me in Keepers’ Corner, where he was not, by rights, entitled to be.
“Well done, mate. You fahkin’ got us goin’!”
I was gagging for a beer, but beer wasn’t allowed in the change room, except on special occasions. I said I reckoned 6-0 was pretty special, but I gathered that “special” did not apply to the Reserves.
Gradually the celebrations subsided as we emerged from the shower in twos and threes and drifted outside to watch the first team. I had an eye out for Doreen, but the first bloke I saw when I got outside was Bernie Malone.
“G’day, Bernie. How’s Danny?”
“Much better t’anks. ‘E’s much obliged.”
“I don’t know what for,” I said. “If you think about it, it was me that got ‘im beaten up.”
“Sure an’ dat’s bollocks,” replied Bernie. “It were no fault o’
yours.”
We stood watching the first team finish their warm up, and you could tell straight away there was a jump in class between the two teams. The snap and swagger of the firsts was in stark contrast with the studious restraint of the Reserves before the match. Jaffa, in particular, was a star in the making - pity about the fags. He trotted about the edge of the box, occasionally juggling a ball, occasionally knocking thunderbolts into the empty net. Charlie the Cat was warming up with Cockie, and I was delighted to see that Cockie was introducing Charlie to the turn away drill I’d showed him.
“Glad yer still in London,” continued Bernie. “When Danny gets out o’ hospital, ‘e wants to express ‘is gratitude. Maybe hit the town together? Danny’s buy.”
“Bernie!” I moaned, absolutely delighted. “There’s no need for that.”
“Doesn’ matter. It’s whut ‘e wants.”
The whistle went to start the game.
“Well,” I said, glancing about for Doreen, “if that’s what he wants.”
* * *
Bernie and I sat with Trevor in the stand. The rule against beer did not extend that far, and Trevor produced a few long cans from somewhere or other.
We watched in satisfied silence for a while, sipping Carlsbergs, as the two sides felt each other out. I was a bit disappointed with the Santos brothers, Juan Pablo in the centre of the park and Juan Marco at right half. They weren’t exactly taking charge, but Rags, the captain (ex-Crystal Palace Youth and Reserves), was all class at sweeper and Gareth was like a rock at stopper, cutting out everything that came within the danger zone and straightaway slipping the ball to either Dennis on the left or Juan Marco on the right - both of whom would, more or less, give it straight back to Havant with long balls that suited neither Jaffa, nor Vince - Jaffa’s partner in crime up front.
“The Santos boys are in the wrong positions,” I remarked, and immediately, Trevor was off on a rant.
“‘Ow fahkin’ long ‘ave I been sayin’ that?” he demanded. “They got brilliant skill, mate, don’ get me wrong, but they’re not ‘ard enough in the engine room. We need someone oo can put ‘is foot on the ball in the middle o’ the park.”
“Like you,” I said.
A spasm of pain seemed to cross his face.
“Aaarhh … I dunno. Probably too old,” he said.
“Crap!” said Bernie. “Off the bevvy. That’s whut yer need.”
“Too late for that,” muttered Trevor, and I felt really sad for him.
All of a sudden, out of totally nothing, Jaffa got the ball to feet with his back to the goal - feinted one way, slipped the ball under his heel, spun and slammed the ball into the roof of the net from 25 yards.
“Farrr-kinell!” muttered Trevor, as the three of us stared in admiration. “That was still risin’ when it hit the net.”
“That’s ‘im, though,” said Bernie. “Got his goal. Won’t see ‘im fer the rest o’ the 90 minutes.”
* * *
They led 2-0 at half time. Jaffa didn’t score the second, but he set it up with an absolute piece of class down the right channel. And Juan Pablo of all people ran on to his final pass and slipped it inside the near post.
“Yer see,” said Trevor. “JP’s fahkin’ useless in the middle o’ the park, but look at ‘is understandin’ wiv Jaffa. Ought to be up front, yeah?”
“‘E’s fast an all,” agreed Bernie.
“Least ‘e don’t smoke like fahkin’ Jaffa,” sneered Trevor.
Bernie and I just glanced at each other, but Trevor laughed.
“Yeah … fahkin’ got me, yer bastards. So Jaffa smokes … Trevor bevvies.”
There was a bit of a silence as we watched the two teams troop off to the sheds.
“It’s not like you’d have to go on the wagon completely,” I ventured. “You could just try an’ limit yerself the night before a game. You’ve still got a lot to offer at this level.”
Trevor just shook his head.
“Eric, yer know a great deal abaht football; that’s perfectly clear. But yer know fack all abaht pissheads.”
* * *
At that moment I saw Doreen, walking up the stairs and waving, and a small tinge of pleasure washed over me.
“Hi, Eric. Are you playing?”
“Naah. Got a short run in the Reserves.”
“‘E was brilliant,” exclaimed Bernie, to my embarrassment, but a huge smile lit up Doreen’s face.
I stood up and went to give Dores a peck on the cheek, but she kissed me enthusiastically on the lips.
“Erm … Doreen. This is Bernie …”
“Very pleased I am ter meet yer,” said Bernie, automatically turning on the Irish charm for a woman.
“And this is Trevor.”
“Awright darlin’, d’yer like a drink?”
“Oh, not just yet thanks.”
Doreen sat close to me, gazing around the ground and taking it all in.
“This is my first English football match,” she said.
“Mine too,” I replied.
* * *
The second half was not unlike the second half of the Reserves match. That is, the first thirty-three minutes, and I could
