Page 9 of Brat on the Ball

“Academia is where you excel, right?” asked Steve.

“Right,” I muttered.

“Well, why don’t you start building up a journalistic profile for yourself now, whilst your star is still on the rise in rugby? Long-form articles are doing pretty damn well at the moment, and with social media you can make yourself again. Show people the side of you we all know is in there…deep down.”

“I’ll…think about it,” I said. It actually wasn’t a bad idea. I had a load of articles I’d written for university just sitting on my computer, ready to put out into the world with a little tweaking. And I knew my way around the rules and history of rugby better than anyone else I knew.

“Good. I can reduce your training commitment too, if you like,” he said. “I want you to fly into a new career once you’re too old for this line of work. We’ve worked on that with Finn, and I will do the same for everyone eventually.”

“No. No way. Less training means less game time,” I said. “I have no intention of slipping.”

“Alright. You do you. Just…consider it, OK? I’m trying to extend your career here, not burn you out.”

“Yes, boss.” I stood up. “Thanks again.”

I left the office with a slightly lighter step. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the club. I wanted to see him again. I needed to see him again.

Chapter Six - Ollie

Football was a religion, and Cardiff Stadium was my church. The fans singing, the insults across fences in place to separate home fans from away. The smell of freshly mown pitch. It was a cool December evening, and I was ready to play for my city as if I were playing for my country.

“You’re fucking shit!” came one shout as we all emerged from the tunnel, and I just laughed. The fathers on the sidelines at my under-eight academy team had more creative insults than that.

The pitch gleamed with dew under the bright floodlights, and I grinned as the starting whistle blew. We were playing against Reading, and a little part of me knew my performance was being watched by their managers. Despite John sending me more and more insistent demands that I meet with their reps, I hadn’t taken him up on the offer. There was just something about my home city that made me want to keep playing for them. Reading was only two hours away in England, but Reading wasn’t home. And England certainly wasn’t.

The game was quick and snappy, much as our manager had told us to expect. Reading kept us on our toes and we had to be one step ahead. Early on, I kicked the ball to Cory Tyler, who directed a kick almost perfectly on target. It glanced off the crossbar, and then Reading gained possession and put the team on the defensive.

“Don’t just stand there like a spare prick, get going!” I shouted at Cory as he failed to drop back. We were playing a formation that left me upfront, specifically for goal scoring, so that other players could drop back defensively if the game turned in our favour. But much as I liked Cory, he liked the limelight a little too much.

He dropped back half-heartedly, and I stayed ready to get the ball if it fell back into our possession. Reading dominated in our half of the pitch, and would have scored twice if our keeper Sven hadn’t been so on the ball. As the whistle blew time on the first forty-five minutes, we were frustratingly drawn with Reading on 0-0. Our own fans insulted us just as creatively as Reading’s group as we made our way back through the team tunnel to the changing room.

“Come on lads,” our manager, Tim, said once we had all quietened down and stolen some sweets off the trolley to keep our energy going. “You’re playing like two different teams. The more you aim for glory, the less you play cohesively. I want to see you playing better ball between one another. Got it? We can still win this game.”

We cheered as one and headed out for the second half. It seemed Reading had been given a similarly critical team talk, because they played even better in the second half. I hardly got to touch the ball, and the game seemed to be played in our defending half entirely. They had three shots on target within thirty minutes, which Sven saved. But the fourth went sailing past him and into the goal. The fans groaned as one, and I put my head in my hands. Cory had been playing way too far up into our half, and hadn’t dropped back to defend enough. I was sure there were other problems with our defence, but that was the only one that stood out to me and made me want to rip my hair out.

Finally, with minutes left on the clock, we gained some kind of dominance. I watched as Perrie Nomad and Chen Ng passed masterfully to one another up the field, then to Christopher Hart in midfield. Christopher passed to Cory, who ran up the field with the ball, covering a fantastic distance. But Reading’s defence was keeping up, and I wasn’t being marked.

“Man on!” I shouted at Cory to warn him he was at risk of being tackled. He kept his eyes on the goal as he ran with the ball, jumping over one defender’s legs as he went in for a slide tackle. “Man on! I am clear!” I shouted. I thought for a second that perhaps Cory couldn’t hear me. That single-minded determination and the sound of the crowd had drowned me out. But then he glanced my way, for just a second, and I knew he’d heard me. “I am here,” I shouted. “Pass the ball!” And his eyes were on the goal again as he went to kick…

And lost the ball to a Reading defender who had taken advantage of his moment of weakness. The ball was back in Reading’s control, and when the whistle blew we were down, 0-1.

“You played like fucking pussies!” shouted one fan as we entered the tunnel.

“Rough game, right?” asked Cory as he drew level with me in the tunnel. I could feel the red mist of rage descending, so I kept walking without saying anything to him. We made it to the changing room, and I didn’t wait around for Tim to get to us and tell us what a shit job we’d done. I just stripped and headed to the team showers. But Cory took the stall next to me. I kept my eyes away from him as I showered methodically.

“Everything alright, mate?” he asked. I sighed, but kept my mouth shut. That was until he kept talking. “Did you see the shot I almost took? I could’ve drawn us the match. Bad luck with that Reading defender though, right?”

“You selfish fucking prick,” I said, turning to him and jabbing his chest. I didn’t care at that moment that we were both naked, and that others were watching the argument unfold. “You better have a good excuse for not passing to me out there. I was up front. I was clear. I had a shot. But you wanted all the glory.”

“I didn’t see you mate, I promise,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes.

“You fucking liar! I saw you look at me!” I was pushing him now, up against the cold tile, and he looked genuinely scared. “You heard me calling, and you took a risky fucking kick to get all the glory for yourself. For a fucking draw, how shit is that? But your actions are the reason we lost. You are the reason we’re closer to relegation than promotion right now, and you need to know that.”

“Well, if you could stop being such a fag about it-”

I hit him, then. I was angry, and I was scared, and I hit him across the face, hard. Suddenly big hands were pulling me back even as Cory slumped down on the cold white tile, his hand holding his cheek and eyes that screamed betrayal. I had gone too far. But he had gone too far without having any idea of how.

“Calm down,” Sven was saying in my ear. “Breathe. Come and sit down.”

---