inches away and his feet were almost touching mine.
‘As far as players are concerned Sid, there’s only three things I care about…’ He slowly raised his right shoe and pressed it down onto my left foot. ‘That’s one,’ he said, looking pleased as his foot dominated mine. He took it off and raised his left foot onto my right. ‘That’s two…’ He moved his left foot away and moved his head closer to us. ‘…Do you know what the third is?’
I didn’t answer and wriggled my toes to ensure they were still there. He moved his forehead closer and rested it against mine. I tried to look away but his head were too wide and had us boxed in. The whites of his eyes expanded like a couple of floodlit balls flying towards us before kick-off.
‘This is the third, up here,’ he said, as he slowly rolled his head against mine. ‘Don’t forget that.’
He took a deep breath and turned away. He walked back towards his desk and sat down. I rubbed my forehead and grabbed the door handle ready to leave.
‘Look,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I know how difficult it is for you. I’m on your side. I know you’re not responsible for all the trouble that’s going on but you need to do a lot more for the team. From Monday, I’m going to start a War on Error and all the players have to get their act together. All you have to decide is which side you’re on. Are you with us or against us?’
I nodded my head and he smiled.
By the end of the training session, Mags had scored two own goals, Kraney had let one slip through his fingers, Iggy couldn’t find a team-mate and Lassie found it hard to trap the ball after another night on the booze. Bowker got us all together after the session and said that his War on Error were going to be impossible to win because there were simply too many errors to eliminate.
I were pleased that he’d come to his senses but pissed off that Blister hadn’t made any errors at all. This probably meant that he’d stay in the team for a bit longer and I’d be out in the wilderness.
After the session, I couldn’t wait to get home and log on to some real action. I’d been out of the team for a couple of weeks now, and my interest were drifting elsewhere. Mags had introduced us to a game called Texas Hold ‘Em on 888.com and after a few days, I were enjoying it so much that I were spending about four or five hours a day on it.
Mags, who were surely the only Swede never to get his end away, were the kind of naturally-gifted striker who never had to think about anything he were doing on the field. So it were a pity he were so uncertain off it. When he did try to pull, he usually went up to the lass and said ‘Hello, I’m Magnus…’ and that just about blew his chances.
So he spent a lot of his time finding ‘hot, new things’ for the lads, which included wearing inflatable Sumo costumes for parties, hover footballs which regularly floated across the dressing-room and DVDs that played in washing machines. He took us round one night for a demo and we sat in his kitchen – our arses were killing on the cold tiles – waiting for a film called Bad Taste to emerge. But he kept having to slot the DVD in again and again – where the washing powder usually went – because it weren’t working. Eventually, we had to move right up close and luckily we did manage to see some brains being splattered, although it did hurt our heads.
So that were Mags, and I were just about to email him to get some more tips on how to deal with ‘Showdown’ when I got a text message from Shazia.
come dwn to 17 Declan St quick, need to spk to you. Now.
I were right in the middle of a big move so this pissed us off a bit. Also, if she hadn’t put the ‘Now’ on at the end then I might have waited another day but as it were, I decided to go down there.
As I drove down into Declan Street, the only thing I were happy about were my growing goatee which, along with my beanie hat, would scare the pants off anyone who wanted to mess about with us or my sister. Number 17 had a maroon door and were on a tightly-packed terrace. I got out of the car and gave the letter box a few pushes. The door eventually opened and a small man with a moustache wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans and sandals appeared. He seemed to be carrying something in his hand; it looked like a chair or table leg.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, with a smile. ‘The stupid bitch was right. Fuckin’ haraam zaadi.’
‘Is Shazia here?’ I said, stepping forward hesitantly.
‘Yes, yes come in. Bloody hell I can’t believe it, you’ve come to my house.’
The man closed the door behind us as I waited in the dusty, murky hallway. He walked ahead and opened another door further down. I walked in behind him and there were Shazia sat on a grimy yellow sofa consoling a woman who seemed to be crying. Shazia seemed to be pressing a piece of cloth into the woman’s forehead.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Can we go now?’ said Shazia to the man.
‘What’s the rush?’ he said. ‘We’ve got fame in the house now.’
Whenever I heard this kind of phrase the warning lights went off big time. There were plenty of others like ‘Sid’s a big celebrity now’ or ‘You’re a big star now’ and these usually led to the person saying these things wanting to do something very nasty after their dribbling and drooling. Once, I were at this launch party for a new magazine and a guy said ‘Sid, you’re just super’ and he stayed close to us all night. Then o
n the way home, he blagged a lift in my car and wouldn’t leave when I dropped him off. He then took his seat belt off, reached over to my side and launched a smacker right on my lips. I were about to belt him one but I felt sick and started spitting out all the shit he’d given us through the window. He got out of the car and then skipped down the pavement with a Morecambe and Wise-type jig. It weren’t right.
‘We’re leaving now,’ said Shazia, helping the woman up.
They both headed towards us as Shazia pushed the piece of cloth into her forehead. It were clear there were spots of blood on the cloth.
‘Call an ambulance, Sadiq.’
‘Erm…Aye,’ I said, picking out the Nokia from my jeans pocket.
‘No, leave it,’ said the woman, who were wearing dark blue trousers and a green pullover. ‘I’m not going to hospital.’
‘Come on, Hannah,’ said Shazia. ‘We’ve got to get this treated.’
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not serious.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Shazia, moving her head closer to Hannah.
‘Yes, can we go to yours for a while?’
‘Course we can, Sadiq’ll take us,’ said Shazia, looking at us as she opened the door.
Shazia had this uncanny knack of persuading us to go to places I wouldn’t be seen dead in. It would always be ‘only for a minute’ and ‘we’re not going anywhere else’, but each time we’d end up somewhere completely different. Once when we were kids, she persuaded Amejee to spend all morning at Next when I only needed to pop into JJB Sports for a few minutes to grab some shorts for a school match. In the end, Amejee were so tired – and didn’t want go back into town – that she stitched together a pair of shorts at home on her Singer machine. The problem were one side ended up longer than the other and I ended up with a pair of wonky shorts.
Season of Sid Page 10