Season of Sid

by Nasser Hashmi

  I tapped him on the shoulder and he half-turned, trying to keep an eye on the horses coming into the final furlong.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, raising his hand. ‘Come on Dubai Darling, kick on now…’

  ‘Jim, I haven’t got long.’

  He turned again. ‘Oh Sid, good to see you in here. Training finished already?’

  ‘Why did you do it, Jim?’

  He glanced up at the screen and looked back at me again. ‘Do what?’

  ‘It’s on the front page…’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘MY FUCKIN’ TRANSFER…’

  ‘Aw bugger no, surely not,’ he said, stroking the back of his head. He put his hand on my shoulder and ushered us away towards the side of the bookie’s, where all the slips were completed. He sat down on one of the stools but I stayed on my feet. ‘So you say it’s in the paper today? The transfer…’

  ‘Front page.’

  He shook his head. ‘I bloody told them not to, but they wouldn’t listen…’

  ‘I thought you were retired…’

  ‘I am…I was…I mean, look Sid. This is all that bastard Berger’s doing. I think Starmer tipped him off, so he phoned me up to say he was running a story about the transfer. I said he should wait a while and the club would probably announce it anyway, so he agreed with that but only if I told him everything I knew. No way, I said, but he said he’d go ahead with the story anyway. So I wanted to make sure he got it right…’

  So is this what you dirty hacks are really like: you need a second scribbler to look over your shoulder while you establish the facts. Imagine if we needed another set of legs to help us score a goal or make a pass? Frankie four-legs’d surely have a big advantage but how would he know which were his best peg? By the time he’d got out of a tangle and decided to shoot into a certain corner, he’d be robbed by a streetwise defender. So no thanks, we don’t need any secondary help, even if it gives us another set of balls.

  ‘So you helped Tom Berger write that shit?’

  ‘Well, it’s not shit, is it Sid?’

  I tutted and shook my head. ‘Well, okay it isn’t, but every fucker in town knows now.’

  Jimmy got up and smiled. He tapped us on the shoulder and tilted his head slightly. ‘They would have found out anyway. At least now you’ve got time to say your goodbyes.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I didn’t want to do.’

  Partington called and told us it would be difficult for him to come to Italy next season and watch us play. He said he wanted to ‘look at some other players in friendlies before the World Cup,’ but this didn’t mean I were out of contention. I’d noticed a change in him since he’d become England boss. It were almost as though he’d been taken over by what the lads called Fuckin’ Aliens – the FA – who’d drilled a hole in his head, wiped his memory and turned him into a bland bureaucrat. The gaffer we knew just weren’t the same bloke: the cheery, upbeat motivator were now a fuckin’ bore of the highest order. Those Fuckin’ Aliens had destroyed him.

  But it were lucky for us that the lads weren’t treating us like an alien at training after they heard of the transfer. In fact, most of them wished us good luck, although some of them were keen to use it for some antics of their own. First, Rico sneaked up behind us and poured out a tin of hot spaghetti all over my head while I were waiting to take a free-kick. Then the next day, instead of trying to tackle us, Pearly put black grease all over my hair while he were marking us from a corner. Then they all parted like the Red Sea and left me to nod the ball home past Kraney. The only problem were, the ball stuck to my head like superglue and I couldn’t get it off, sending the lads into complete raptures. And then to complete the week, all the lads went to ground as though they’d been shot: rolling around and screaming ‘Mama Mia’ like a bunch of pussies. They seemed to forget that most of them did the same thing in the Premier League, but without the extra drama.

  Anyhow, all this were taken in good heart and I were in even better spirits when I saw a banner at our home game against Blackburn saying ‘Sid Must Stay’. This kind of thing carried on throughout the next two weeks. There were also newspaper letters, radio phone-ins and petitions saying it were a bad move for the club. I were sent some nice letters too. One pensioner said he were so proud that a Muslim had ‘integrated so well in our society’ and that it made him want to put on his 50-year-old army uniform and stand in front of the mirror for hours. Another, however, did say ‘good riddance you dirty, treasonous brown bomber. Don’t ever soil that England shirt again’. I wanted to point out to him that, on my England debut, it weren’t the shirt but the shorts that were in most danger of being soiled.

  So this feverish atmosphere led right up to our final home game against Manchester United and, as it turned out, it were lucky the Red Devils were in town. This meant that even if there were anger and poison in the stands at my ‘treachery’, it were all redirected at the blokes in red shirts. So for the 90 minutes, most fans were passionately behind us and wanted us to ‘kill the Mancs’ by any means possible. Two-footed tackles, shirt-pulling and pinches on the backside were cheered mercilessly and any mistake by a United player were ribbed with relish.

  So in this cauldron, I used the intensity of the crowd to propel us forward. They were like a thousand friendly ants tingling all over my body, driving us on for one more shot, one more tackle or one more skilful flick. But despite an avalanche of corners and set-pieces, the goal wouldn’t come, and worse, United sprinted upfield from one of these corners and scored within about five seconds of clearing their own box. Luckily, for us it happened in the 82nd minute and there weren’t really enough time for the crowd to turn their attentions to my last few minutes at Starcot Lane. Granted, there were still an away game to come but this were the real hallowed turf and I were glad to come off it relatively unscathed. And then, when the final whistle blew, it were so emotional that I could feel my knees buckling under us. I just about summed up enough energy to stagger my way towards the Billy Moss End. I looked up at the pockets of fans waving their red and blue scarves over their heads. But in between them, there were a few just folding their arms gawping at us like I were a Manc or something. One of them chucked something my way as I stepped into the penalty box. It just missed us and landed near the penalty spot. I went over and picked it up and it said ‘Repubblicanna Italiana,’ on it and had a picture of some old biddy looking miserable. Just as I were about to get angry and call over a steward, a song broke out from one part of the stand. I were told later it were some Bay City Rollers number called Bye Bye Baby.

  I didn’t like the ‘baby’ bit at all but it were catchy enough. I stood by the goalpost and took off my shirt. I were in some kind of zone or spell so I scrunched the shirt up into a ball and threw it into the crowd. Several hands converged on it and then fought for it until a balding man clasped it to his chest and then kissed it.

  I were just about to head for the tunnel because the wind were biting into my bare chest when a tray of chips and gravy came flying over and slapped into my shorts. I could feel the hot, creamy gravy dripping right down my backside and it weren’t pleasant. So I took off my shorts and threw them into the crowd too, but they didn’t get there because of the wind: they stuck to a serious-looking steward’s face instead.

  My body were now freezing but the song were keeping my head warm. They wanted more, so I bent down and untied the laces on my right boot. I slipped it off and felt the heavenly wet grass under the sole of my right foot, although the red sock were hanging off like a used condom. I hurled the boot into the crowd and it went about 15 rows back to a young woman.

  The other boot came off and went flying into the crowd too. Now, it were just my socks and royal blue undies left and I were shivering like a ref in front of a good-looking lass. I wanted to snog them all but I were totally fuckin’ exhausted as the 90 minutes finally crept on us. I knew if any more gear came off, I’d never be allowed in a mosque again, so I sank t
o my knees for a breather instead. But as I went down, near the advertising hoardings, my body pivoted forward and I were ready to give the Starcot Lane turf one last smacker. My mouth went down to kiss the grass and my two hands were by my head. I savoured the moist turf on my lips but the colossal power from above were still ringing in my ears. I got up and clapped the fans for the last time. I turned away and ran as fast as I could back towards the tunnel because I were becoming bleary-eyed. The wet grass were seeping up through my socks but I were more worried about the wussy water in my eyeballs. Luckily, I made it before the real torrent began.

  As I weren’t officially leaving the club till the summer, my leaving do were put on hold until then. The plan were to just fly out to Bergamo, have a look around and then come back. But Amejee were so outraged by the move that she insisted she travel with us to our away game at Blackburn, so she could talk us out of it. Bowker, who were usually militant about these things, had a little snigger and said it’d be fine if she travelled down with us. So she sat at the back of the coach saying that it were still like the Roman Empire over there, and that I’d get carted off into some black hole and end up being tortured by suited men in dark glasses. After a while I stopped listening but she weren’t going to let up because she had plans to visit the Ahmeds in Blackburn for tea and then join us back on the coach for the return to Starcot Lane. I were to pay all the cab fare, of course.

  On the return journey, she told us all about the Ahmeds’ fitted kitchen but I were so knackered I were hardly listening. Then she went up to the front of the coach and insisted Lino flick over channels from Sky Soccer Saturday to Strictly Come Dancing, which he did, because he were a fan of Bruce Forsythe. There were a few groans but most of the lads were buried in their Playstations, i-Pods and celebrity mags anyhow.

  So she walked back towards us on the back row and sat down. She put her hand on my knee and looked up at the monitor.

  ‘This is so graceful, don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘Aye…for pansies.’

  She shook her head in disapproval. She looked away from the monitor and turned towards us.

  ‘Look Sadiq, you’ve come such a long, long way…’

  Not that ‘long, long way’ shit again. I keep hearing it but as far as I can tell I’ve just travelled from Simpkiss Street to Starcot Lane and that’s not more than a couple of miles in my eyes. Okay, Jamil did cook the expenses a couple of times and may have always had me a ‘long, long way’ from my destination, but that were his problem, not mine.

  She put her hand on my knee. ‘…We don’t want you to go,’ she said.

  ‘I got a knock there, can you move your hand?’

  She tutted and moved her hand away. ‘As you want it,’ she said, looking away. ‘Is this how you treat us and everyone in the community, by running away?’

  ‘I’m not running away,’ I said, looking out of the coach window. ‘I just got a good offer, that’s all.’

  ‘Must be nice to have offers…we didn’t have a choice.’

  Well, there weren’t much choice if I were down in your belly waiting to pop out, were there? I mean, if abortion were a goer in ‘our’ community then maybe you could have snuffed us out before my miracle feet came into the world, but nature wanted us to give pleasure to the masses and I’ve done it with knobs-on.

  ‘I’m tired Amee,’ I said, slumping in my seat. ‘I need a bit of rest.’

  Amejee sighed and looked to the front of the coach. She got up and walked down the aisle. I leaned to the side and tried to get some sleep but my head were racing with strange thoughts. Obviously I were thinking about playing with my team-mates for the last time and about Ruki coming to settle down with us in Italy. But like some midfield colossus nipping in to take charge, the overwhelming thought were about this warm, comfortable, second home right in front of us: the coach. I felt so cosy and relaxed here that the parting were going to be difficult. I were so attached to the TV monitors, the smooth tables, the microwave and the luxury bogs that anything less would send us loopy. In fact there were times, particularly on long trips to the likes of Portsmouth and Ipswich, when I were half-asleep anyway, that I were sure the coach were melting or on fire and I had to wake up to save it. It were just something I couldn’t shrug off: it weren’t pervy or anything like that, it were just a curious affection for this 62-seat playmate.

  I couldn’t sleep and caught sight of Amejee talking to Bowker near the front of the coach. She must have been there for about five minutes, looking pretty animated and flustered. She eventually walked back towards us.

  ‘He wouldn’t listen,’ she said, slipping her forefinger just underneath her hijab to wipe some sweat away. ‘He should be doing more to persuade you to stay.’

  I tutted and looked out of the window again. ‘He can’t do anything now…it’s all settled.’

  ‘…And your relationship with Rukhsana is all settled now as well is it?’ she said, sitting down next to us.

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘If only you’d said yes to her in the first place, Sadiq…all this could have been avoided.’

  I turned and gave her a cold look. ‘And could Shazia’s fling with Ibrahim have been avoided too?’

  Amejee’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  She blew into my face and started saying a prayer. ‘Allah, forgive him.’ She continued to blow into my face. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure right now. The djinn has caught hold of him.’

  It were lucky that the Ahmed’s cooking weren’t as dodgy as the Bashirs on Simpkiss Street, or I might have had some wild smells up my hooter with all this blowing in my face.

  ‘Look, stop it Amee,’ I said, raising my hand. ‘I’m sorry if you didn’t know but she should have told you. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble for it.’

  Amejee kept blowing but she were now doing it away from me. She stood up shakily and looked unstable. ‘Allah won’t forgive us for this.’

  ‘What are you doing Amee, sit down.’

  She didn’t answer and kept blowing. She looked straight ahead down the aisle. ‘Everything is going to the dogs…Qiyamit is near.’

  ‘Sit down Amee, you’ll wake some of the lads up.’

  She slowly turned to look at us. ‘Yes, but you’ll never wake up.’ She turned to look down the aisle again and started moving forward.

  ‘Oh, where are you going now?’ I groaned.

  She walked slowly to the centre of the coach. ‘STOP THE COACH!’ she screamed, raising both hands.

  ‘AMEE, WHAT YOU DOING?’

  ‘STOP THE COACH.’ She continued to walk forward and were now close to Lino. ‘QIYAMIT IS HERE, THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT.’

  I stood up and could see Lino swivelling his head round more times than a gay ref getting his end away.

  ‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’ he shouted, trying to keep his glasses on.

  ‘WE NEED TO STOP NOW!’ screamed Amejee, who were now inches away from Lino.

  Bowker finally got up and all the lads were looking bemused. Most of them couldn’t hear what were going on anyway. I walked briskly down the aisle and got to the front as quick as I could.

  ‘Now Mrs Karim,’ said Bowker, a couple of feet away from Amejee. ‘Don’t do anything silly.’

  Amejee moved closer to Lino and tried to grab the steering wheel. ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU STUPID WOMAN?’ shouted Lino. ‘WE’RE ON THE M66, WE’LL CRASH…’

  ‘THIS IS THE ONLY WAY,’ said Amejee, jostling with Lino.

  Lino tried to keep control but the coach veered off the first lane and nearly swerved into a Vauxhall Vectra in the middle lane.

  ‘Is this a hijacking or what?’ said Lassie, as I rushed past him.

  I didn’t answer and got to the front of the coach. Bowker grabbed Amejee’s back and managed to move her away slightly. She continued to struggle and they were still dangerously close to Lino. I got
up close to them and grabbed Amejee as well.

  ‘AMEE, COME HERE.’

  Her kameez were too slippy for me to get a proper hold so my hands automatically went up to her head.

  ‘LEAVE ME ALONE,’ she screamed. ‘WE ONLY HAVE ALLAH TO ANSWER TO NOW.’

  As Bowker eased off, I were still struggling to get Amejee completely away from Lino. My hand were now tightly lodged in her hijab and I could feel the knot loosening underneath my fingers. She tried to break free and jerked her head away again. The hijab came flying off her head and ended up on Lino’s face, who put the brakes on instantly. It were stuck between his glasses and his eyes and he couldn’t see anything.

  ‘JUST GET ONTO THE HARD SHOULDER!’ shouted Bowker.

  Lino tried to use his one free hand to pull the hijab out from beneath his glasses but it just lodged deeper. He managed to slow the coach down but his nose were now itchy because the fibres were getting right up it. He sneezed and the hijab finally blew off his face onto the windscreen.

  ‘La-illaha-ill-allah-Mohammed-ul-rasullalah,’ said Amejee. ‘See, it’s Allah’s way, you can’t deny it.’

  Bowker rushed towards Lino again. ‘I’ll give you lala.’ He bent over and managed to grab the hijab off the windscreen with his fingerstips.

  Lino breathed a sigh of relief and wiped his nose. ‘Jesus, that was a close shave.’

  ‘Forget Jesus,’ said Bowker, coming back towards us. ‘We nearly saw Mohammed’s work there…’

  Amejee slumped in the aisle, right beside the front seats. Without her hijab, she looked lost, empty and diminished. I sat down beside her as the lads looked at us, shocked and bewildered. She put her hand on my knee and looked into my eyes. A tear balanced right at the bottom of her eye, like a disputed goal edging over the goal-line.