Page 15 of Brat on the Ball

He opened his mouth, and for a second no noise came out. “I…I’m sorry, mate,” he said. “You’re right. I was trying to score even though I knew you had a better chance. I just wanted…I wanted to be like you, just for one game. I wanted to bring us glory. And it was wrong.”

“No worries, mate,” I said. I held out a hand to him. My conversation with Tim had pushed away any of the anger I still had left. “Just…work with me in future, yeah? I will always pass to you if you’ve got a better chance at scoring than me. I want us to be a team.”

Cory reached out his hand to me, and I took it. He surprised me by pulling me into a rough hug, slapping my back as he did. He put his lips to my ear. “And…I’m sorry about what I said,” he whispered. “I’ve got a gay cousin and I…I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know if you…I mean…I’m…yeah. Sorry.”

“Noted,” I choked out. He wasn’t a bad guy. Not really. And there was something in his tone that told me a gay cousin wasn’t the only reason he felt so ashamed of what he’d said.

* * *

Training was brutal over the next two days, but we were playing with a synergy as a team that I felt we’d been missing for ages. Cory and I seemed to have come to an understanding how we’d play, with him supporting me as our up-front player. He passed the ball beautifully to me three times, and three times I got the ball past Sven. Once our defenders caught on to the strategy, we switched positions and Cory scored a goal by shooting the ball into the top-right corner, past Sven’s hands. When he pulled me in for a hug, our smiles were genuine.

“We’re gonna fucking win this on Wednesday, OK?” I said.

Cory grinned. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter Nine - George

I trudged my way up the steps at Cardiff City Stadium, pint in hand. We were sat in the home stands, which was a weird enough concept to me coming from the world of rugby. The home crowd got about ninety percent of the stadium, and a tiny chunk of space in one corner was reserved for away fans. Fences separated the two to stop them from fighting.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I pointed out to Finn as we sat down. Nathan had a hot dog bigger than his head in his hand, and Finn was holding a pint of lemonade for himself as well as Nathan’s pint of lager.

“I know, you’d think they were playing a sport where they bash each other’s brains out on the pitch. You know what they say, though. Football is a gentleman’s sport supported by barbarians…”

“…and rugby is a barbarian sport supported by gentlemen,” I finished. “True that.”

In the Arms Park and Millennium Stadium, the supporters all sat and stood together and mingled. Sure, there was the occasional fight. But for the most part, rugby supporters could be trusted to sit together in the stands with little incident, and head to the same pubs and clubs later to celebrate — or commiserate — with a pint. Soccer supporters had to be bussed in and out of the stadium to prevent serious fighting, and the police were involved in the big derby games.

“Have you been to watch a football game before?” asked Nathan, leaning over Finn to steal one of my chips.

“Nope,” I said, making my distaste clear. “Anyway, it’ssoccer.”

“Not this shit again,” said Finn. “It’s so American. No one has called it soccer in this country for decades.”

“Well, rugby is foot-“ I started, but the announcer started calling the names of the teams out, starting with the opposition team. The entire crowd around us booed, and I winced. Booing was rare in rugby too, though it was getting more mainstream by the season. “Your team plays shit!” shouted one guy behind me.Very original.

“Play better, you pussies!” another shouted. Finn smirked next to me.

“This is very you,” I muttered.

“I know.” He stole a chip like his fiancé had.

“Bastard,” I muttered, moving my chips to one side. I may not have been a fan of soccer, but I could certainly appreciate their players. As the Leeds players ran out in their white kits, I leaned over to Finn. “Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash.”

“We are not playing that game here,” he said.

“Pass,” muttered Nathan, and we both laughed. “Pass, pass, pass. Actually, George, you can have them all. I much prefer a big rugby player.” He patted Finn’s bicep. “More robust.”

Then the announcer started calling out the Cardiff player’s names, and the crowd went wild. As each player ran out, starting with Sven Barstad, their gangly Scandinavian goalkeeper, the crowd got louder. “Smash, smash, smash,” I chanted, even as Nathan continued to say “pass, pass, pass.”

And then the last player was called. “Ollie Gunnerson!” shouted the announcer, and the crowd wentwild.

“I’m making an exception,smash,” said Nathan.

I couldn’t make my mouth move to agree with him. What would I have said?Already smashed, sorry mate.

From our vantage point in the stands, it was obvious that Ollie Gunnerson had a big purple blotch on the side of his neck. I rubbed my love bite self consciously as I looked down at him, and my heart pounded at the sight. I finally knew who my mystery man was. And it wasn’t delighting me.

He was just as beautiful under the bright floodlights as he was in the dark club, and the smile he gave the crowd was absolutely radiant. I knew I was looking at a man in his element, in the place he was meant to be. And I knew then why he was so scared to be out, even in a place as safe as Wings. He didn’t want to be the only gay professional footballer in the country.

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