Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  Anyhow, it seemed to work because the nine-year-old appeared after Rukhsana had shouted: ‘Does anyone know Jack?’ He got through a ruck of kids and came as close to the gate as he could. He were chewing furiously and kept wiping his nose with his thumb.

  ‘Hi Jack,’ said Rukhsana, bending down as she peered through the gates.

  ‘Is that really shit Sid?’

  ‘Erm, yes, it is,’ said Rukhsana. ‘Look Jack, did you get a ball for a Christmas present?’

  ‘Is that why he’s not playing, because no-one likes him?’

  I’ll give you ‘not playing’ you cheeky little urchin. If I weren’t feeling so responsible, I’d do a Fosbury over these gates and give you a left-foot volley all the way to Starcot Lane.

  Rukhsana smiled and put her hand up to stop us coming forward.

  ‘Jack, this is important,’ said Rukhsana. ‘If you tell me what I want to know, you might get free tickets to Starcot Lane.’

  Jack sniffed and wiped his nose with his thumb. ‘They’re shit anyway, but if you can get me some for the Liverpool game…’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ she replied. ‘But I need to know about that ball you got for a Christmas present from your father.’

  ‘It were nothing, weren’t even an Adidas or a Nike. Someone robbed it off us anyway.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were playing with it after school outside my house. Ben kicked it into Mrs Bright’s garden but when we went to get it back, it wasn’t there.’

  ‘Do you think she took it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she showed us round, and it weren’t there. She said she knew nothing about it.’

  Rukhsana got up and rubbed her leg. ‘So you say Mrs Bright lives on the same street as you.’

  ‘Jocelyn Street, yeah, 116…it’s a tip.’

  I could see a concerned adult briskly walking towards us from the back of the yard.

  ‘I think it’s a teacher,’ I whispered. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Rukhsana nodded. ‘Okay Jack, thanks for your help, we’ve got to go now.’

  ‘What about my tickets?’ said Jack.

  ‘Call the club, and say Sid promised you,’ she said, hurrying towards us as I rushed to the car.

  Now there’s plenty of times I’ve found myself in places I didn’t want to be. Standing in a wall with my mitts over my nadgers is one. Trying to mark a 6ft 7in ogre from a corner is another. But this had to be the worst, even though it were my own idea to check it out. You see, I knew Rico had his sights on being a bit of a screen legend after his football days, so when Rukhsana said I could have a little cameo in a short film, I thought I’d get one up on him. But as I stood there in the Birch Centre, with the sound man sticking a pole up between my legs and gawper paupers staring at us like nobody’s business, I thought it might have been a mistake.

  I didn’t know what the film were about but I were supposed to be a witness in a court scene: the bloke and woman in front of us were wearing long gowns and wigs like barristers. But when Rob, the director, shouted ‘action’, I froze like a ref confronted by a prossie and couldn’t remember my lines. Even when Rukhsana whispered the lines to us, it confused us even more and Rob eventually shouted ‘cut’. I thought Rob were too hasty and I wanted to do the scene again. Rukhsana walked away with Rob for a minute and they had a mini-conference. They came back and decided to set up a scene especially for us in which I’d play myself. Now I admit to playing WITH myself before but this were something new, but if old Becks could do it in Goal! then I could too.

  ‘…and…ACTION!’ shouted Rob.

  ‘I bet you can now do all the things you dreamed of as a child,’ said Rukhsana, as she stood by my side.

  ‘Yes,’ I said awkwardly. ‘The status and money comes in handy, but it isn’t everything.’

  ‘There seems to be a lot of crime around here, do you think the club can help getting kids off the streets?’

  ‘It’s really important,’ I said, sticking my chest out a little. ‘They need someone to look up to. Role models, that’s what we are.’

  ‘So what do you spend your money on?’

  I looked into her eyes and saw a pound sign in one and a rupee in the other. The line were gone.

  ‘No, no keep it rolling,’ said Rob, waving his hand. ‘Ruki, say the line again. We can edit it out later.’

  ‘So what do you spend your money on?’ said Rukhsana.

  The silence were crushing. Yousufine, airports and sacks of dosh.

  ‘Forget the line, Sid,’ said Rob. ‘Just respond to it naturally. Ruki, let’s make the line more specific.’

  Rukhsana looked at Rob and seemed to know instantly what he wanted. She turned to us again. ‘So what was the last thing you spent your money on?’

  I hesitated and shuffled my feet awkwardly. ‘The last thing?…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rukhsana firmly.

  ‘The last thing I spent money on…’

  ‘…Yes.’

  ‘Erm…a Christmas present for you…it’s a Bryan Adams CD.’

  Everyone groaned and Rukhsana tutted.

  ‘It’s Ryan Adams,’ she said. ‘RYAN…as in Giggs.’

  ‘Does he sing too?’

  Rukhsana rolled her eyes and looked at Rob.

  ‘No, no keep it rolling,’ he said, making circles with his finger. ‘This is good stuff.’

  Now it may not have been Oscar material but I were still thinking of my performance as we headed to Mrs Bright’s in Rukhsana’s Astra. I got better as I went along, judging by the smile on Rob’s face, and I’m sure I could give old Becks, Vinny Jones or Eric Cantona a run for their money. After all, their screen roles are limited to playing people in this part of the world, whereas I could pass for a terrorist or an illegal immigrant, not that I’d ever take up something like that.

  ‘I’ve had a couple of more ideas for short films,’ said Rukshana, as she pulled in outside Jocelyn Street.

  ‘Any parts for us?’

  ‘No, these are serious,’ she said, smiling, as she parked behind a blue Volvo. ‘One’s going to be about the Sialkot stitching industry and what happens to the footballs once they get over here.’

  ‘I just kick and I don’t think about where they come from.’

  ‘Precisely,’ she said, pulling up the handbrake.

  ‘And the other?’

  She unclipped her seat belt and sighed. ‘The other’s about bus crashes in Pakistan. I looked at an old photo of my father the other day and he was sitting on top of a bus. He used to go on a bit about how bad the roads and the drivers were over there. I think it’s an interesting subject.’

  ‘Boooring…’

  She gave us a cold stare and got out of the car. I got out too and pulled down my beanie hat over my ears.

  ‘Just tell us what’s inside the ball.’ I shouted, over the roof of the car.

  ‘I DON’T KNOW,’ she shouted back. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Some dad that,’ I whispered.

  ‘God, you’re worse than Yousuf.’

  Hey, hold on there, no-one’s as bad as old Yousufine. I mean, name me another bloke who looks like Freddy Kreuger and has a cool two mill stashed in a pair of football boots?

  Rukhsana walked down the path and rang the bell at number 116. I slowly followed and waited a few feet behind her. The door opened seconds later and a very old woman appeared. She had white hair, were about 4ft 6 and had a big, black key in her hand.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bright,’ said Rukhsana, walking forward. ‘We’re not early are we?’

  ‘No, no my lovely, come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve got them all prepared for you.’

  We walked in and followed her as she briskly went through the living room. Just as she were about to enter the kitchen, she turned and stopped by a dark blue door. She put the key in and opened it. ‘They’re down here, it’s just a few steps.’

  Jesus
and Mohammed, where the hell are you taking us old lady? I’ve already sent Freddie Krueger packing and now you’re taking us to The People Under the Stairs? I wouldn’t go down there even if Wes Craven were doing a soccer school.

  Mrs Bright walked down into the cellar and Rukhsana followed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rukhsana, over her shoulder. ‘It won’t bite, whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s my knee ligaments,’ I said, rubbing my left knee. ‘I have to be careful.’

  She stopped on the second step looking up. ‘Come down right now…or else I’ll tell the rest of the team.’ She smiled and disappeared down the stairs.

  I sighed and reluctantly followed her down the stairs. It were a narrow passage and the steps were too steep, a bit like the crappy ones I had to suffer at a non-league ground a couple of years back. But I got down to the bottom and there weren’t much to see apart from a big white pillar in the centre of the cellar and a brown cardboard box resting against it. Further down, there were an old telly, a set of white drawers and a small, disused snooker table lying on its side.

  Mrs Bright pulled the cardboard box towards us, sliding it across the dusty floor. ‘Here you go, lovelies.’

  ‘God, how many have you got there?’ asked Rukhsana.

  The box – easily the biggest I’d seen – were filled to the brim with footballs.

  ‘They kept flying over into my garden,’ she said, with a sense of pride. ‘So I started collecting them.’

  Rukhsana crouched down and picked one of them up. She rubbed it between her palms and put it back down again. ‘Must be about 30 or so here, Mrs Bright.’

  ‘I guess so,’ she replied.

  I guess so too, Mrs Bright eyes. You’ve got more balls than our kit-man, physio and groundsman put together. There’s everything down there: Adidas, Mitre, Nike and even a Bobby Charlton-signed special. I feel as though I should get warmed-up.

  ‘Is yours there?’ asked Mrs Bright.

  Rukhsana put the ball down and searched through the other makes in the box.

  ‘Do you not like football then, young man?’ said Mrs Bright, looking up at us.

  Well, if you were around you’d nick the ball off us all the time, so no I wouldn’t like that kind of football.

  ‘I play a little,’ I said, with a smile.

  ‘Look lovelies, I’m going to pop upstairs and make myself a cuppa, would you like one? I’ll put some nice mince pies out too.’

  ‘Oooh, yes please Mrs Bright,’ replied Rukhsana, continuing to check through the balls. ‘We’ll be up in a minute.’

  ‘Fine then, I’ll leave you to it.’

  She walked up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘What if she locks us in?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh stop being such a paranoid android.’

  I bent down and helped go through the balls. I spotted one with ’90’ on it and my heart fluttered.

  ‘Here it is,’ I said, picking the ball up. ‘It’s got…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh…it’s got ‘90’ on it but it says ‘Italia 90’, it’s not the right one.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Most of the balls were now by Rukhsana’s feet and there were only two left in the box. She rolled them around and had a strained looked on her face.

  ‘It’s not there is it? I asked, putting the ‘Italia 90’ ball back in the box and getting up.

  She picked up the last ball and threw it against the pillar in frustration. ‘No, it’s not.’ She sat on the floor and put her hands on her forehead.

  ‘Don’t sit down on that,’ I said. ‘I watched a programme once and they said you should never sit down on a cellar floor.’

  She gave us a stern look. I bent down next to her and put my arm on her shoulder. ‘Look, it’s a bit mad chasing all around town looking for a ball with something inside it. Can’t we get back to doing normal things again? Do you want to come out for a drink?’

  She picked up one of the balls by her side and smacked it on my head with both hands. ‘I’d rather go out with this,’ she said, clasping the ball to her chest.

  THIRTEEN

  Any knobhead who thinks we haven’t got the hardest job in the world should come down to Royds on Christmas Day. While the rest of the nation is sitting around their fireplace, dribbling at the thought of a PlayStation 3 coming their way, we’re out on the park freezing our nadgers off trying to summon up enthusiasm for a match on Boxing Day.

  To make it worse, Bowker were wearing one of those silly paper hats you get inside a cracker and were drilling us with even more intensity than usual. He joined in the session and tackled ferociously but at least we were back to chasing a real ball rather than the phantom one.

  Rukhsana had eased off after Mrs Bright’s box failed to provide the ball she wanted and she were now being forced, by her mother, to turn her attentions to old Yousufine. She’d contacted Jimmy so he could put an appeal in the paper about his disappearance and she also told the police, although seen as they’re busy looking at fat blokes eating crisps at football grounds, she probably won’t get too much help from them.

  But the only thing I were missing were a place in the team and there were plenty going on up top to change that. Blister were in my sights but the season of goodwill and all that shit needed to be respected, so the studs-up challenge would have to wait. And anyhow, it were too quiet to commit a cruncher like that because the noise might go all the way down to Garton Street and all those scrubbers would come out of their terries with their gobs full of turkey trying to find out what happened. We usually had the whole street watching us at every training session during the season so it were nice to have our own tiny clutch of pumping arms and legs feeling like the only signs of life for miles and miles.

  And we had to travel miles and miles to get to Upton Park for the game against West Ham on Boxing Day. It were a relegation six-pointer, as the Pundicks kept spouting, but Mags called it a sex-pointer and were only bothered about how many birds (if any) he could conquer in London. As for Ray, he took a bubble-blowing kit down with him and wanted to start blowing a few if we were leading. Luckily, for him Rico had flicked in Lassie’s cross and we were one up, deep into the second half.

  So we were sat in the dead zone, with 10 minutes to go, and the natives were getting a bit restless: giving us as well as the home bench a bit of stick. Bowker had already asked all the subs to warm-up and we thought he were going to ask Ray or us to come on at any minute. But then Ray pulled out his small bubble tub, dipped in the tiny wand and started blowing small bubbles like nobody’s business. Anyhow, some of these bubbles went near the fans and one of them – wearing a claret and blue scarf – came down from his seat and approached Ray. The fan pushed the bottle into Ray’s face and ran off before the stewards collared him, while a screaming Ray were left to hold his face. Then Bowker turned around and asked Ray to get stripped so he could replace Jet on the pitch. Ray took his hands away from his eyes and blinked to see if his sight’d been affected, while trying to strip off at the same time. Unfortunately, he managed to pull down all his kecks and, by accident, mooned at the whole crowd behind him. This nearly incited a riot and Bowker watched on in amazement and decided to bring us on instead. The papers had a great time next day and we had a giggle reading the ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ headline, although we weren’t as amused by West Ham’s equaliser seven minutes from time.

  So we got back to Starcot Lane and rested up before Chelsea’s visit two days later. I knew Partington would be there in the stands, eyeing up England hopefuls, but it were so frustrating because I knew I wouldn’t get onto the pitch. We were hammered 6-1 anyway, so it weren’t that bad.

  I asked Rukhsana to pop down and join us for New Year’s Eve celebrations at Tiffs but she said she were dealing with a lot of visitors coming to her house speculating about Yousufine and what had happened to him. She also said that some of her mother’s friends were wailing and beating their chests scr
eaming ‘Hai, hai Yousuf,’ thinking that old Yousufine had gone for a lie down up in the clouds. Granny Fatima always said this were part of the ‘family fandango’, but if they knew that old Yousufine were lying on his garden swing in a Faisalabad villa rather than popping his clogs, they might get even more emotional.

  So we spent the night talking about possible relegation (we were fourth from bottom with 20 points), Molly turning into a fusspot now that he were captain, and Partington’s amazing new reign as England boss. Lassie, Mags and us all agreed we had a good chance of getting in the World Cup squad although Steve Clayton, who were standing beside our table with two empty beer glasses in his hand, didn’t agree.

  ‘Mags, you’re Swedish aren’t you?’ he asked, stroking his wavy brown hair and then feeling his tanned bicep as it bulged out from his sky-blue t-shirt.

  ‘Yes, last time I looked,’ said Mags.

  He laughed as he rubbed a scar on his cheek, the only blemish on his porceleain features. ‘We better not get into your background, eh Sid?’

  Nah we better not but, I have to admit I did think of changing my name to Sid K after my fellow Lancastrians Vernon and Peter Kay. After all, they’re playing for England on telly, so why can’t I slip on the Three Lions for my country? And anyhow, I thought lions were from Africa, so how they’re connected to England I’ll never know.

  ‘Oi,’ shouted Lassie, as Clayton walked away from the table. ‘What happened to that Rathbone bloke?’

  ‘He went down,’ said Clayton, continuing to walk away.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Not long, he had some previous…’ replied Clayton, as he approached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hmm…I thought he’d get community service,’ said Lassie, trailing off.

  Blister, Pearly and Rico walked past Clayton on the stairs and headed towards our table. Pearly and Blister were carrying pint glasses overflowing with beer, some of it spilling on the luxury crimson carpet. Pearly walked faster as he got closer to the table, trying not to spill any more. He managed to place the glass on the table without too much damage.