Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

‘Why didn’t you get some from the bar up here?’ I said to Pearly.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said, pulling up a chair next to Mags, ‘but it doesn’t taste the same up here. Downstairs, the beer’s better. I’ve had a word with Clayton about it, but he doesn’t do anything.’

  Blister approached the table precariously and were just about to put his brimming pint glass down.

  ‘…Blister,’ said Pearly, as fast as he could. ‘Blister…watch it, you prick.’

  Blister foot’s caught the bottom of Pearly’s chair and the glass escaped from his hand. It toppled over and the gold rush liquid headed towards us. Before I could jump out of my chair, the beer spilled onto my dark blue sweatshirt and down my neck. I held my Armani necklace out as far as I could but the cold, wet liquid still trickled down my chest and onto my stomach and trousers.

  ‘You knobhead,’ I said, jumping out my chair while the others shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ said Blister, staring at me with his narrow eyes and swollen face. ‘It just slipped.’

  And my boot’ll do the same when we get to our next training session. When I’ve got a fresh pair of undies on I’ll be revitalised, and you’ll be the one pissing your pants.

  I grabbed a serviette from the next table next to ours and tried to wipe some of the alcohol off my neck. ‘I need to get changed, I’m pissed through.’

  ‘Aw don’t get a cob on, Sidney,’ said Blister. ‘Just have a dance and it’ll dry out.’

  He started to do a little boogie, while looking at the floor, and had a self-satisfied look on his face. I were ready to go for him but the squelch and stench of my clothes were too big a handicap.

  ‘I’m off,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be coming back.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to see the new year in?’ asked Mags.

  I didn’t answer, walked past Blister and headed down the stairs.

  Now when you’re driving home, pissed through, with your kecks feeling like they’ve been fried in beer and spirits, you’re not thinking of anything apart from getting in, having a shower and getting some new gear on. But when I did get home – and instantly sprinted up the stairs – I heard a shuffling noise in the living room. For some strange reason, I thought it might be old Yousufine coming back to haunt us like Nightmare on Shaw Crescent or something but I snapped out of it and walked downstairs slowly. Just in case, though, I picked up a golf club from the hallway and prepared for a huge swing. I pushed open the living room door with one delicate finger and drew back the club over my shoulder.

  ‘I rang the bell but no one answered,’ said Abujee, flinching as I prepared to unleash the nine iron. ‘So I just came in.’

  ‘You fuckin’ startled us,’ I said quietly, lowering the club.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You startled us.’ I sat down on the sofa awkwardly and rested the club by my side. ‘How did you get in anyway, did Amejee give you a key?

  He nodded his head and straightened his white hat ‘Have you been drinking? You smell like Steptoe.’

  ‘I haven’t had anything to drink and I don’t drink. I’m not the one who abuses substances.’ I got up and headed for the door. ‘Anyhow, I need to get changed. I have to get out of these clothes.’

  He stepped forward a little. ‘I wanted to talk about Yousuf. We’re worried something bad might have happened to him.’

  Aye, I agree. Maybe old Yousufine hasn’t got enough cha wallahs to serve him tea in that villa of his.

  ‘I need a shower,’ I said, opening the door, ‘and then I’m going out again.’

  He slipped his hand into his neat black waistcoat and picked out a watch without the strap. He looked at it and then put it back in his waistcoat.

  ‘Did Ibrahim give you anything when he came back?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk about Yousuf.’

  ‘I do, but I know Ibrahim had a lot on his mind before…’

  ‘…His death?’

  ‘Hmm…did he give you a ball?’

  WHAT IS IT WITH THIS FUCKIN’ BALL? HAS IT BEEN INVOLVED AT EVERY WORLD CUP FINAL OR SOMETHING? WHY THE HELL IS IT SO IMPORTANT?

  ‘He gave us one as a present,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t got it anymore. He also gave us a phone too, but seen as I’ve got a few, I don’t really use it.’

  He picked out his watch again, looked at it and put it back in his waistcoat. ‘I don’t think you should pursue these things too much, it’s not healthy.’ He looked across at all four walls. ‘Which way is Makkah-sharif anyway, I want to read namaz.’

  You come over, ask us dogdy questions and now you want to turn this place into a part-time mosque. What if the coppers came down? They’d put me on their watch list straight away. As soon as they see people kissing the floor and moving their mouths faster than the donkey in the Arabic version of Shrek, they’re checking for secret codes. I don’t want that in my house.

  ‘I think Mecca’s that way,’ I said, pointing towards the kitchen.

  ‘It’s Makkah…’

  I didn’t answer and left the room.

  It were New Years’ Day so we deserved to stay out till 6am. After Tiffs, we went to another nightclub and then onto Susan’s house – a girl Pearly had picked up. I rang Rukhsana again at about two in the morning – and asked if she wanted to come out – but she told us that if I ever rang again at that time, she’d never talk to us again. So I texted her instead. She didn’t reply.

  Some of the lads thought Bowker were a top bloke for letting us come in for training at 11am rather than 9.30 but they all changed their tune when he put out the cones and conducted one of the most intense training sessions ever. He threw out the yellow bibs – for the five-a-side – to the most pissed up members of the team, which just happened to be Lassie, Pearly, Rico, Iggy and Blister. He found this out by asking who drunk the most last night and, as expected, most of the lads put their hands up and said things like ‘I had 27 pints and 12 shorts’ and, ‘I just camped out behind the bar’. They paid for their exploits by having to do three extra jogs around the pitch before we started the five-a-side.

  Once we started, however, I had my sights set on Blister. Everton were coming to town in the FA Cup and I wanted my place back. It were a bit too cold for a sliding tackle but if I just went over the top a little, it would surely do the trick. Mags had the ball and passed to Pearly near the cones on the right-hand side. Blister were waiting for it in the middle – with his right arm raised – and this were my moment. The ball came over briskly and Blister shielded it and turned to face goal. I remembered his arrogant look from the night before and came running in from a midfield postion. The adrenaline were pumping and I launched in two-footed with a cracking scissor tackle that took both the ball and man. Blister had a reputation of going down easily, but not this time.

  ‘Aarghh, you bastard,’ said Blister, as he fell to the ground clutching his ankle.

  I dusted myself off and got up as Blister continued to roll around.

  ‘Oi,’ shouted Bowker, picking up a cone from the other side and talking through it. ‘What are you doing? Come here.’

  I stopped following the ball and jogged over to Bowker. I spotted Blister getting up groggily and limping away. Bowker picked up the cone and put it on my head. It balanced well for a few seconds as I held it up with my hands but then began to slip off.

  ‘I want to see you after this session,’ said Bowker.

  The manager’s office were still a tip when I walked in but, as ever, he looked immaculate in light blue shirt and striped club tie. There were piles of unopened envelopes on his desk and he had to move a few of them so we could see each other when I sat down.

  ‘Unopened Christmas cards,’ he said, answering us before I posed the question. ‘You don’t celebrate it, do you?’

  Well, when you’re being flogged at Royds in a training session on the 25th while everyone else is opening prezzies, there isn’t much
to celebrate is there? I mean, we get home for the Queen’s Speech and all that but she must be the only other person putting in a shift. At least she understands what we’re going through.

  ‘I don’t celebrate anything really…’ I replied, shaking my head.

  ‘Not even your birthday?’

  Definitely not that. The hazy memory of a certain March 20 in 1992 put paid to that. There were a lot of things going on at that time. It were my fifth birthday as well as being the date of the birth of the Prophet Mohammed, which Abujee were celebrating by marching to the town centre with about 200 others in the community. We were also slap bang in the middle of the month of Ramadan, so my candle-blowing had to wait until everyone had opened the fast. Anyhow, I were up in the bedroom watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and got totally absorbed in them. Amejee then called us down and when I got there, I saw about 15 of Abujee’s friends knocking back my birthday cake with the kind of relish they usually reserve for evening prayers. There were jam and cream all over their beards and everything. I ran back upstairs and cried all night.

  Bowker got up and walked towards his computer, which were already on. ‘Is that a bastard word, ‘birthday’?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you answer then?’

  I didn’t reply and looked at the computer as another website popped up. He sat down on the swivel chair but turned to face us.

  ‘Okay, you’re sulking because you’re not in the team,’ he said. ‘I can understand that. But you really shouldn’t be tackling like that. You could have put Blister out of action.’

  ‘I were just frustrated.’

  Bowker turned away from us and clicked on the mouse again. ‘Do you want me to tell you about frustration?’ he said, with his back to us. ‘Come here.’

  I got up and walked slowly across to Bowker. I stopped behind the swivel chair and looked at the computer over Bowker’s shoulder.

  ‘My dad’s frustrated Sid, but you’re not.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Look at this.’

  A website came up called ‘ADUK’ and then a page came up that showed a massive pair of lungs.

  ‘Look at these Sid. Have you ever thought of what yours look like?’

  ‘My lungs?’

  Bowker sighed and turned round on his swivel chair. He looked at us intensely. ‘My father sits at home all day just trying to breathe properly. He used to work at Kershaw’s. I think it’s now a retail park, Red Greave or something. Anyway, he now has asbestos-related problems. He’s been trying to get compensation but when the company’s gone down the tubes, the government and solicitors make excuses and he likes the odd fag or two, what can you do? That’s frustration. Do you understand that Sid?’

  ‘Sorry…aye, I understand.’

  ‘You probably think you can run forever right now,’ he said, turning back to face the computer. ‘But one day, these two fellas might pack up…and take you with them.’

  I looked at the picture of the lungs again – this time with more concentration – and the lobes, which looked like small branches, made us feel uncomfortable. I felt a twinge in my own chest.

  ‘You’re father was at Lings, wasn’t he Sid?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, he were for a few years.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I’m not sure…I’m not that close to him.’

  ‘Hmm…’ He turned around again to face us. ‘You’re playing tomorrow. We need some more creativity and goals. We’ve lost that a bit in the side, so I’m hoping you can find it again. I think you’ve pulled your socks up in the last two months so you deserve your chance.’

  I clenched my fist. ‘Fuckin’ A.’

  He got up from the chair and walked round to his desk. ‘Just remember what frustration is…’

  Bowker’s lung lesson seemed to have done the trick. I ran faster, tackled harder and passed better as the rain lashed down at Starcot Lane. The ground were heaving with supporters and the noise were like a lit matchbox which opened and closed as the action propelled from end to end. My ears were like giant megaphones funnelling in the sounds from the terraces.

  I got the ball out on the left, near the Everton fans – who’d been given a bigger allocation because it were an FA Cup tie – and they seemed a decent bunch all in all. One of them were taking my picture on his mobile while I were taking a corner. I turned and smiled in his direction, giving him a ‘peace’ sign while I were at it, you know, to show my integrated credentials and general politeness but all I got were a volley of missiles from his neck of the woods. There were coins, darts, bottles and sarnies. It were like Baghdad or something – and the stewards just laughed along like some secret police. Okay, I thought, I’ll show you. I banged the corner in and waited for one of the lads to connect but he couldn’t reach it and it went out of play. I were still offended by the missiles when the long goal-kick were headed on and their striker made it 1-0.

  Bowker were furious at half-time and even brought in one of the builders who constructed Wembley to inspire us. He showed us a tired, haggard figure who’d been through years of hell just get the project up and running. He said if we couldn’t turn this round, we didn’t deserve to go to Wembley for the FA Cup Final.

  It seemed to work two minutes after the break when Lassie hit a blistering drive from 30 yards to equalise. The force were now with us, and the Billy Moss End were almost sucking the ball into the net. But the minutes seemed to pass like seconds, and there were only five left when Rico received the ball on the right. I stole in to the box and knew that if he delivered at the right moment, I could sneak in to grab the glory. I’d even learn Spanish if he got it over to us. Just think of it: ‘Super Sid buries Toffees for late winner.’ I waited and waited as Rico twisted and turned near the touchline. COME ON, YOU FUCKIN’ PUTA. The ball suddenly came whistling over and I could see that no defender were going to get anywhere near it. It were a few yards ahead of us and the keeper stayed on his line. I dived forward, airborne and horizontal, the mucky white sphere so close I could smell it. My eyes lit up as I saw the golden gap at the near post. Fly me to the moon.

  I never liked the snappers but Bowker decided to let them in to celebrate a great victory. The dirt and muck were still plastered on my cheeks but Pearly licked most of it off with his tongue. We grasped each other tightly – in two shaky rows – and began to bounce up and down on the damp floor. The cameras whirred and clicked, grabbing their moment of Albion Town history. This were the first time the club had reached the fourth round.

  Lassie were the first person to break free. ‘Merry across the Mersey…’ he sang, with arms outstretched in plane-like fashion. There were no point in reminding Pearly that we weren’t on Merseyside: it were celebration time!

  Bowker walked into the dressing-room. He went over to Molly and Pearly and patted them on the back.

  ‘Nice work lads,’ said Bowker, walking towards us.

  He undid his top button and loosened his tie. He looked at us for a moment and then hugged us tightly. ‘You did it, Sid,’ he said. ‘You did, it. What a fuckin’ header.’ His hand brushed my cheek. ‘Urghh, I think you need a wash though.’ He put his arms in the air and prepared to walk off. ‘…Oh Sid,’ he added, suddenly remembering something. ‘Jim’s outside, he wants a few quotes, I think.’

  Yeah, can’t fuckin’ wait. None of this ‘over the moon’, ‘dream come true’ shit for me. I think ‘El Sid heading for glory’ sounds about right.

  I walked towards the door and stepped outside. I could see Jimmy standing beside an Everton player with a few other people, who I presumed were journalists. Jimmy spotted me and I put my arm up to usher him towards the dressing-room. He walked over and unzipped his thick black overcoat.

  ‘That was memorable, Sid,’ said Jimmy, reaching into his inside pocket for his notebook. ‘Fourth round of the FA Cup, can’t believe it.’ He walked into the dressing-room and sat down on the edge of the bench. ‘You won
’t forget this for years.’

  ‘Yeah, my head still hurts,’ I said.

  Jimmy rubbed his nose as the steamy, sweaty dressing-room whiff suddenly overwhelmed him. ‘Yes, I think mine will too when all this is finished.’

  He flicked the pages of his notebook until he got to the relevant page. He had his pen ready and seemed to be looking in his coat pockets for something else. ‘Just before we talk about the game,’ he said, pulling out the item he wanted, ‘I wanted to ask you about something else.’ He pulled out a small photo from his pocket. ‘A lass called me up about this lad.’ He showed me a small, passport-sized photograph of a well-groomed Yousuf, with his shirt and tie just visible.

  Strewth, when did old Yousufine ever look a million dollars? I mean, I know he’s got a bit stashed away now but he looks more like Immy Khan than Freddie Krueger in that photo. No wonder, he wanted to escape sharpish. If that’s what this country did to him, then it were right for him to go home. I did a public service.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, looking at the photo. ‘I gave her your number. I think she wants a piece in the paper.’

  ‘I take it you knew him,’ said Jimmy, putting the photo back in his coat pocket. ‘I just want a few quotes, you know, get some more interest in the piece.’

  ‘I’d rather not, Jim,’ I said, standing up from the bench. ‘I knew him, but only a little.’

  ‘Got any idea what might have happened to him?’

  ‘I’ll leave that job up to you.’

  FOURTEEN

  I bought all the papers and laid all the back pages and sports supplements on the carpet next to each other. I stood over them and smiled as my face beamed out from all of them. Only one paper didn’t have my mug on it and decided, instead, to scream: ‘Is Star Sid Connected to Missing Person?’ The cheeky fuckers. There I am scoring one of the greatest goals in Town’s history and all they can do is connect us to old Yousufine. There were also a few stories about the transfer window and one snippet said Inter and Valencia were after us. I knew it were the time for silly stories, but when I saw Jamil quoted in one of the stories, I started to take it seriously. He were quoted as saying: ‘My client’s happy at Albion’. Too right I were. Even if Barcelona or AC Milan came in for us, I’d give ‘em two fingers. I mean, I need my gooey cheese and onion pies and vinegar-soaked chips and I can’t get them over there.