"Pants and Vest"

Brent Valley’s first friendly against the White Hart Wallies had been
arranged by Mickey Boyle for a seven o’clock kick off. His family
lived across the road from Steve Finnucan who was one of the major
‘faces’ in their team. The White Hart, from which a name had been
crafted for them, was not the Jam Tart that Brent Valley frequented, but
one of many others in the area. Why there were so many was a
complete mystery; maybe west Middlesex had at one time been
heavily populated by albino male deer. Eddie reckoned that landlords
were allowed to choose the names of their pub from a list of classic
names held by the brewery, and that they were all Tottenham
supporters who wanted to name their pub after their team’s home
ground.
Mickey had pointed out to Eddie that all of the White Harts that
he had drunk in around west London were run by Irish landlords who
were all Manchester United fans to a man. Eddie was unconvinced by
Mickey’s observation and stuck by his view.
This particular White Hart was situated on the borders of
Greenford and Southall and was right opposite the entrance to
Bonkers Stadium, the rather hopeful name given to a Council recreation ground as a result of a graffiti artist having painted the words, “BONKERS FOREVER”, in six foot high letters on the wall of the municipal tip that formed one of the boundaries to the ground.
“How did they come up with a name like that, the White Hart
Wallies?” enquired Eddie.
“They didn’t,” replied Brad. “We came up with it for them. They
all drink in the White Hart and their centre half is that skinny, lanky
QPR fan whose name happens to be Wally; everyone calls him ‘White
Hart Wally’.”
“Oh, I know the bloke. Wears silver Doc Martens?”
“That’s him.”
“Anyway, that’s how they got their name, only they don’t know
we call them that and they probably wouldn’t appreciate being told it,
so shhttuum.” Brad looked around at the faces of the assembled
players as if the order to keep quiet applied to each and every one of
them.
They each gave an affirmative nod as Brad’s eyes fell on them, and
then carried on changing in the knowledge that they had been told.
Fortunately, it was a fine, hot August evening as Bonkers Stadium
had no changing rooms and all the players had gathered behind one
of the goals to change. All the conversation as the players changed
was about the death of Elvis Presley that had been announced earlier
on the news bulletins.
“Died on the bog, I heard,” said Rodge.
“Too many hamburgers, they reckon,” said Tom.
“Ole Spoonface will have to watch it, then,” quipped Greg.
“Nah, playing in goal for you lot at short notice will probably do
for me before the burgers do,” replied Spoony, “and if not, there’s
always the booze.”
Due to the close proximity of Mickey Boyle’s family home to
Bonkers Stadium, his youngest brother, Kieran, had turned up to
watch the game. He was a very keen football player and was hoping
that he might get a run out for part of the match. He kept asking his
brother if he could play, and Mickey kept telling him that Valley now
had a manager and that he’d have to ask him, knowing that he
probably wouldn’t have the guts.
Kieran was only fourteen and was still a pupil at Cardinal
Wiseman Secondary Modern, where the team’s manager, Frank Greaves was a woodwork teacher. He didn’t want
to approach his teacher, even though he did like him, so he now
turned his attentions to Brad.
“Brad, can I have a game? Go on, ten minutes’ll do.”
“Sorry Kieran, this will be the first chance our new manager will
have had to see any of the players. And Frank knows what you’re like;
he manages your school team.”
“Just five minutes, then.”
“Look, we’ll see how it’s going towards the end of the game and
I’ll ask Frank if he can fit you in, but I can’t promise.”
“What about referee? I could ref the game if you want?”
“Spooney’s refereeing the game.”
“OK, linesman then. Can I run the line?”
“Yeah, alright. You can run the line, then.”
“Aw, thanks Brad. And will you ask Frank if I can get a game
later?”
“Mr Greaves to you, you cheeky little monkey.”
By now most of the players were changed and out on the pitch
kicking about with four balls, all of which were aimed at the goal.
Kieran had a firm hold of the linesman’s flag; he wasn’t going to let
go of it now that he’d managed to secure his involvement in the
game. Mind, this didn’t stop him from joining in with the kick about.
Although he was very small for his age, he was more than blessed
with footballing skills, which he demonstrated well during the kick
about. Mickey was always saying that once he’d grown enough to
handle the stick he’d inevitably get in adult football, he’d be a star.
Frank walked onto the pitch and called all the players in for a chat in his dulcet Sunderland accent, an accent that some of the lads who had not previously been pupils of Franks were having difficulty understanding.
“C’mon fellas, bring th’ bawls ‘ere.”
There was no sign of the Wallies yet, but there was still fifteen
minutes remaining to the appointed kick-off time of seven o’clock.
This was not unusual, even for a league game, so as yet there was no
concern. Frank wanted to make sure his team were prepared and he
didn’t like what he was seeing.
“’Ow meny bawls ya got thir?” Frank asked of no-one in
particular.
“Two more than any bloke needs,” replied Rodge, in his inimitable
style.
“Reet, an’ ‘ow meny gurlkeepas ya got?”
“Not enough,” said Greg.
“So, whar is th’ point a fower bawls flyin’ inta a gurl wi’ only wun
keepa? Wee’yur goin’ ta start by havin’ an organised an’ strooctured
warm-up. Eddie, I wan’ yee an’ Shea ta tek wun bawl ta th’ side a th’
gurl, as wi diven’t wanna mess up th’ gurl mouth more than wi haf ta.
Kick short bawls ta Shea ta ger ‘im ta practice handling. Shea, thrur
th’ bawl back ta Eddie sur thar ee can practice contrurl. Reet, that
leaves three bawls between eleven a’ us. Wi’ll tek th’ fower defenders
wi’ wun bawl near th’ halfway line, two a yees on wun side a th’ pitch,
th’ utha two on th’ utha side a th’ pitch. Practice hittin’ long balls an’
controllin’ them, always kickin’ across the pitch. OK. One, two, three,
four - yees lot tek a bawl jist ootside th’ penaltee areya an’ play three
onto wun; swap o’er when th’ chaser gits th’ bawl. Yees three tek a
bawl o’er ta th’ utha side o’ th’ areya, jist ootside ag’in, an’ form a triyangle
aboot ten yaards apart from each utha. Practice short chips ta
each utha wi’ th’ receeva bringin’ th’ bawl oonder contrurl an’
chippin’ or headin’ th’ bawl ta th’ next guy.”
The players went about their instructed tasks, all bemoaning the
fact that they couldn’t enjoy kicking the ball into the empty net,
relishing the sound of leather kissing twine. In truth, this would often
be the only chance for the majority of them to experience this high
point.
Kieran hovered around the groups of players, hoping to be
included in their practices. Due to the lack of ability of most of the
players, Kieran was kept more than busy retrieving loose balls that
had been over hit. And all the time he kept a tight grip on the
linesman’s flag, his passport to participation in the ensuing
proceedings.
Anytime Kieran returned a ball to a player, he would ask if there
was any chance of playing.
“Go on, just five minutes. See, I’m as good as any of you lot.”
He was always answered by whomever he spoke to with, “Go away Kieran, you’re not playing.”
Kick-off time arrived and the Wallies still hadn’t shown. The lads
were now getting fed up with their structured practice routines and
some of them were already feeling the effects of a summer full of
inactivity and lager.
“Where are they?” shouted Eddie.
“I’ll pop around to Steve Finnucan’s house; he only lives up the
road,” said Mickey, looking for any excuse to get out of practice. “I’ll
take me car; I shouldn’t be long.”
“Kieran, yees tek yer broother’s place till ee gits back,” yelled
Frank.
Kieran couldn’t believe his luck. He joined John Walsh and Rodge
in the chip and control exercise and demonstrated a skill level and
commitment which put all the players to shame.
As Mickey had said, he wasn’t away for long. He strolled across
the pitch amid shouts of, “What’s happening?” “Where are they?”
“They turning up?”
Mickey was oblivious to these comments and just made a beeline
for where Kieran was standing. The players all stopped their practice
and followed Mickey until he halted in front of his brother.
“Kieran, did you meet Steve Finnucan this week?” he asked, redfaced.
“Yeah, I saw him in Greenford on Monday.”
“Did he give you a message for me?”
“Yeah.”
“What was it?”
“He said, the game’s off ‘cause they couldn’t raise a team.”
A sea of blank faces stared open-mouthed at what they had just
heard. They all had a thought or an opinion, but it lay there at the
back of their throats, stuck and unable to express itself. Mickey was
first to react by burying his head in his hands and letting out small
moans not dissimilar to those uttered Basil Fawlty when he’d had one
of his really bad days.
“For heavens sake,” cried Mickey, now so far beyond the point of
exasperation that there was no anger left, just deep despair. “For
God’s sake, give me strength! I just don’t believe this, I really don’t
believe it,” he started, but he couldn’t carry on. “Just go away, will ya!
Go on, get out of my sight.”
Everyone stood in stunned silence as Kieran sheepishly headed
off home. They knew there was nothing else left to say because
Kieran’s life would be a misery for a couple of weeks now. Mickey,
like Shea, had an acid tongue and was no sufferer of fools either.
In truth they were all totally fed up with having left work early
and bust a gut to get there, some of them causing friction with their
other halves and work colleagues, and all for nothing.
“I can’t believe it - he kept asking if he could play or
referee or run the line, and he was the only one who should have
known that there weren’t goin’ to be a game,” said an incredulous
Eddie.
“Now ya see what wi teachers ha’ ta pu’ up wi’,” replied Frank.
“I’ll mek him stey in ev’ry pleytiyme tomorra ta sweep th’ woodwurk
room, and I’ll be playin’ awll ma urld Elvis Preslee reckards to mark this sad dee. The kids awll hyate Elvis, sur that shood teach him”.
“Good enough for him”, shouted Eddie, “let’s go and get a pint”.