I was strangely touched by Nicky’s offer to help. He and I had never really seen eye to eye, in fact we had come to blows more than once on the soccer field. Along with a great many others I had never really taken the time to look behind the ‘hard-man-of-football’ facade to see what Nicky Moxon was really like. I made a mental note to phone him and thank him.
Simon asked me to collect as much video evidence as I could on the referee’s performances and to look for independent evidence that the tackle was reckless and dangerous. I vowed to help as much as possible. I was determined to win my case and provide myself with a platform to promote all that is good in the game. The flair, the skill and the genius that can be snuffed out if referees don’t protect the artful players in this country and abroad.
************
At Tanya’s insistence we were sitting in a travel agency waiting for a red outfitted girl to return to her matching red chair and write on her red clipboard, colour co-ordination gone mad I thought. The Premium Economy seats to Florida had all been booked long ago, much to Tanya’s disgust.
“Then we will fly Upper Class,” Tanya had said to the travel consultant.
“It will be quite pricey, I imagine,” the consultant replied.
“That’s OK.” my daughter said. “Dad is Alex Carter. You know, the United captain.” I winced.
The girl returned and explained that as United had an account with them they could offer me an excellent rate on Upper Class seats. I listened as she outlined the price inclusive of car hire.
“How much?” I asked. The fare was almost four times the Premium Economy fare.
“Actually that is quite a good price,” the consultant replied, looking hurt.
“We’ll take the tickets. Thank you,” Tanya said before she turned to scowl at me. I took out my credit card and offered it to the girl.
“I’m afraid that there is a one percent surcharge for the use of a credit card,” the young travel agent said. Seeing my glare she quickly added, “But in this case as it’s such a large amount I think we can forego that.” She scurried off and we were booked on a flight to Orlando two days after the FA Cup final.
************
The low sun cast long raking shadows across the white frosted car park. The last of the ground frosts, I hoped. It was the end of April, after all. I pulled into a parking space and hobbled across to the Sports broadcast building using my recently acquired skills with a light cast on my leg. Walking was fine but stairs were still difficult. Sky logos were evident everywhere and I felt a sense of awe knowing that I would be broadcasting to the millions of people who would be watching the battle for the crucial final points of the premiership season. On this occasion United would not be involved in the championship race, leaving Liverpool in pole position with Arsenal and Newcastle United waiting quietly in the wings for any slippage from the leaders. Tonight’s match was important for both Liverpool and their opponents, perennial relegation candidates who would probably escape the drop once again.
I sat down at my desk and found a pile of DVD’s containing highlights distilled from the weekend’s fixtures. I spent an hour selecting topics and clips for the Monday Night Football analysis, making notes as I went. Engrossed in Chelsea against Aston Villa, I didn’t hear Ben Scott approach.
“Morning, Alex,” he said. I turned around to face him. Ben was casually dressed, very casually. His long hair parted in the middle was flowing loose. Later it would be restrained by an Alice Band or tied into a pony tail as he edited the video for tonight’s programme. Ben lived for football, though to look at him you would swear that he was a techno-nerd who despised fresh air. His pallid complexion was gained from spending long hours in dark editing suites and outside broadcast units.
We sat down and ran through my suggestions for the programme. Ben persuaded me to drop over half of the video as I wouldn’t have time to use it. My unfamiliarity with presenting still made me nervous and I had a tendency to prepare far more material than could be used, as a safety net. Perhaps in time I would become more efficient.
Ben brought a cup of coffee across for me and we took a break. Talk turned to my leg and I suddenly remembered that I needed video evidence for the court case. Ben would be the ideal man to assist.
“Ben. I need some help putting together some video footagefor my case against Dean Butler.”
“No problem, man,” the young man said casually. “What do you need?”
“First I need all of the VT, from every camera angle, of the match against Wanderers,” Ben scrawled away in an indecipherable script on a pad, and I hoped that he would be able to understand it later.
“Then I need anything we have on David Happold.”
“The referee?” he interrupted.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Why is that, then?” he queried without looking up.
“Because he is giving evidence for Dean Butler, effectively saying that it was a fair tackle.” My young colleague looked up slowly, his expression was one of disbelief.
“You’re joking,” he said. “I thought it was an open and shut case?”
“I wish it was,” I replied, a mixture of sadness and anger tinged my words.
We spent the next twenty minutes discussing how we could prove my case by the use of the video footage. Ben caught on more quickly than I had imagined.
“So, basically,” he reiterated, “you want evidence to show that the tackle really was vicious and,” he referred to his notes, “video tape of David Happold booking people left, right and centre for less dangerous tackles?”
“Exactly.” I was impressed.
“I’m on it,” he replied.
“Don’t you need permission first? From Tony maybe?”
“I’ll do this in my own time.” he said earnestly and I was touched.
************
Over the next ten days the skies cleared and the sun warmed up. We were enjoying temperatures of almost eighty degrees by May Day. I sat in the garden and worked on my revised witness statement. I was obliged to have a response to their defence typed and submitted by the end of the month. It was hard for me to be rational about the foul that ended my career. To me it was so blindingly obvious that the foul was dangerous, I had trouble understanding how others could even begin to defend it. But defend it they would. Their two main witnesses were an FA referee and a former player who lost his career through a bad tackle and their statements were both uncompromising and convincing. I was beginning to see what an uphill battle we had ahead of us.
I put the files down and slumped in my lounger to enjoy the warmth of the sun. I prayed that the judge would listen to reason and come to a decision that would deter others from making reckless challenges that ended careers. I drifted off to sleep thinking of the weekend. United would win the cup and then Tanya and I would fly off to Florida for our much needed holiday.
I found myself in my old room at home. My parents were talking downstairs and my walls were covered with pictures of my footballing heroes. I sank back on the bed and smelled the aroma of dinner wafting up the stairs. A mobile phone rang. I was puzzled. We didn’t have a mobile phone. It kept on ringing. Eventually I realised I was dreaming and roused myself.
“Hello,” I said, my voice hoarse and bleary from sleep.
“Alex?” The voice had an urgency that brought me around quickly. It was Aaron Morgensen.
“Yes, Aaron?”
“I need to speak with you very soon. They have been contacting me again.” Aaron’s phraseology was clumsy but the message was clear. The match fixers were back.
“Where and when?” I asked, pen and paper in hand.
************
I waited outside Tanya’s school where I knew she would see me. Despite being so obviously located she would have walked right past had I not called out her name. Tanya tore herself away from a deep conversation with her friends and came over to the car. I pushed open the passenger door for her.
“And to what do
I owe this honour?” she asked cheekily, as if I had never picked her up from school before.
“I thought you would like to go riding.” Her face brightened immediately.
“Now?” she asked, “this very minute?”
“Yes.” I explained further. “Aunt Judy is going riding and she asked if you would go along with her.”
“Of course I will, she’s a real laugh you know. You should hear her shouting at motorists when they come too close. She says things like…”
“Yes. I know Tanya, I don’t need an explanation. Judy spent too many summer holidays with us boys when we were young.” There was a pause.
“She isn’t really my aunt at all, you know.” I listened to see where this was going. “As she is your cousin she is my first cousin once removed, not my aunt.”
“And where does all of this new found knowledge spring from, then?” I enquired.
“We’re doing a project at school on genealogy. You know, family trees and such.”
“Yes I did know, actually. Not all sportsmen are stupid, you know.”
We arrived at the riding stables at the same time as Aaron and Judy. Tanya took her tack out of the car boot and followed my cousin to the stables, after embarrassing Aaron by hugging him in public view.
“Your Judy and Tanya are very affectionate, Alex” he said, smiling and blushing at the same time. I thought about remonstrating with him about his partner being ‘my Judy’, but he became serious and led me across the paddock to an isolated wooden garden seat. We sat down and I waited for him to speak. Aaron always needs time.
“They want me to throw the cup final.” His words were blunt and to the point. I didn’t know what to say and so I asked rather stupidly,
“Who wants you to throw the match?”
“Santa’s little elves, who else!” he snapped back.
“OK. I’m sorry. You took me by surprise, that’s all. How did they contact you? What did they say?”
“They rang me on my mobile phone.” We were both puzzled because our mobile phones were supplied by one of our club sponsors and, for obvious reasons, the numbers were kept secret. As far as I was aware only the sponsor, the club and the player knew the number of his phone. Of course we would all share our number with friends and family so that we could keep in touch, but how the fixers could find Aaron’s number I couldn’t begin to work out.
“What did they say?” I repeated.
“They said that I had their money and that I was expected to earn it. When I told them to get lost they said that if I didn’t throw the final I would be made to pay. I said that they could have their money back, that I didn’t want it in the first place. But they said that wasn’t what they meant by paying.”
“We have to tell the boss,” I said.
“Oh yes, and the Police too I suppose.”
“If necessary. Yes.”
“Alex. The club will drop me for the FA Cup final. I have waited for all my life to get to an FA Cup final at Wembley.”
“But Aaron, you are being threatened. These thugs killed Roy Bennett.”
“We don’t know that, Alex.” I just stared in reply. Aaron knew very well who was behind Roy’s death.
“OK,” he conceded. “But I am just in as much danger if I squeal on them to the Police.”
“Aaron, please. Think about this.” He stood up and paced around.
“Alex. I can think about nothing else.”
We sat and talked for almost an hour, occasionally breaking our dialogue to smile and wave at the girls as they rode by. Aaron was adamant that he would play in the final and that afterwards he would explain everything to the authorities. I was unconvinced and I worried for my best friend’s safety.
For the rest of the day I hoped for a change of heart in the big man but it never came. I pondered long and hard about my role in this enigmatic scenario. Should I override his wishes and talk to the police myself? After all, it would be in Aaron’s best interests should I do so. But I could never bring myself to do it. I had to let him find his own way through this, giving him any support I could.
I had a bad feeling about this, but what else could I do?
************
The hotel proudly displayed a blackboard proclaiming that they were showing the FA Cup Final on a giant LCD Screen. The lettering was multi coloured and in luminescent ink. The gaudy sign read:
‘UNITED v ALBION, LIVE IN THE BAR, TOMORROW AT 3pm.’
I walked into the reception area and signed in. The receptionist gave me my key and told me that I had been allocated the room next to Aaron Morgensen, at his request.
“That is all right isn’t it Mr Carter?” She asked. I told her that it was an admirable arrangement and that I was grateful that she could arrange it. She smiled, wondering whether I was winding her up. Inside the hotel registration card I found a brief note from the boss. It explained that my team-mates were either on the nine hole golf course or in the ‘Hydro’, if I wanted to join them. Otherwise I could meet them for dinner at seven o’ clock.
After ringing home and catching Tanya in the middle of packing, I took a shower and freshened up. As I shaved I noticed my thickening waist. I would have to do more exercise, perhaps get to the gym more often. I had mixed feelings about meeting with the lads the night before the final. It was bad enough when I was playing. Everyone would be nervous and showing it in different ways. The younger lads would be larking around, pretending it was all in a day’s work, the older guys might be sitting reading or playing cards. The night before one important fixture I had watched our centre half sitting in a corner studiously concentrating on his open book, a thick Jeffrey Archer novel, and in the thirty five minutes I watched him he never turned a page. I was dreading tonight. I would have to smile and pretend that missing the final wasn’t such a big deal and that my main concern was for the team to go out and win the cup for me and for themselves. They would pretend to believe me and we would settle down to an evening of mutual discomfort. Nerves are terrible things.
I rang Tony McDonald of Sky Sports and confirmed that I would provide the match analysis for the early evening re-run of the cup final on Sky. Apparently, the BBC had exclusive rights to live coverage of the FA Cup final and so Sky would show the Scottish FA Cup final live followed immediately by a complete re-run of the United match. This meant that I could sit with the team during the match, rather than in a sterile commentary box. Unfortunately, it also meant that while the lads were celebrating I would be watching the whole thing again and adding my deliberated comments. Celebrating. Good Lord. What would happen if they didn’t win? A shudder ran down my spine. Be sensible Alex, I told myself, Albion are from the first division, and not from the top half either. But then again, they have beaten three premiership teams to get this far. I could feel butterflies beginning to flutter in my stomach and was glad that I, at least, could enjoy a good stiff drink.
************
Dinner was unexciting and almost completely bereft of taste but I don’t think anyone else noticed. I sat between Aaron and Michel, our French striker, and listened to Lawrence Nelson hosting the unofficial ‘United Player Awards’. Lawrence was theoretically still on our books as a player but he was really the unnamed assistant manager. Already sought after as an after dinner speaker he was as funny as he was cutting.
Lawrie had already dispensed with the ‘Miss of the season’, the ‘Wooden Boot Award’ and the ‘Best Foreign Player’, which went to Nigel Quentin because he was from Liverpool, when he came to the last prize. He dramatically removed the cloth covering the award. It was a splendid shiny trophy on a polished wooden base. Rising from the base were a set of rugby goals, right at the top of which was a football.
“And finally Ladies….” Lawrie looked directly at our Czech winger, who touched his pony tail self consciously, “and gentlemen. It is time for the last award of the evening.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“United’s most promising drop kicker. A player who could have
led the Harlequins to their best ever season had he not been playing soccer. Had we installed rugby posts instead of goal posts his tally this season would have been an impressive Ninety points. So, it is with great pleasure that I award this delightful trophy to our central midfield genius …Rob Polter.” There was laughter, clapping and not a small grumble from Rob who was quite proud of his season’s goal tally of six. When the laughter died down Lawrence dismissed us all with his best wishes. We split up into groups and wandered out of the dining room, eventually gathering in the snooker room and the bar.
I sat with Aaron and we talked as he sipped a diet Coke. I didn’t think that the night before the Cup Final was a good time to mention the match fixer’s threats and so I stayed off the subject. Aaron turned his glass around and around on the placemat wiping the condensation off the outside of his glass with his finger.
“Alex. I am thinking of bringing your Judy out to Florida for a couple of weeks after the final. What do you think?” He raised his ice blue Scandinavian eyes to meet mine.
“I think that it’s a great idea. I can ask Stella to find somewhere for you close to where we are staying.”
“Thank you, Alex. You are a real friend.” He placed his big hands on my shoulders.
“I think that I’ll go up and watch a movie or something,” the Great Dane said and sank the last of his Coke.
“Goodnight, then,” I said as he walked out of the bar with a great weight bearing on his ample shoulders.
Final Whistle Page 11