Six A Side

Six A Side: One Moment in One Game. Six Perspectives. A Collection of Very Short Stories.

The first story in this collection, The Sub Keeper, was written as an intended one off for The Upright website.  My friend, Stuart Howard-Cofield (my ‘Twitter friend’ as my wife refers to him, complete with her Inbetweeners impression), had been given the editing job and asked me to write a piece of Flash Fiction for the site.  His brief: approximately 500 words and sport related.  Simple.  I went through the notepad of ideas I keep hidden away in the back of my mind and found a grain of an idea about a substitute goalkeeper who comes on and tries to save a penalty.  

For the next few days I couldn’t get that fictional football match out of my mind.  Who else was there?  What if you had money on the game? Could stories be told when the reader already knew the outcome of the penalty?  I wrote five more stories and the collection went on to become Six A Side.

Story 1: The Sub Keeper     

Dan Jones fucks up.

David Stevens doesn’t watch the red card get pointed at Jones, or the keeper – the first choice keeper - walk off down the tunnel.  Stevens goes through his perfected routine:  substitute to ready in two minutes. 

He re-ties his laces, tucks his gloves inside his shorts, runs six short sprints along the touchline, forcing his heart to pump faster.  He stretches and flexes, then put his gloves on.

The Boss says, "You ready?"

Always ready.  Stevens has played nine games in two years.  He’s been a substitute for every other match.  Never getting on.  Never getting a chance. 

Yet he lives like he’s number one: eating right, sleeping right, training right.  He studies strikers, patterns of play, his own defenders.  He knows their strengths, their weaknesses, how they play after a row with the wife. 

His life is working and waiting. Waiting for Dan Jones to slip.  Jones, who he laughs and grafts with every day.  Jones, who attended his daughter’s birthday party.  In the brutal world they inhabit all Stevens wants is Jones to fuck up so he can take his job.

And, with the flash of a red card, he has slipped.  And there’s a chance.

“Relax,” The Boss says. “No one expects you to save this.”

Stevens goes on and stands between the posts – his posts.  He looks at Lee Adams, the penalty taker.  Adams who has put eight of his last ten penalties to the keeper’s left, Adams who hasn’t missed his last nineteen.

Stevens stands in the middle of his goal, setting his feet.  Relax. He breathes out a long, deep breath.

The ground falls silent.  No one expects you to save this.

The referee blows his whistle.

Adams starts his run up.

Stevens adjusts his feet. Adams is a step away from the ball.

Stevens dives left. The ball flies to his right. 

The roar of the crowd and the scream of Adams’ celebrations all erupt above him.  He slowly climbs to his feet, picks the ball out of his net, boots it high into the air towards the centre circle.

He stands alone in his area. 

No one expected him to save it.  Except him.

Story 2: Shadow Play

I'm tired.  Dead tired.

The dressing room is buzzing.  Rightly so.  We've just won 1-0 thanks to a Lee Adams’ penalty.  The lads relive moments of the game:  the sending off, Adams' last minute volley that the sub keeper tipped round the post, Danny nutmegging their striker. 

I ache.  My left knee is swelling again.  My ribs hurt from where their winger caught me during the corner at the end.  Bending down to untie my boots is agony.  The usual stuff.  Every week the same. I think about the next three days:  the recovery, the limping, the sleeping for fourteen hours just to feel human.

The Gaffa walks in and gives a speech about being pleased with the tempo of our play.  More of that next week, he instructs. 

Next week.  Another game.  Another 90 minutes of pushing myself.  Of fighting and challenging.  Of running and kicking.  Of leading these men.  Another week of pain and recovery.

I look around the room.  The young faces are smiling. They've earned the celebratory night out they are planning.  They deserve the drinks and the attention, the late night and the day off tomorrow.  The day off I'll spend with the kids, on the floor pretending my ribs don’t hurt every time I push a toy fire engine from A to B.  The day off I'll spend lying to the wife about wanting her family to come for Sunday dinner.  Listening to her dad tell me how well he thought I played 'for my age', when the truth is I felt like I was stood in the middle of a motorway for most of the match.  Twice their midfielder got the better of me with a simple trick.  And he's not that good.  Three years ago he'd have not got near me.  He'd have chased my shadow.  The shadow of an England international, a league title winner, a cup final goal scorer.  Not today.  Today he made me look average.

I stand slowly and peel my shirt off.  In the dark of the brief moment it passes over my head the decision comes to me. 

I walk across the room, past the boots and the mud, past the kit piled high and the sweat stained shin pads, and ask the Gaffa for a word. 

We got outside into a bland corridor. 

I'm done, I say.

Done? he asks.

I'm retiring.  I can't do this anymore.  My body is broken.  I'm a fraction of the player I was. 

He looks at me, his shock visible.  Take an extra couple of days off, he says.  Think about it.  Speak to the wife.  You’re still an important player.

Maybe he’s right.  Maybe I can do another week, another month, another season.  

I look at him.  I know he's wrong.

No, I say.  I'm done.

You’ve got a contract.

Cancel it.

And I walk away.  Back into the dressing room.  Back into the world of the footballer. No longer one of them.

Story 3: The Bet

Tommy stands in the stands, still rough from yesterday’s excess. 

John grabs him as Lee Adams goes through one on one with the keeper.  The pair scream “Penalty” as the keeper takes Adams out, laugh as the keeper is sent off, fall silent as Adams steps up to take the spot-kick.  Tommy puts his hand in his pocket as Adams sends the sub keeper the wrong way, making it one nil.  

“Five minutes to go.  Just hang on now,” shouts Tommy, crowd jumping all around him.

“You should’ve put that bet on,” John says.

 Yesterday…

 Suited and booted, Tommy and John stood in the stands, willing their horse home.  Every move the horse made they made, as if it would have an impact on the track.

 “Run Devil run.  Go on son. Keep going.”

The horse took the lead, inching in front of the pack as they came round the final bend.  The jockey pushed harder, asking more of the animal.  It responded and a gap opened up.

One length…

“He’s gonna win,” John said.

Two lengths…

“He’s gonna bloody win.”

Three lengths…  

The horse crossed the line and Tommy and John, arms around each other’s shoulders, bounced in celebration. 

“Six bloody winners,” John said.

That was Tommy’s day: six winners out of seven.  He’d bet big, bet bold.  And he’d been rewarded.  John was annoyed at first. Everything he’d backed had let him down.  But as Tommy’s second winner became his third, his third his fourth, John started willing his friend to more victories and greater rewards. 

Tommy went to see the bookie and collect his cash.  They stood and counted it, over and over.  Eight hundred and forty quid.  Eight. Hundred. And. Forty.  For one day at the races.

They hit the bars, toasting and saluting the runners and riders.  Ties were loosened, dances danced. They spotted two birds at the bar.  Can we join you ladies?  Giggles and nods.  Tommy bought the drinks.  Chatting and flirting; a touch on the arm here, a joke there.  Another girls? Go on then. Finished up with a peck on the cheek and a smile. No back to ours, no see you soon.

The lads wandered from taxi rank to kebab place.  

“How much is left?” John asked.

A recount:  “Seven hundred and ten.”

“You should put that on our lot to win tomorrow.”

Today…

The final whistle blows.  Tommy takes his hand out of his pocket, the crumpled piece of paper revealed.  He holds it in front of John’s face.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

In the haze of drunken celebration, John says, “We should go to a casino, put it all on red.”

And they do.  They stand in a windowless, timeless room and watch a roulette wheel spin and spin and spin…  

Story 4: Toby

“He was right in front of me mum.”

“You told me.”

“It was brilliant,” Toby says, getting into bed.  He’s wearing his football kit:  the red and white shirt with ‘Adams 9’ on the back, the red shorts and white socks.  The scarf his dad bought him at the match – the match he went to today, his first ever match –is tucked under the duvet.  “I loved,” he stretches out the word to last about three seconds, “it.”

Toby’s mum kisses him.

“Dad won’t delete the photos will he?”

“No. He won’t delete the photos.”

“Good because I don’t want to forget today.  It was the best day of my life.”

He closes his eyes tightly.  His seven year old brain is working overtime.  He tries to remember all the day’s detail:  all the colours, the size of the crowd, the noise of the men shouting about fanzines for sale, the taste of his burger, the police horses. 

He can still feel his heart jumping as they approached the little doors where people were queuing.  His dad told him they were called turnstiles.  His dad pulled the tickets out of his pocket and handed them to the man in the little cage.  The metal barrier in front of them clicked and span round as his dad moved through it.  Toby pushed it and it did the same spin.  He was in. 

They were sat on the second row, just to the right of one of the goals.  Toby could see the players’ faces and hear them shouting.  He could see how fast they ran, how high they jumped.  He could read the names on the back of their shirts, although he already knew who everyone was.   

Toby wasn’t sure how to act so he copied the people around him, doing everything half a second later.  He shouted, “Oooohh,” when a shot past the post, clapped when the keeper made a good save.  He screamed “Penalty” as Lee Adams, his hero, was brought down by their keeper with five minutes to go.  He concentrated really hard as Adams ran up to take the penalty, willing the ball into the goal.

He couldn’t hear himself cheer as the ball hit the net because of the noise around him. It was louder than anything he’d ever heard, even louder than the engines of the plane he’d been on when he flew to Disneyland. 

Lee Adams ran and slid on his knees in front of him, shouting “Come on.”  Toby could see him.  He was almost close enough to touch.  Toby shouted “Come on,” copying his hero.  His hero who had scored in Toby’s first ever match.  And he had celebrated right near him.  This was the best day ever.   

The next morning his dad woke him.  His dad had a newspaper in his hand, the back page showing.  “Look,” he said, pointing to a picture of Lee Adams, on his knees celebrating his winning goal.  Just over Adams’ shoulder, in a sea of celebrating faces, was a smiling Toby, frozen in time.  The moment never to be forgotten. 

Story 5: The Target

The man watches the target from the corner of the room.  He sips his water, eats his food, smiles at the waitress when she checks on his dining experience.   And he waits.

That’s his life:  watching and waiting in the shadows, moving unnoticed through the world, acting on behalf of those who wish to having their bidding done discreetly. 

Laughter erupts from the table that holds his attention.  The men are celebrating, drinks lined up in front of them.  He knows them all, having studied them for years. He’s engaged with people who know them and obtained information, gossip or fact.  He knows he’ll need it some point, that everything is important; every move, every habit.  When people require, he offers his opinion.  When requested, he flies in and sits in restaurants like this one, watching and waiting. 

The target moves, placing his drink down, sliding his chair backwards.

The man senses opportunity.  He stands, carefully wiping the edges out his mouth with a napkin.

His target moves through a door, holding it for the person who is exiting.

The man crosses the room, slowly and calmly.  Drawing minimal attention.  As he moves he assesses the room, judging if anyone else is also heading towards the door.  People are wrapped in conversation, eyes only for the friends that share their tables.  He pushes the door open, steps inside.

The target stands at the urinal, his back to him. 

The man positions himself behind the closed door. If anyone opens it they’ll hit him, serving to warn him and slow down their entrance.  His eyes take in the detail of the room.  All the stall doors are open, no feet show from below the side panels.  It’s just the two of them.   

The man reaches into his jacket pocket.

The target turns.

“Mr Adams,” the man says, “My name is Luis.  I work on behalf of,” he names a top European football club.  His accent, soft and educated, pronounces the name in a way that suggests the English he is speaking is not his first language.  “My clients wish to speak to you regarding the matter of purchasing you.”

Lee Adams stands still, stunned.

“They wish to know if their interest is intriguing to you before going through the appropriate channels.”

The man hands Adams the mobile phone he removed from his pocket.  “If so, use this phone to call me in the next two days.  I’m staying locally until Monday evening.  The only number in there is mine.”

Adams takes the phone.

“I enjoyed your performance today,” the man says.  “Scoring a penalty so calmly with five minutes to go is very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Adams says. 

The man exits, leaving the footballer alone with a decision to make.  

Story 6: Hannah

Hannah was in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher.  She always distracted herself with these types of tasks during away games. If they were the featured game on the radio she’d listen as she tidied, washed or ironed, her ears tuned into the dramatic moments. She still attended all the home matches, as she had done when Neil was a player at the club, when he was coaching the reserves, and for the last two years since he’d been first team manager.

Match day evenings depended on the result.  A win or draw at home or a local away game, like today’s, they would go out for dinner with her sister and her husband.  A quiet restaurant where Neil could relax, drink a wine or two and forget about football for a while.  If they lost she would plate him up some dinner, meet him at the door with a smile, then go out.  Neil would stay at home, alone with his disappointment.  Not much company, he’d say. 

She’d been the third wheel at dinner more and more recently. They hadn’t won in six games. 

Hannah flinched when the radio informed her they’d conceded a penalty with five minutes to go and Dan Jones, the goalkeeper, had been sent off.  Hannah stood alone in the kitchen, hoping that Lee Adams, the penalty taker, would miss.  Her head slumped as the home crowd roared when he scored. 

They were losing again.

Hannah knew tonight’s pattern.  She would return home from dinner to find Neil re-watching the match.  He’d be making notes, refreshing his mind with what had gone wrong; questioning his decisions, his players’ decisions.  She’d open the door and say, “Ok Love?” He’d smile, “Yeah.  I’ll be up in a minute.”  She’d go to bed and he’d follow. They’d chat about her day, or how her meal was. They’d get in bed together and she’d fall asleep.  He’d toss and turn and stare at the ceiling.  He’d put the bedside light on and try to read the airport thriller he kept by the bed, desperate to get lost in the world of espionage. It wouldn’t take his mind off the misplaced pass in midfield that led to Lee Adams being one on one with the keeper with five minutes to go.  So he’d go back downstairs and watch it over and over, analysing it again and again until, somewhere around the time night meets morning, he’d fall asleep in the chair.

Hannah went upstairs to get showered.  She did her hair and makeup, sipping a glass of red wine and enjoying the last few minutes of quiet before the atmosphere in the house changed.  She checked the time and realised Neil was later than usual.  She went downstairs and watched television.  An hour later she heard his car pull up. 

She walked into the hallway.

His key twisted in the door.

She prepared to smile. 

He pushed the door open.  

She looked at her husband. He looked broken.

“They’ve sacked me,” he said.