Putting the Boot In

by Dan Kavanagh

  At opening time Duffy went to the Albion and bought the barman a drink. Sure, he worked here every lunchtime. Yes, and yesterday lunchtime. Littlish fellow, fiftyish, neat, mackintosh? No, don’t remember him. He wouldn’t have been a regular. How do you know? Well, the regulars are the ones I remember, and the ones I don’t remember aren’t regular. Simple. Anyway, Duffy went on, this bloke in the mac was with Brendan Domingo. Who? Brendan Domingo, big fellow, very muscular, dark skin. Oh, you mean, coloured fellow? Yes, that’s Brendan Domingo. Oh that’s Brendan Domingo, is it? No, don’t remember him, he can’t be a regular. Who is Brendan Domingo anyway? Tell you this for nothing, all these coloured chaps look alike to me. Cheers!

  Rather than face the Albion’s lukewarm meat pies, Duffy went home for a summer’s lunch. There’d been a lot more brown bread and yoghurt around Duffy’s kitchen lately. Duffy was worried about getting fat. Duffy was also worried about not having enough to eat and losing his strength. So he had the brown bread and the yoghurt for stopping getting fat; and he had some streaky bacon, cheese and a bottle of Guinness for making him not lose his strength. That was about the right balance. After lunch he felt his neck and his armpits; then undid his trousers and dabbled in his groin. The trouble was, there seemed to be little lumps everywhere. Maybe his lymph nodes were really getting out of hand. Maybe he only had a couple of hours to live. That night sweat he’d had felt a real killer. It had even, as he recalled, given him hallucinations about other parts of his body.

  By a bit of lawyer’s know-how, the club had managed to delay its courtroom confrontation with the Layton Road residents for a few days. Even so, this might be the last time the yobboes would stomp down the street, Duffy thought, as he joined the crowd. There seemed to be quite a few policemen around; a couple even standing right outside Mr Bullivant’s house. Perhaps the club had made a few suggestions to the coppers, and a special ablutions watch was being kept on number 37.

  Just inside the ground the coppers were searching everyone who was young, male and not obviously in a wheelchair. Anyone wearing big boots was taken aside and had his toes introduced to a constable’s heel. Just checking for steel toecaps. Sir. The police took away everything that could be thrown, everything that could be drunk, and everything that could be used for sticking into someone else. No metal combs, no beer cans, full or empty; no, you won’t be needing that set of darts this afternoon, lad, come and collect it afterwards. A mound of potentially lethal junk was piled behind the police lines. Lots of stuff got smuggled in all the same—that was why they had a WPC searching the occasional tough girl who dared to stand at the Layton Road end—but at least this caught some of the heavier ammunition. If the coppers didn’t search every single yobbo every single time, they’d be bringing in Armalites and assembling do-it-yourself bazooka kits on the terraces before you knew where you were.

  Past the police lines and the ground began to display its smells and sounds and sights. A hamburger stall stood near the entrance to the toilets: the two smells not cancelling one another but mixing together into a richer, denser brew. The screechy public address system churned out pop records which the club secretary—who preferred Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass himself—imagined that the better class of customer wished to hear. Programme sellers in booths labelled PROGRAMMES bellowed ‘PROGRAMMES!’, to help anyone partially sighted who might be in the vicinity. Fans rushed past as if their favourite place on the terracing was about to be stolen, even though the ground held fifteen thousand and the expected attendance was two and a half. A man dressed in the club’s blue-and-white waved a board of rosettes and badges, but was meeting some dogged consumer resistance.

  A light drizzle was beginning to fall as Duffy made his way up the couple of dozen concrete steps leading to the terraces. The Layton Road end was also known as the Piggeries end, for some forgotten historical reason; though in recent years the nickname had become appropriate again with the arrival of the yobboes. From time to time they would acknowledge the fact with a jolly chant of ‘ATH-LE-TIC-OINK-OINK-OINK.’

  Up on the terraces, away from the smells and the programme sellers, even a run-down little ground like this had its charm. There it was, all laid out: the bright pitch, the fresh markings, the nice rectangular goals. Apart from a few advertisement hoardings, you couldn’t see anything that wasn’t to do with the game. Just the pitch, the terraces, the fans; beyond, only the sky and the floodlights rearing up at the four corners of the ground. Duffy felt excited.

  He took a position half-way up the Piggeries terrace and a bit to the left, where he could watch both the game and the yobboes without too much trouble. The exchange of pleasantries between the Athletic fans at this end and the Bradford fans at the other had already begun, ‘ATH-LE-TIC’—‘SHIT’—‘ATH-LE-TIC’—‘SHIT’—‘ATH-LE-TIC’—‘SHIT’. And then, a bit later, the welcoming reply: ‘CIIIII-TY’—‘SHIT’—‘CIIIII-TY’—‘SHIT’—‘CIIIII-TY’—‘SHIT.’

  After a while, both sets of fans began to tire of this. The City supporters, whose club occupied a safe position in the top ten of the Division, decided to predict Athletic’s fate come the end of the season, ‘GOING DOWN GOING DOWN GOING DOWN’ they chanted, ‘GOING DOWN GOING DOWN GOING DOW-OW-N.’ The Layton Roaders couldn’t think up any immediate riposte, but after a while they sketched a lively self-portrait for the City fans, ‘WE ARE THE ANIMALS—OINK OINK OINK. WE ARE THE ANIMALS—OINK OINK OINK. WE ARE …’ and so on until the two sides trotted out. The public address cheerfully cut off Cilia Black in mid-phrase and began running through the teams. Each Athletic name was dutifully cheered by the home fans and booed by the away fans; all except that of Brendan Domingo, which was booed by both sets of fans. Duffy noticed that Brendan didn’t even pause in his warm-up. He carried on nonchalantly laying the ball off to a chunky midfielder, sprinting a few yards and taking a return pass. I’d move on, mate, if I were you, thought Duffy. Nice little Second Division outfit somewhere. They might even have another black player in the side. Not that you probably need the company; it just makes it harder for the animals when they find they’re booing almost one-fifth of their own side. Duffy had two solutions for Brendan and Jimmy Lister and Melvyn Prosser. One: sell Brendan, make the club a few bob, advance the player’s career and get him into a less unsavoury outfit (though this, he recalled, was exactly what someone seemed to be trying to do already). Two: keep Brendan, sell the other ten players, and buy ten new black players. That would sort the Piggeries end out; it might be just a bit too much for their poor brains to handle.

  The match was one of those uneven, end-of-season bouts between differently-motivated sides. Athletic needed to win if they were to have any chance of lifting themselves out of the bottom three in the table; City didn’t need the points, and were already turning their thoughts to next season. This ought to have given the advantage to Athletic, but it didn’t: they were fretful, wound-up, over-eager; they pressed too hard and left themselves open at the back; two players would often go for the same ball in their keenness to do something, anything. City, on the other hand, with only their win bonus to worry about, were more relaxed; they tried a few little tricks, but didn’t worry if they failed to come off. One side was jumpy and frantic; the other ambitious but lethargic. The midfield became clogged, and for all Athletic’s anxious bustle they never troubled the City goalkeeper. The most effective piece of action in the first half came from the coppers: perhaps they were as bored as most of the spectators. On a given signal, twenty of them suddenly sprinted up the Layton Road terrace, burst their way into the phalanx of yobboes, made a path to its centre and stood there, four deep and five across, watching the game and chatting up the yobboes. Duffy laughed a bit at this. It was obviously a new tactic since his days in the Force. Just standing there, in the middle of the boot-boys, watching the game and gassing away. Not trying to be nice to the yobboes—that wasn’t the point; just embarrassing the hell out of them for ten minutes or so. Then the coppers eased themselves away
and went to look elsewhere.

  The first half was what Melvyn Prosser would have called a bow-wow. City were clearly the more skilful side, but weren’t too bothered either way; Athletic didn’t seem to have any ideas about attacking except to win throw-ins and occasional corners, tactics which City had clearly seen before. At half-time, as Cilia Black took up her song from the beginning again, Duffy moved across to the fringe of the yobboes. They looked young to Duffy: very young, very unhealthy, and very tough. He saw lots of grey skins and pimples and unformed faces; yet he bet most of them would run Mr Joyce closer at arm-wrestling than he had done. None of them wore a rosette, or a badge, or anything indicating support for Athletic. Hair: short. Height: normal. Special characteristics: zero consumption of yoghurt and health foods.

  Duffy picked out a largish youth wearing a Union Jack T-shirt and sidled up to him. He decided not to start by praising the skills of Brendan Domingo.

  ‘Playing rubbish, aren’t they?’ he said casually.

  Union Jack didn’t reply.

  ‘You wiv … the Movement?’ he tried next. This got a reply.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You wiv the Red White and Blue? You going down Tower Hill next week?’ A couple of those nearby were now listening to the exchange.

  ‘Haven’t seen you down this end before.’

  ‘Name’s Des.’ He was getting through a lot of names this week, he thought.

  Union Jack, Duffy noticed, had a gold stud in his left ear. But there seemed little chance that he was a regular at the Alligator.

  ‘Haven’t seen you down this end before.’

  ‘You going down Tower Hill next week?’

  There was a long pause. Three of the yobboes on the step below had turned round and were staring at Duffy. Union Jack was ignoring him, and gazing down at the pitch. Finally he found something to say.

  ‘I don’t fink it’s good for your elf, standing ere.’

  Duffy retreated.

  The Layton Roaders seemed to enjoy the second half more. Waddington, City’s tubby left-back, tried a long-range shot and nearly hit the corner-flag. ‘OOOOOOH, WANKY-WANKY, WANKY-WANKY-WANKY-WANKY WA-DDING-TON; OOH, WANKY-WANKY, WANKY-WANKY-WANKY-WANKY WA-DDING-TOM.’ The referee failed to give a penalty when an Athletic midfielder tripped over his own feet in sheer excitement at getting in the opposing area, ‘KILL THE REFEREE, KILL THE REFEREE, EE-AI-ADDIO, KILL THE REFEREE.’ Brendan Domingo took a lofted ball from the wing, killed it on the inside of his knee, let it roll down his calf, and laid it off swiftly to give Danny Matson’s replacement a scoring chance. ‘BRENDAN IS A FAIRY, BRENDAN US A FAIRY, BRENDAN IS A FAIRY.’

  With ten minutes to go, and the City fans setting up another chant of ‘GOING DOWN GOING DOWN GOING DOWN’, Athletic fiddled a corner. Short to the near post, headed on, headed out, turned back, miskicked, headed back in, not cleared, twenty-one different players to choose from, and Brendan, off-balance, toe-poked it home from about five yards out. The City fans were silent; the Layton Roaders were silent; Duffy, despite his promise to Jimmy Lister, decided not to draw attention to himself; there were a few claps and squeaks from the main stand, repeated at about the same volume when the public address announced the scorer’s name. Move on, Duffy whispered to Domingo, move on; this lot don’t deserve you.

  Ten minutes later, Athletic had gained victory and three points; when news of the other matches came through, it was confirmed that they were out of the bottom three. They were still in the bottom four, but looking at the points won and the games to play, it meant that at least the future was in the side’s own hands. If they got the results, they’d stay up, no matter what the other teams did.

  Jimmy Lister was still smiling when Duffy wandered into his office.

  ‘Good result,’ said Duffy.

  ‘The lads did the business. They did the business. What more can you ask?’

  Danny Matson, who could handle coming to the games if not going to The Knight Spot, was sitting in a chair by the Boss’s desk and smiling too.

  ‘Big Bren came good just when we needed him.’

  Big Bren and ten other damp-haired players had the biggest smiles of all.

  ‘Hey, Boss,’ Brendan shouted across the room, ‘I hope you saw how I planned the whole movement.’ Everyone laughed.

  ‘I’m proud of you, lads,’ said Jimmy Lister. ‘Never stopped battling. Full ninety minutes. Real team effort. Proud of every one of you.’ And he went round the room slapping the players and punching them playfully.

  ‘Hey, Boss, OK if I have a few beers tonight?’ shouted Brendan.

  ‘You can have as many halves as you like,’ said the Boss.

  Brendan had quite a lot of halves that evening. Duffy had a tomato juice followed by a low-alcohol lager. Well, he’d never been a Saturday-night raver; or at least, not Saturday night rather than any other night. What about Carol, though, he wondered, as he divided their boil-in-a-bag cod dinner into two portions. Maybe she wanted to be taken out on a Saturday night?

  Later, as Carol was falling asleep and Duffy lay tucked up with her, he got another erection. He held his breath. She stirred slightly, and moved her bottom a little.

  ‘Duffy,’ she murmured, ‘is there anyone else in this bed apart from the two of us?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ he answered. He was feeling—almost hearing—a slow, fat, deadly drop of sweat begin to trickle down his temple.

  ‘Then I must be dreaming,’ she said, and slipped off into sleep.

  Brendan Domingo, despite the opinion of the Layton Road yobboes, was not a fairy. Brendan Domingo, like Duffy, had an erection. Whether this was a good idea or not, he wasn’t to know at the time.

  Half-time

  ‘SHHH,’ WENT GEOFF BELL; and the whole team obeyed.

  Bell was not one of the Reliables’ star players. He was heavy in the leg, didn’t train enough, and secretly preferred rugby. He also wore glasses, but left them in the dressing-room, which was a handicap; he’d tried contact lenses, but they irritated his eyes a lot, and he was afraid of losing one on the pitch. They used to tell him that if he could get used to lenses he might develop into a player with vision, like Maggot; but they didn’t really mean it.

  Geoff Bell usually occupied a loose, freeish position in midfield. It was free because however many instructions you gave him, he never managed to follow them. It was a mystery why he ever wanted to play the game. It was a mystery to opponents why the Reliables ever bothered to pick him; but then opponents never saw the Reliables more than once a season, and they normally assumed Bell was a last-minute substitute. Bell was never a last-minute substitute. If it was a home game, his was the first name to be pencilled in; if it was an away game, his was the first to be left out.

  Home matches were always played at the recreation ground, and the Reliables, partly by being so reliable, were routinely allotted pitch A, alongside their own small changing-hut. There were two tiny rooms, three showers and a toilet. According to a long-established and friendly ritual, the two sides would retire to the hut at half-time, where the away side would find in its room a small tray bearing six halved oranges, a packet of chocolate wholemeal, four pints of milk and half a bottle of whisky. At first some of the teams were suspicious about the whisky, but most of going to make anybody’s game woozy; it was simply a nice gesture, and it made teams look forward to playing the Reliables at the recreation ground.

  Partly it was a nice gesture; but it also ensured that opponents didn’t decide that the macho thing to do at half-time was stay out on the pitch and get in some shooting practice.

  Geoff Bell was crouched on a bench with his hands pressed tight to his ears. Anyone would have thought he was sunk in gloom at the memory of his first-half performance. Anyone who thought that would have been wrong. For seven of the fifteen minutes that half-time occupied, the home dressing-room was entirely silent. Then Geoff Bell sat up, took out an earphone and said, ‘Right. Got it.’

  The other ten waited atte
ntively. This was Bell’s moment of importance, and he played it for all it was worth; he was dry, authoritative and irrebuttable.

  ‘Right. For a start they know they’ve got the skinning of our right-back. Sorry about that, Tommo; the winger says he’s got you on toast. Second, they think that someone called Phil, who I think must be that ginge, has got the complete run of the midfield, but they want him to push a lot further forward in the second half. They say it’s all very well walking over the midfield but it’s no good unless it puts you in business on the edge of the penalty area. They’re not very impressed by my play; in fact I think I caught the phrase “complete wanker” at one point.’

  The other ten laughed. This was just like Geoff. He could easily have edited that bit out, but he seemed to have some curious determination to tell everything that went on. This made them not mind so much when he didn’t tone down some of the comments about the rest of them.

  ‘Maggot, there was also a bit about you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Ken Marriott hopefully.

  ‘Yes, they say they think you’re a psycho.’

  ‘Oh. Didn’t they say anything about my vision?’

  ‘Just that you’re a psycho and that the first three times you get the ball in the second half they’re going to give you a whacking.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘They think that only Barney—at least, I think that’s who they must mean by the bald smarmy one—sorry about that, Barney—is any threat to the defence. They say he’s a bit slow but turns nicely for a fat man, and might have pinched one right on the whistle if they hadn’t closed him down in time.’

  Barney smiled. He didn’t mind being called fat and smarmy in the least as long as they had picked him out as the most subtle and venomous operator amongst the Reliables.

  ‘Anything about me?’ said Duffy.

  ‘They said they think you’re a terrific keeper, very fast, very brave, reflexes like a cat and a lovely pair of hands. The only thing stopping them give us a real hiding.’