that come from?”
“It’s what they call ‘im in Australia,” laughed Trevor, rubbing his jaw. “But who fahkin’ belted me?”
Everyone seemed to find this hilarious.
“What they call yer one yer let one through?” asked Charlie.
“Mr Skid Marks,” said Cockie, and the boys were falling about. But not the manager.
“Trevor … Jaffa … get yer arses into the shed! Rags … Gareth… get ‘em goin’!”
The boys resumed training, with the exception of Trev and Jaffa.”
“You too,” said Ronnie, grabbing my elbow as I went to jog off with the rest.
The tension, momentarily released by laughter, was back as the three of us sheepishly followed Ron into the shed. I expected him to start tearing strips off Jaffa and Trev, but I was speechless when Ron Wellard seemed to find me responsible.
“Ever since you showed up at this club there’s been trouble,” he said. “We’re tryin’ to prepare for a second round Cup tie, and what’s this? A fahkin’ riot!”
I was too amazed even to speak, but fortunately, Trevor spoke up for me.
“That’s out of order Ron. It’s nuffin ter do wiv Eric.”
“Oh yeah? Who told Jaffa ter give up the fags? I don’t want fahkin’ changes this close to the game, unless I make ‘em.”
“Ron,” said Jaffa. “Fahkin’ Trev’s been tellin’ me ter lay off the cancer sticks for 12 months! ‘Ow can yer say it was Eric’s fault?”
“Coz yer never packed ‘em in until now,” said Ron. “An’ look ‘ow yer respond! Chuckin’ yer guts up, I don’t mind. Squarin’ up to team mates, I fahkin’ do.”
“Yeah, that was my fault,” said Trev. “Sorry, Jaff. You shouldn’t call me a pisshead when I’m fahkin’ sober, mate.”
Jaffa grinned. They were clearly reconciled, but Ron wasn’t finished with me.
“Listen to me Mr Cleansheets, or whatever yer fahkin’ name is. I don’t give a toss abaht yer gangster mate. I want you out of this club.”
Trevor and Jaffa were horrified.
“Ron!” pleaded Jaffa. “Yer can’t get rid of Eric! Can’t yer see how he gees the lads up? “E’s good for the side.”
“I don’ like ‘ow ‘e gees the lads up,” said Ronnie. “We’re losin’ our discipline … our control. Just the fact we’re ‘avin’ this conversation shows ‘ow the ‘ole fing’s fallin’ apart, an’ four days out from a fahkin’ Cup tie!”
“Ron,” said Trevor. “Yer makin’ a big mistake. If Eric goes, I go.”
“Me an’ all,” agreed Jaffa.
Ron Wellard turned on me in a fury.
“Yer see what you’ve done?” he fumed, and turned on his heel.
“Ron … wait!” I called.
Ronnie Wellard paused in the doorway, and faced me with a look of thunder.
“I don’t know what the hell I’ve done to piss you off,” I said, “but I’m not stayin’ in a club that doesn’t want me.”
Trevor and Jaffa started to protest, but I strode from the room.
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