A The Not So Beautiful Game

THE NOT SO BEAUTIFUL GAME

Danny dreaded meeting up with the lads. Ever since that harrowing
weekend 12 months ago when his hopes had shrivelled to dust. Not that
he could admit it. No-one would have understood, least of all his
mates.
He thought about this now as he made his way to the pub, hands stuffed
deep in pockets and head bowed as a buffer against the unseasonable
wind. The usual Friday night with Paul and Clegg and Andy. He should
have been looking forward to it but, lately, it was becoming too much
of a chore. He knew what they'd say:
'Going to the game tomorrow, Dan? You lucky sod. Fancy having a wife
who practically orders you to the match! You've landed on your feet
there, all right. Mine wouldn't dream of letting me go. Don't know how
you do it.'
It was always the same, and Danny would adopt a smugness he did not
feel, dismissing their envious comments with an exaggerated shrug of
the shoulders and a conspiratorial wink.
To tell them the truth would invite instant ridicule, far exceeding
Clegg's holiday seduction by a ladyboy in the fleshpots of Bangkok.
Better to keep them in ignorance and continue to grit his teeth as his
wife was lauded to the heavens.
Not that there was anything wrong with Tina. Far from it. And he
couldn't blame the lads for their comments. The love of that most
hallowed game was embedded deep within their souls, and any woman who
recognised this most basic of cravings must be a paragon of
womanhood.
Unfortunately, in Danny's case, it wasn't as simple as that.

Cupping his hands to light a cigarette, he thought back to his first
introduction to the team that would soon become as essential to his
being as food and water. Chelsea. The kings of Stamford Bridge, the
blue and white beacons of a young boy's dreams.
His dad had initiated this obsession, presenting the seven year-old boy
with tickets as a birthday treat. In wide-eyed wonder, Danny had
clutched those passports to Nirvana with trembling hands as adrenalin
pumped through his veins and pride added substance to his scrawny
chest.
On the great day itself, his legs would barely function as he trotted
by his father's side, the excitement almost too much to bear. He would
have fainted as the players walked onto the pitch if the adulation of
the crowd hadn't swept him up, their throaty roars sending sparks of
spine-tingling anticipation throughout his entire body.
Hoisted on his father shoulders, he watched the heroes of his
imagination, now transformed into real flesh and blood, and he wondered
if anything else in life would ever compare to this sense of awe. His
bulging eyes drank in the thrusts and parries, the swerves and feints,
the sheer power of the forwards as they muscled their way to the
opposing net. Like a form of osmosis, his skin soaked up the shouts,
the groans, the ecstatic screams that accompanied the opening
goal.
Danny had fallen in love. It was as simple as that, and it was a love
that had sustained him through the trials of boyhood, the angst of
adolescence and the growing self-confidence of early manhood.
That blessed team had also introduced him to Paul, Clegg and Andy,
fellow fanatics who wore the colours with reverent joy. They had spent
the Eighties trawling the country on the heels of their idols, their
manly voices belting out such classics as, "Blue is the Colour," and,
"We hate Arsenal, and we hate Arsenal".
Afterwards, the game would be scrutinized in the nearest pub: the
sublime skills of Pat Nevin, the stalwart defending of Colin Pates, the
cheating antics of the opposition. Not to mention the dubious sexual
habits of the officials.
No matter that success was as elusive as Clegg's wallet at opening
time. They didn't care, could still revel in the perpetual lurches
between the first and second divisions, the monumental tussles with the
"mighty" Sheffield Wednesday, Paul Canoville's second half hat-trick
rescuing his team mates from an ignominious thrashing... Oh, the list
was endless. What memories. What bliss.
And then it all began to change as, one by one, the friends became
snared by the dubious delights of married life. Only Danny was spared
total dishonour by Tina's surprising acquiescence. She would even watch
the occasional match on TV.
'I won't come to the game with you, though,' she told him. 'But I won't
stop you going.'
Bursting with humility at his wife's understanding, Danny found himself
suffering a moment of weakness. 'Tell you what,' he said before his
brain had caught up with his mouth, 'I'll only go to the home games.
It's not fair on you if I'm away too much.'
The look of adoration in Tina's eyes was almost sufficient reward for
his magnanimity. Oh well, marriage was a compromise, and this was a
compromise he could live with. Just.
And so, during the next few years, Danny's standing with his fellow
obsessives reached a level of fawning veneration. Friday evenings were
spent reliving the most recent home game, with Paul, and Clegg and Andy
hanging on to his every word like lovesick teenagers. Oh, how he
revelled in their envious, puppy-dog stares as he fed their hunger for
each juicy detail.
If that were not sufficient to swell his ego to gargantuan proportions,
his wife presented him with a son at the end of the 1992/93 season. A
miniature "Blue", ready to follow in his grandfather and father's
football boots. There was only the question of the boy's name to
consider.
'We're not calling him Dennis or Nigel or Frank, so you can forget it,'
Tina had informed him, sternly.
'What about Craig or Neil or -'
'No. I'm serious, Danny. I'm not calling him after a Chelsea player,
and that's final.'
'OK, OK. What do you want to call him, then?'
'I'd like to name him after my dad.'
Danny hesitated, feigning uncertainty. 'You mean Charlie?'
'Yes. I know it's a bit selfish of me, but he'd be thrilled to bits and
-'
'It's all right, love. That's fine by me. You did all the hard work,
after all.'
As Tina threw her arms around his neck, Danny raised misty eyes to
offer thanks to the heavens. Charlie. After Charlie Cooke, one of the
club's greatest idols. Not that his wife need know...
It must be an omen, Danny thought. And so it seemed as, in the space of
the next few seasons, the team began its meteoric rise from mediocrity
to unimagined success. Two FA Cups, the Coca-Cola Cup, the Cup Winners'
Cup, the Super Cup, all before the end of the decade.
Only one drawback remained. Given the foreign contingent at the club,
the likelihood of naming any future children Gianfranco, or Tore Andre,
or Marcel, was bleak in the extreme.
Oh well, he had his Charlie, and that was more than enough. Danny
ensured that the little lad had all his heart could desire, from a blue
and white baby-grow to the latest team shirt. He even gave the boy his
lucky scarf - the one he had worn to victory at the 1997 FA Cup. A
sacrifice not lightly made.
And, as his son's seventh birthday approached, there was only one
suitable present.
'Tickets to the game,' he blurted out, unable to contain his
excitement. 'The first game of the season.'
Charlie looked up at him. And then looked away again.
Danny felt a pang of unease. 'What's the matter, son?'
'N... nothing.'
'Come on, you can tell me.'
Charlie bit his lip as he looked down at the floor. 'Daaad...'
'Yes?'
'Do I have to go?'
Danny's eyes rolled in his head. He was sure he was going to faint.
'Wh... what do you mean? It's Chelsea.'
'Yes... I know, but -'
'But what?'
'I like Arsenal.'
This time, Danny's legs really did buckle as he collapsed onto the
nearest chair. Arsenal. "The Gooners." Or, "the #~!>* of London
Town", as they were less affectionately known. His next words, when
they eventually came, were hoarse and rasping. 'Y...you...like...Ar
-'
'I'm really sorry.' Charlie rushed towards the chair, appalled by the
sickly white of his father's cheeks. 'All the kids at school support
Arsenal. They're dead jealous of my name. They keep saying it's Charlie
George, and -'
He stopped in mid flow when his dad began to snivel.
Danny had noticed the sparkle in the boy's eyes at the mention of that
name: one of Arsenal's best loved forwards of earlier times. This was
no passing fancy, but a deep, ingrained devotion, and he wondered how
he would ever recover.
It was then that his world really did fall apart. Aided and abetted by
Tina.
'Never mind,' she said, once her husband had stopped crying. 'You can
take him to see Arsenal instead.'
Unperturbed by the peculiar gurgling sound from the back of Danny's
throat, she continued to contaminate the wound. 'Oh come on, be fair.
We've put up with this Chelsea business for years. Isn't it about time
Charlie had a go? It's still football, after all. What does it matter
whether it's Chelsea or Arsenal?'
Those words had instigated the end of an era as, from that point on,
Danny was forced to spend his precious time at the enemy's Highbury
ground. And now, since the start of the new season, he was having to
suffer this hell all over again.
A calamity that must be kept from the lads. Whatever the cost.
The Not So Beautiful Game/Page 6 of 6