pitch.
“Is he gonna be alright?” I asked Cockie.
“Dinnae worry aboot Captain Dutch Courageous,” he laughed.
“Eh’s well capable to look after umsel.”
* * *
I took my place on the end of the bench. As far from Ronnie as it was possible to get.
“Hey, Eric! ‘Ow’s it goin’, mate?”
I turned round to see Jaffa, Dennis and a few of the other first team blokes milling about on the other side of the fence, as the whistle went. I nodded at Jaffa and turned to watch the game. It wasn’t a bad standard, but it certainly didn’t scare me.
The next thing I knew, fucking cigarette smoke was stinking us out, and without even turning, I said, “Jaffa! Put that fuckin’ fag out will ya?”
As I spoke, I happened to glance in the manager’s direction as he looked in mine. He nodded, then went back to watching the game.
* * *
At half time, the Reserves led 1-0. It had been a fairly low-intensity spectacle. Havant and Waterlooville Reserves were almost last in the league and our Reserves were third. I hardly knew our team, but I could tell we weren’t getting out of second gear. Trevor, despite being old and pissed, was a class above at this level, and Cockie was untroubled.
Ronnie didn’t have much to say to the team. It was clear that Havant were already beaten.
“Keep yer fahkin’ shape,” he said. “Nuffin’ fancy, just stay tight. An’ keep the fahkin’ ball fer chrissakes. I want a second goal, but don’t get pulled out o’ shape lookin’ for it.”
Cockie gave me wink in Keeper’s Corner - the part of the shed he usually shared with Charlie, and now me.
“Are yer fit?” he asked, under his breath.
I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant but I nodded, and he gave me a grin.
“If we go two up, make sure yer stretched.”
* * *
Of course, it took most of the half for us to go two up. The team just weren’t interested in getting out of a gentle trot and Havant sat back, defending in numbers - content to be beaten but not thrashed. It went completely against my grain and I just felt myself getting more irritable as the half wore on - or wore down, more accurately. And what the hell was wrong with Ronnie? Why wasn’t ‘e getting into ‘em?
With about 12 to go, and before I could help myself, I’d made a contribution. We had the ball just near the bench. Our left back was just strolling, being vaguely shut down by their wide midfielder who was careful not to commit himself out of position, and the rest of our blokes were just standing watching! Well, I’d had enough: “Billy!” I shouted, to one of Mervyn’s nephews. “Give him an option! Get square!”
Billy jumped like he’d been hit with a cattle prod, but moved square and the left back (whose name I didn’t know) gave him the ball. All of a sudden, we were in their half, in space, and a small spark of energy lifted the team. Trevor made a short run into space on the left, got ball to feet, and slipped it into the path of young Andy whose legs were swept from under him on the edge of the box by the massed defence.
The whistle went, but the team were in righteous uproar - all clamouring for cards and jostling for space over the ball. The card came (yellow) and Trevor shoved the other free kick pretenders out of his path. He placed the ball about twenty-three yards out and slightly left. The whistle blew long and portentous. He paused, looking over the wall, then curled the ball into the top right corner as the keeper stood and watched.
Immediately, the whole bench was on its feet and punching the air - with the exception of Ronnie, who sat and stared at me, shaking his head. Then, in the midst of the excitement, we realised that Cockie was lying on the ground, clutching his shoulder. I all but laughed, as the trainer (Rossy Parker) shook his head and waved to the bench with the old twirly-fingered sub signal.
“Oh do me a fahkin’ favour!” swore Ronnie. “Get up, ya fahkin’ blouse!”
Cockie climbed to his feet with his right arm dangling like a broken wing.
“‘Ow’d yer fahkin’ do that?” demanded Ron as Cockie approached the sideline under Rossy’s tender care. “You weren’t in the play, mate!”
“Punchin’ the air in celebration, Boss,” replied Cockie, in apparent agony.
Ronnie turned to me in a state of some agitation: “What the fack you waitin’ for?” he enquired and, suitably encouraged, I crossed the white line for the first time in England.
But I wasn’t content to just make up the numbers. If being 40 years old had (finally) taught me one thing, it was not to take a back seat when opportunity grudgingly knocked. I trotted straight over to where the boys were just dispersing from the congratulatory ruck, and before they could escape back to their positions I said, “I got news boys. The first team are watchin’ this game, an’ you know how they feel?”
There were a few blank looks, as I continued: “They feel relaxed.”
Trevor understood exactly what I meant.
“‘E’s fahkin’ right lads,” said Trevor, pointing at the woebegone Havant boys. “They’re not the fahkin’ enemy.”
He then pointed at the first team stretching on the sideline.
“They’re the enemy. It’s your duty, as a member of this side, to put pressure on those fuckers an’ maybe take their places. Awright?”
“Awright!’ shouted Billy, punching fist into palm, and as I retired to tend the ol’ onion bag, I could already feel the hardened edge about the team.
After that, it was carnage. I did a lot of barking, but only touched the ball once in my eleven minutes - and that was a back pass that I hit first time to the left back (I still didn’t know his name). When the final whistle blew, it was 6-0. Andy got a hat trick, Trevor got two - I can’t remember who got the other, but the noise in the shed was deafening.
Billy, in particular, was in excellent spirits. He’d been in the middle of everything in the last ten minutes - winning the ball - giving it straight to Trevor or playing it down the inside channels for Andy.
Somehow, he knew that I’d had something to do with the result, even if he wasn’t sure what.
“Yer had a great fockin’ game, Eric.”
“I only touched the ball once, and I didn’t make a save.”
“Aye. Still but - great game.”
Far from being jubilant, Ronnie was, if anything, in a sulk. Cockie had made a miraculous recovery and was claiming his place on the bench for the first team.
“Yer said you were done in, mate,” peeved Ronnie. “‘Ow can I ‘ave any confidence you’ll do a job if I need yer?”
“Well
