Soldier's Game

by James Killgore

  ***

  Out in the car his mother had the radio on loud. Ross climbed in the back seat next to his little sister Rachel, who was still in her leotard from dance class.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked.

  “Just some stuff from Gran’s attic – old football kit.”

  “Sounds smelly,” said his mother.

  Rachel laughed and stuck her tongue out at Ross. He resisted the temptation to smack her and instead stared out at the passing houses. To think that his great-grandfather had played at Tynecastle all those years ago.

  Ross had been to about a dozen Hearts home matches. A friend of his mother from work – Simon – had two season tickets and sometimes invited Ross along. Otherwise he might never have been to a match. Certainly his father wouldn’t take him.

  Frank Anderson thought football an absurd pursuit. It was one of his favourite dinnertime rants. “Grown men paid millions of pounds for kicking a ball about,” he’d huff. “It’s just a game. There are countries in Africa worth less than Ronaldo.”

  Pat said that even as a boy Frank disliked team sports, not being much of an athlete. Ross couldn’t recall ever seeing his father break a sweat much less run and kick a ball, but he had no objection to his son playing football. “It’s your free time to waste,” he’d say. “Just don’t expect me to waste mine watching.”

  On Hearts match days Simon would turn up at the house early for a bacon roll and a cup of tea. He was a big man and completely bald, which made him look a bit like a nightclub bouncer, though he was nothing of the sort. Few people could be more easygoing and friendly than Simon.

  After lunch they would set off from the house and down Polwarth Terrace. Here they’d meet the first trickle of other fans bound for the match. By Harrison Road the trickle grew to a throng with people emerging from every side street. Reaching Gorgie the throng swelled into a crowd that choked the pavements as supporters poured from the pubs, having eaten their pies and downed their pints. Ahead, Tynecastle stadium loomed over the tenements like a citadel. On to the turnstiles they’d be swept in a tide of maroon hats and scarves.

  But the moment Ross loved most was when he emerged from the dim tunnel through the stand into the bright open arena. Players warming up on the pitch below, music blaring, 18,000 fans in a roar of conversation, the air of hope, expectation – it took his breath away every time. It was like the feeling you get on suddenly coming to the top of a high hill, or the moment on holiday you first reach the beach and find a vast blue ocean spread out at your feet.

  3. The Dream

  Ross stowed the box under his bed as soon as he got home. He didn’t want any more awkward questions. But no one mentioned it again, at least not until dinnertime. Saturday was hamburger night and Janet Anderson insisted her family eat together at the dining table. It was Ross’s favourite meal and he was starving. He’d wolfed down his own cheeseburger and then began to eye up his little sister’s.

  “Are you going to finish that?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” said Rachel.

  She slid her plate slowly towards him. “What’s it worth to you?”

  “Watch out in case he takes your hand with it,” said his older sister Kath.

  Her plate was empty apart from a thin meat patty and a couple of lettuce leaves. Kath was always on a diet.

  “Stop teasing your brother,” said Janet.

  She reached over with her knife and cut off the nibbled bits from Rachel’s burger and put the rest on Ross’s plate. Rachel frowned but after a moment or so her eyes grew bright and she glanced slyly up at her brother.

  “So what other junk did you and Granny find today?”

  Ross kicked her hard under the table. But it was too late; his father had heard.

  “Find? Where?”

  “Up in the attic,” she sang.

  Frank lowered his fork.

  “You were up in the attic with your grandmother?”

  Ross stared down at his plate. Now he’d done it; poor Pat. Might as well take an ad out in The Scotsman as tell Rachel anything.

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes,” Ross replied.

  “How did you get up there?”

  “A ladder.”

  “Don’t be smart. What ladder?”

  “One from the shed.”

  Kath moaned in annoyance.

  “Big deal – so they went up to the attic.”

  Frank stared back at her, incredulous.

  “The ceilings in that house must be fourteen feet high and your grandmother is a 78-year-old woman,” he said.

  Kath flared.

  “What’s being a woman have to do with it?”

  Frank’s face grew bright red but he said nothing more.

  Later that evening Ross heard him on the phone to Pat.

  “Just what were you thinking? Both of you could have broken your necks.”

  Ross retreated to the sitting room and watched TV for a while but grew so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. So he said goodnight and went upstairs.

  Once inside his room he shut the door and reached under his bed for the box. Opening the lid he found the football boots again, buried in among the crumpled newspaper just as before. He took out one of the sheets and smoothed it flat. The banner headline read: “KHRUSHCHEV DEMANDS U.S. APOLOGY” with the date 16 May 1960.

  Ross lifted out one of the boots and turned it in his hand. Even he could see the quality – hand-stitched brown leather, tough pliant sole, hammered metal studs. The boot was well scuffed from use but had been carefully cleaned and polished before being packed away.

  On a whim he kicked off his slippers and pulled on both boots and tied the waxed cord laces. He stood up and jogged a few steps on the spot. They were stiff and heavy like dress shoes.

  He took the rest of the contents from the box and laid them out on his desk. Inside the brown envelope he found the photograph of young Jack Jordan and stuck it up on the wall beside his Hearts calendar. He then pulled on the shorts and the heavy cotton jersey. It hung down to his knees. He looked again at the photograph above his desk. Jack Jordan seemed to grin back at him.

  Ross sat down at his desk but felt suddenly exhausted. It was too early to go to bed but he figured a short nap wouldn’t hurt. So he kicked off the boots and lay down on his bed. Seconds later it seemed he was fast asleep and dreaming…

  He and Jack Jordan were playing football for Hearts at Tynecastle stadium before a large crowd. The men on the terraces wore old style clothes and flat caps. Everything moved in jerky fast motion as if in a silent film reel. Only Jack Jordan sprinted and kicked the ball with fluid grace.

  Down the pitch their opponents were in green – Celtic or Hibs – and Ross felt frightened to be playing against grown-up professionals. But Jack smiled with assurance and dribbled the ball across centre midfield. He motioned Ross down the left wing and launched the ball slanting towards the line.

  The pass was perfectly paced. Ross caught it on his left foot and drove it down the pitch. He seemed almost to fly rather than run. One of the green defenders rushed in for a tackle but Ross dodged right with a little shuffle and bumped the ball off his heel towards open ground at the centre. Here he took the shot. The ball soared off his boot and curled high over the goalie, dropping just under the crossbar.

  A roar exploded from the crowd. Hats flew into the air in celebration. Ross turned to find Jack Jordan sprinting towards him with his arms raised in salute. He grasped Ross warmly by the shoulder and asked, “What’s that you’re wearing?”

  It seemed an odd question and Ross tried to reply. But the words came out all jumbled and the scene before him began to fade. Someone called his name and Ross opened his eyes to find his mother gently poking his shoulder.

  “Ross,” she repeated. “What are you wearing?”

  He rolled over and groaned.

  “Just an old football shirt Pat gave me.”

  “Well, take it off now and get into bed. It’s half past el
even.”

  Ross removed the kit and put on his pyjamas. Janet folded back his covers and turned off the light before kissing his forehead and saying goodnight. Ross nestled under the sheets in hope that if he fell back asleep quickly enough he might rejoin Jack Jordan in that match at old Tynecastle.

  4. The Friendly

  Ross awoke early on Monday morning dreading school. The P7 rout by South Morningside would be the talk of the playground that morning. Eating breakfast he was tempted to plead a sore tummy. But he knew it wouldn’t fly.

  “Fever, vomiting or death,” his mother always said when it came to missing school. “No exceptions.”

  Besides, Janet had a meeting that morning at work she couldn’t miss and Frank had already left for the university. Resigned to his fate, Ross gathered his books and said goodbye.

  The previous night he’d slept well but had no more dreams of Jack Jordan. He awoke disappointed. The exhilaration of the goal lingered still; it had seemed so real.

  Rachel walked ahead up the pavement having met a couple of her friends. But Ross held back, avoiding the inevitable. Another defeat was bad enough but it didn’t help that last year’s P7 team had gone the entire season unbeaten and taken the Schools’ Cup. To make matters even worse, Barry the coach had arranged a friendly for that coming Saturday against the S1 team from Boroughmuir High School, most of whom were former Bruntsfield players.

  “It’ll be a good chance for you guys to play above your abilities in a supportive atmosphere,” he’d said.

  “Are you kidding?” Carl Nelson had moaned. “They’ll murder us and love every second.”

  At lunch that day Ross sat with Calum and Ying on the benches near the front gates of the school. A group of S1 boys came along the pavement on their way back from the chippie on Bruntsfield Place. Ross felt his heart sink. Among them was Craig Muir, one of the defenders on the S1 team. Muir had just turned thirteen and already sported a wispy dark moustache on his upper lip. He weighed at least ten stone and though not the quickest on his feet, any lack of speed he made up for in agility and sheer scariness.

  “Hey, Anderson. Heard about your stellar performance on Saturday,” said Muir.

  “Yeah, well, we try to impress,” replied Ross.

  Muir leaned against the fence.

  “So are you looking forward to our friendly?”

  “Like the plague,” said Ross.

  “Hilarious – bet you won’t be laughing when I knock you on your butt.”

  “I’ll enjoy the rest.”

  Ying giggled. Muir glared at him.

  “Find that funny, Ying Yang? Heard you’ve scored more goals this season than Anderson. Too bad they were all for the opposition.”

  One of the pupil monitors wandered over.

  “What’s going on guys?”

  Muir sneered. “None of your business – grass.”

  But he did look up to see if a teacher might be watching.

  One of his friends moaned, “Come on, Craig. Bell’s about to ring.”

  Muir flicked a chip at Ross.

  “See you on the pitch, Anderson.”

  And they headed down the pavement towards the high school. Ying shook his head.

  “We are so stuffed.”

  “Without question,” added Calum.

  Ross put his arms around both their shoulders.

  “Yeah – but at least it’ll be in a ‘supportive atmosphere’.”

  ***

  Ross tried his best not to think about the match on Saturday. Besides, he had other things on his mind. He was determined to find out more about Jack Jordan: what position he played, whether he’d scored any goals, how many seasons he was with Hearts.

  That night he went up to his room after dinner and switched on his desk lamp. He reached under the bed for Jack’s box and pulled out the old brown envelope. Among the contents he found dozens of yellowed newspaper clippings – mainly from The Scotsman, some dating back to 1912 but none after 1915. Mostly they were just the week’s results and league tables along with short reports of the main First Division matches. He scanned a few but found no mention of Jack.

  Scattered among the clippings were some old football programmes. He opened one from a match with Hibernian on 5 December 1914. Across the middle-page spread was a photograph of the squad – three rows of men, kneeling, sitting, standing, with a bowler-hatted manager to one side. He scanned the players’ names: Willie Wilson, Alfred Briggs, Duncan Currie, Harry Wattie, Bob Preston, Tom Gracie – but no Jack.

  Just as he was about to give up, Ross came upon a page torn from a newspaper called The Scottish Football Gazette. A paragraph was circled near the bottom with a second team result and short summary:

  HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN “A”, 3; DUNDEE “A”, 1. Brisk, wet afternoon; young Jack Jordan continues to show promise for Hearts reserves, scoring two – one off a wayward pass from Wilson…

  And on another clipping:

  HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN “A”, 5; DUNDEE “A”, 0. Jordan dominates Hearts side with three goals; two in the first half…

  Ross found a dozen more such results, each mentioning Jack Jordan by name and always as top scorer. Reading the long forgotten pages he felt an odd flush of pride. His great-grandfather had been a star striker, even if not for the first team.

  Sorting through the rest of the newspaper clippings he found another, but this one wasn’t from the sports pages. It was a group photograph of young men in street clothes under the headline: “HEARTS ENLIST”. Ross studied the faces and there on the second row, third from the left, stood Jack Jordan.

  ***

  That night Ross had another dream of being at Tynecastle stadium, but this time he was watching a regular league match in the present day. He sat in one of the season-ticket seats but without Simon. A capacity crowd filled the stadium and down on the pitch the tiger mascots Teenie and Tynie conducted the crowd in “Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts”. Over in the far stand a tight square of opposition fans waved green scarves and hats and chanted, although completely drowned out. A man next to Ross cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Dinnae even try!”

  Time seemed compressed as it does in dreams, and down at the entrance to the players’ tunnel, officials in fluorescent yellow vests began to rush about. An announcer broke in: “We’re pleased to welcome some very special guests at today’s match. Please give a Tynecastle cheer to some Hearts heroes of old.”

  Out of the tunnel jogged a squad of footballers dressed in the same old-fashioned kit as in Jack’s box. But unlike the colourful scene around them they were pale and grey like ghosts. Just as before, the players moved with odd jerky motion like in an old silent film. Last to emerge from the tunnel was Jack Jordan.

  Ross shouted in excitement to the fans seated around him.

  “Hey! That’s my great-grandfather down there.”

  He knew it sounded ridiculous. Not one of the players was over the age of thirty. But nobody around him listened or even seemed to notice. They munched chips or texted on their mobiles.

  Ross grabbed the arm of the man next to him.

  “Look!”

  The guy grinned quizzically and Ross realised then he was still wearing his pyjamas.

  Down on the pitch the ghost players formed a circle and began to perform an odd, regimented passing drill – weaving quickly among themselves with a dozen brown leather balls in constant motion. It looked like slapstick comedy. People began to laugh and cheer. The fans around Ross looked up.

  “Who are those guys?” someone asked.

  But just then a huge roar arose from the crowd. Down at the mouth of the players’ tunnel the real Hearts squad had appeared, dressed in white jerseys and bright maroon shorts. Everyone jumped to their feet and the announcer cried, “Come on you Jambos! Let’s make some noise!”

  The Hearts players thundered out of the tunnel across the pitch. In that instant Jack Jordan and the rest of the ghost squad vanished as though already forgotten.

 
; ***

  On Saturday morning Ross shovelled down his porridge as Ying waited to chum him down to Harrison Park for a 9.30 kick-off. Finishing his breakfast, he found his kit bag at the front door as usual but no football boots.

  “Anyone seen my boots?” he hollered.

  “Ask me another,” his mother replied.

  And then Ross remembered. It had been so muddy last Saturday, Pat had given him a plastic bag for his boots. He must have left the bag in her porch. He’d never get there and back to the training ground in time for kick-off. Just then another thought occurred to him.

  Ross dashed upstairs and down the hall to his room. He reached under his bed for the old leather boots and then descended the steps two at a time, stuffing them into his kit bag. He and Ying sprinted down Polwarth Terrace towards the park.

  Ross had never been superstitious. Notions of good or bad fortune didn’t figure much in his thinking. But it had been an odd week and hurrying then to the match he began to wonder if wearing the boots that morning might just bring him luck.

  Only a few spectators had turned up to watch the match. Ross felt a little ridiculous when he sat on the sidelines to lace up the boots. Barry at least was impressed.

  “Those certainly look vintage,” he said, having himself opted that morning for a dark wool pinstripe suit, which made him look like a Chicago gangster.

  Craig Muir and the other S1s were less admiring.

  “Hey, Anderson, get your boots from Oxfam?” Muir called.

  Everyone on the pitch laughed but the grass was wet and Ross figured the boots would at least be better than trainers.

  The opening whistle blew and the P7s took first possession. But within a few seconds the S1s had the ball and their centre forward broke free of the defence and made a neat side step around Ying to score the first goal. Things didn’t get any better after that.

  Kicking off again after a second S1 goal – scored from a corner – Calum passed the ball to Owen at centre midfield, who eluded a couple of players before booting it hard down the left wing towards Ross.