Sportswriting Competition 2012 – 3rd place:

Dismissal

by Jonathan Chapple

Rain in my face, in my eyes, coursing down my neck, wet on my lips. Teeming haze of grey against green. Mouth full of saliva. Suck, hack and spit.

The Gaffer’s at the sideline. Look at him, red in the face, veins popping in his forehead. Bald dome glistening in the rain. He’s waving at me, tapping his watch, pointing. He’s pushing with his hands. Get forward. Get up there.

Make it happen, Stanning.

I can.

I will.

The left wing is mine. I’ve stamped my name on it. Stud-marks in the grass, twists of gouged mud. Pivots and patterns. A hieroglyphic story. Their right-back can’t handle me, can’t touch me. He can’t control me. He’s riding in my slipstream, breathless. I’ve got him in the palm of my hand. It’s not rocket science. Just drop a shoulder, cut inside, clip one in. I can beat him like that, flush, every time. All we need is one sweet finish. One sweet strike.

It should have come already but, short of options up front, we’re relying on Hampton. Look at him – jut of untidy limbs, sharp angles under his shirt. Scrawny. He never eats, never drinks. He’s a vegetarian or a Puritan or something. Lonely little balding bastard. I’ve dropped it on his head a dozen times. I’ve put it to his feet. He’s sky-ed it. He’s hit the keeper. He’s hit the woodwork. He’s hit empty seats behind the goal. He’s shaken a waterfall from the crossbar. Useless. Harmless.

The ball comes out to me. A decent pass for once. Spinning jet of spray. There he is, the right back. The right back who knows he’s beaten. Borsham. Look at him – an ageing lump of gristle. Bad facial hair, frayed black curls on his neck.

I’m round him, turning away, dropping my shoulder. Hear his breath. Huff-puff. Huff-puff. Hear a grunt. Acknowledging defeat. Old joints creaking. Stumping after me.
He’s gone. A distant memory. Past tense.

Rain hemming my vision, shapes blur and waver. Bursting forward, just like the Gaffer wanted. Breath inexhaustible, lungs like ballast. Heartbeat in my ears. Blood thunder.

The ball sits up, hitched into the air by a rise the pitch. I take it uncomfortably, try and control it, bring it back down. Borsham is back on me. Bad rash. Bad penny. Huffing, puffing, like wolf on a pension.

I stab at the ball, catch it with my boot, knock it out of play.

Where’s Hampton? Where’s my support? Useless, the lot of them. The Gaffer looks at me, touches his hands together. Silent, rain-soaked applause. I’m working overtime. At least he knows it.

Voices in the crowd:

“Nice one, Stanners!”

“Keep it up Stanners!”

“Good effort!”

That’s right. The crowd know it, too.

I see him. Our scarecrow centre-forward. “I can’t do it all myself, Hammy.”

Glow of understanding on that thin, pinched face. Hammy. Hardly a thoroughbred, physically or mentally.

Suck. Hack. Spit. I’m drowning in saliva.

They build on the throw-in, neat passes, tight and controlled. Nothing special but it leaves us standing. There’s no pressure on the ball. Everyone but me asleep. They’re coming forward. I have to chase. Me defending. It’s like taking a sports car down country lanes, jamming a Ferrari in a ditch.

Someone’s got to. Someone’s got to put some effort in.

Make it happen, Stanning.

Bad to worse, we concede a corner. That linesman – look at him – like a boxer gone to waste. Short and stocky, wobbling ring of fat above his waistband.

I get in the box. Legs, arms and elbows. Someone’s grabbing my shirt. I’m grabbing a shirt. Our goalie swearing, top of his voice. Bad words and spit at one hundred decibels. Look at him – stupid long-hair. No composure. No control. You want reliable – come to Stanning.

They’re trying to lose their markers, we’re sticking to them, the usual nipping shuffle. A boot knocks my shin. Mud flecks my face. Studs scrape my left calf. More hands on my shirt. Get off my shirt.

The corner’s taken. Calls for it, all round. Keepers. Come on Keeps, gather it up, send us on our way. The ball floats in, shimmer in the rain. Scrambled away. Mud spray, grass shreds. Lumps kicked out of the pitch. The ball breaks loose. It’s in no-man’s land.

It’s mine.

I come out for it, collect it, shrugging my way through the crowd, and I’m off. I’ve skinned their number eight. He’s eating mud. Off, down the wing. My wing. My turf.

My territory.

Huff-puff. Huff-puff. Huff-puff.

Borsham is at my shoulder. Old Borsham. Simple, straightforward Borsham.

Clagging wet hairs on his legs, curled into little black balls. Bulldog rings around his eyes.

Huff-puff. Huff-puff. Huff-puff.

See you later Borsham. Soon to be past tense Borsham.

It’s not even a tackle not really doesn’t count couldn’t call it a tackle it’s a dispossession that’s what they call it his foot’s just there he just sticks it out skill-less he gets his shin on the ball there’s no real contact he takes it out of my path it’s blind luck there’s no skill it’s luck.

Borsham turns his back on me. I see the rain and the sweat mingled in a long strip down the centre of his back. I see his bald patch showing. He’s going to lay it off. He’s been sitting there all night, side-footing it out to his midfield. No ambition. No endeavour. Boring, Bulldog Borsham. Same old, same old.

Oh no, you don’t.

I’m coming at him, bearing down. Time it right and the break’s still on. Hammy’ll come through this time. We’ll score, we’ll turn the game.

We’re still in this.

I’m still in this.

I won’t be stopped by some old man.

Wet grass – sliding.

I see Dad. Look at him. Sleeves rolled up. Wisps of white hair on a wide, round head. Sweat patches under his arms, always. I see the bills on a damp welcome mat. Leaking roof. Dad doing the gutters. The nine to five. The commute. No trains. An empty wallet. A half-ripped, cocaine fiver. Loose change. Old pennies. Shrapnel. I see the 9:10 bus, rust in the wheel-arches, crust on the seats.

Nine to five. Never a sick day. Never a holiday. The company closed down. Boarded windows and a metal sign slowly losing letters, a padlock on the gate. A whole lifetime expended, a used shell from the breech of a gun.

Huff-puff. Dad climbing stairs. Huff-puff. Dad shopping. Huff-puff. Dad getting up in the morning.

Bastard. You old bastard.

I see Dad’s factory. Metal struts and chimney stacks in the sky. Houses, now. Brand new houses and a shopping centre car park. Tarmaced memories.

Huff-puff. Huff-puff.

I see my father coughing up black.

I see beep-beep-beep.

And that single green line.

You’re an old bastard and you won’t stop me.

Huff-puff. Huff-puff.

Wet grass – sliding. Impact. White flash. Distorted roll of vision.

Dull throb of noise in the crowd. Gasps. “Oooh.”

I’m on my back. Rain looms down on me. I get to my feet. My left leg is numb. I limp a little. Borsham is down, flat on his face. It was a bad one.

The whistle goes. For a dazed moment, I think the game is over.

The ref is there. Look at him – thin, withered like some diseased tree, bad comb-over.

He’s reaching into his pocket.

A booking, I suppose. Well, fair enough. Fair play. I suppose I crocked him a bit. I caught him. Got the ball, though. Free-kick, yellow card and on we go. The game isn’t like it was. Not when Dad played it with a stitched leather ball, out the front of the house. Mum watching from the kitchen, standing at the sink.

Yellow – yellow – yellow – canaries and cowards. Yellow – yellow – yellow – please.
He pulls out a card.

“What? What? No. I hardly touched him! He’s up, ref. Look, he’s fine. Come on, what are you talking about? It was just a knock. I won the ball.”

“High, studs showing. You’re off, Stanning.”

“You wanker. You absolute wanker. First offence. You stupid, blind old wanker.”

Man trudging down the tunnel. Look at him.

Boots clopping on the concrete.

Dark shadow on grimy tiles.

Make it happen, Stanning.