sprints and, sure enough, Ronnie told us to stop. But the torment wasn’t over - not by a long shot. We went through four laps of circuit work and didn’t even see a football, but I started to feel good. This was training - in England, the home of football. The city, the team and the locale were strange, but the steaming breath and the tang of liniment and sweat were so familiar. I started to relax and enjoy myself, but hoped to see some ball work.
Eventually, Ronnie told us to stretch for a few minutes while he talked about the coming Saturday’s game against Havant & Waterlooville, then concluded by letting us know that: “Fahkin’ Chris Wyndham has got ‘imself busted again.”
There were a few chuckles but Col Cochrane swore. And I gathered that, as Col sat on the bench for first grade, Chris Wyndham was the youth team keeper who sat on the bench for reserves.
Before I could stop him, Jaffa had piped up: “Eric’s a keeper. Not bad either.”
Ronnie’s look was withering.
“We got no space in this side for unregistered, Aussie geriatrics. We’ll take young Philip from the 17s.”
So that was that: another rejection. I finished the training session and even spent a bit of time with Charlie and Cockie. They both had a bit of skill, especially Charlie, but I knew they weren’t in my league. In any case, I was happy enough to train. It was quite unrealistic to hope to play when it was halfway through the season.
The shed had one of those large communal showers and a procession of pink bodies emerged from the steam relieved of dirt and sweat and cruising with endorphins. By 8.00, we were all trooping down the road to the Sportsmen’s Club for dinner. I found myself talking to Trevor and Charlie, with Jaffa pissing us off with his fuckin’ cigarettes about five yards in front.
“If yer packed in the fahkin’ cancer sticks yer’d be twice the player, mate,” moaned Trevor, but Jaffa was heedless of his ancient wisdom. Twenty-two year olds are immortal, after all.
“I’m not fahkin’ kiddin’, mate,” repeated Trev. “You were fahkin’ nowhere in the last ten minutes on the weekend. We needed a goal an’ all.”
“Fahkin’ bollocks,” retorted Jaffa. “I got us a fahkin’ goal, which is more ‘n anyone else did.”
“You got us a goal in the first 15,” said Charlie, “an’ ‘ow many did yer miss? Yer don’t value the chances when they come.”
“Twelve games, thirteen goals,” said Jaffa. “Some might say I’m carryin’ this side.”
Trevor and Charlie just shook their heads as Jaffa pranced about up ahead with a couple of the younger blokes - also smokers but still full of energy.
“Got a lot o’ talent that lad,” muttered Trevor. “Goin’ to fahkin’ waste. If he was fit and ‘ad bit more fahkin’ mongrel e’d be playin’ in the league. But I’m not gonna embarrass meself droppin’ ‘is name when I still want it more ‘n ‘e does.”
* * *
Most of the squad had come to the club (the Santos brothers had disappeared on God-know’s-what type of missions for the evening) and we ate counter meals in the small bistro area. Mine was a fairly disappointing seafood pasta but the beer was good, and colder than rumour would have it back in Australia.
Paddy and Liam nodded at me from their usual place at the corner of the bar, still nursing the same two pints of Guinness by the look of ‘em.
Mervyn was holding court at the same large round table as the day before, chatting with a couple of blokes who looked like graduates from Arthur Daley’s Finishing School for Toerags and Geezers. Billy and Gareth were also there and, as I expected, the summons eventually came.
I made my way over with a fresh pint, and looked up at the Bentham United squad portrait - I knew most of the faces now. Jaffa, also, was required at the high table, and we sat in the only two available chairs.
“‘Ow wuz de food?” enquired Mervyn.
“Not bad,” I lied. “Could’ve done with a bit more herbs and chilli.”
“Tell the cook,” said Mervyn to a bloke called Lucas - another humourless Paddy whom, I eventually discovered, it would be unwise to disobey.
“‘Erbs an’ chilli … no problem,” said Lucas, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Whut ‘appened at lunch time?” asked Mervyn, and before I could stop him Jaffa launched into a graphic description of the melee at The Rose , which didn’t exactly over-exaggerate, but certainly portrayed me in more heroic terms than I would have cared to use myself.
Mervyn listened, then asked me: “Is dat ‘ow it ‘appened?”
“More or less,” I shrugged.
“They’re becomin’ a problem, the Blue Fury. Weren’t the same blokes as in Sydney?”
“Pretty sure they weren’t.”
“Aye, dere’s too many o’ the fockers.”
“Nombers need thinnin’ out,” remarked Lucas.
“Dat’s your answer to everyt’in’,” sniggered Mervyn, but no-one laughed. There was a bit of a silence at the table, notwithstanding the fairly raucous banter going on all around us - the club was filling up.
“Right,” said Mervyn. “You’re to stay away from Maida Vale. Dey’ll come back to The Rose in nombers, dat’s certain. We don’t want trouble … not yet.”
“Dey put our Danny in ‘ospital,” said Gareth (he and Billy were also cousins of Danny Malone). “Dey’re encroachin’ in our territory. We’ve already got trouble.”
“Aye,” agreed Mervyn, “but we don’t know the full score yet. Looks like McNowt’s mobilised the Blue Fury. But is it just McNowt, or is it a wider coalition? We bide our time fer now … public at least. Might be some work fer you, Lucas.”
They all looked to Lucas, who grinned for the first time - and there were a few grim chuckles about the table. Then Mervyn turned back to me and his mood lightened.
“Onderstand yer play football, Mr Judd?”
“I do.”
“Bit old aren’t ya?”
“Not really. Not too old to play in goals.”
“Is dat so?”
Before I knew it, Ronnie Wellard had been summoned and was standing beside us.
“‘Ow’s de team lookin’, Ron?” asked Mervyn.
“Not bad,” replied Ronnie. “Havant shouldn’t be too much trouble at home.”
“Heard about young Wyndham,” said Mervyn. “Bad business.”
“We’re covered,” said Ronnie.
Mervyn
