A Country Practice

I can’t believe we’re driving all the way to Finchester, it’s right in the middle of nowhere, and there’s nothing there when you get there.”

“They’re the only Div 1 side that will play us in a friendly, and we need the practice against quality opposition,” said Sickler. “We were in Div 2 for 18 years. Not one of us has kicked a ball at Div 1 level, not even Roecastle, and he’s old enough to have invented the game.”

“I’m under 35,” said Roecastle, whose 35^th birthday was the following day.

“I’m amazed they manage to put a team together, let alone stay in Div 1.”

“I guess there’s nothing else to do in Finchester bar play football,” said Stickler.

“Last time we played here half the team went missing,” said Finsbury. “They were never seen again.”

“You don’t believe that old wives tale, do you?”

“It’s true,” said Roecastle, “I used to watch the team as a kid, they were a right good squad in that time, near top of Div 1, with Irvish, Devine, Treadmore, Radcliffe. Then they came to Finchester for an away game and half the team never made it back.  It made the regional news.”

“You can’t lose half a dozen players.  It’s out in the sticks, not on another planet.”

“They never played again, I know that for a fact,” said Roecastle.”

“Probably just internal bickering,” I said.

To save petrol four of us agree to go in Benson’s van. I drew the short straw and had to sit in the back with Furnstanley.  Furnstanley didn’t say a lot, which combined with the absence of windows and the long, winding drive, made for a miserable journey.

“It’s a long drive,” I said. “It’s been over an hour already.”

“Aye,” he said.  That was the longest sentence I got out of him all journey.

Finally we arrived, with my sanity just about intact.  We were wearing our gold-topped away kit, as Finchester shared the same home colours. 

Most of the team ran straight to the bathroom, with a long drive’s worth of bladder to empty, but I ran straight onto the pitch, as my legs were itching for exercise.

It was a tough game. We took an early lead, but Finchester were relentless. Though they lacked stand-out players, they were superb as a unit, as if they had telepathic power. Every time a cross came in there was a player waiting at the end of it. Treadmore and myself were marking their twin strikers, literally a pair of twins, but they indistinguishable from each other and frequently indulged in intertwining runs, meaning we would end up both marking the same player, leaving the other twin free to pick up the inevitable cross.

By half time we were 3-1 down, and lucky to be that close.  In the second half we did better, as we had a younger team, Roecastle aside, and had stronger players on the bench, which meant that we able to outpace Finchester for much of the second half and even managed to sneak a second goal towards the end.

“Three – two to a bloody village side,” said Stickler in the changing rooms.  And what the hell were you two doing,” he addressed myself and Treadmore. “You were supposed to be marking different players.”

“We couldn’t tell the twins apart,” I said.

“Pathetic,” said Stickler. “Next time we’ll stick their mother in defence, at least she can tell them apart.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“I don’t,” said Stickler. “I was making a joke.”

“It’s not a bad result,” said Roecastle. “Finchester usually finish in the top half of the league. All we want to do this season is survive relegation.”

“Yeah, and we won’t do that if we lose,” said Stickler. “Against a village side at that.”

After shaking hands with Finchester, we set off for the long journey on the long, winding road back home. However, about twenty minutes into the journey, there was a spluttering sound from the van’s engine, and we ground to a halt.

Benson lifted the bonnet, but none of us were trained in the repair of ancient vehicles. He tried phoning the AA, but none of us could get a signal.

“One of us will have to walk to the nearest garage,” Benson said.

“There’s a village over there,” said Roecastle. “You can just make out a couple of houses.”

“That’s not a village then,” said Benson. “It’s just a couple of houses.”

“All we need’s a phone,” I said. “There’s bound to be at least one in the village.”

“Off you go then Benson,” said Roecastle.

“One of you should come with me,” Benson said.

“Why don’t we all go?” I said. “No point us all waiting by the van.”

After much discussion and disagreement, it was decided that we would all go. It took longer than expected, as the field was over a slight descent, which made the houses appear nearer than they were. Luckily, at least, the village was bigger than initially expected, there was even a pub.

“That’s more like it,” I said. “We can wait in the pub

The pub was quite full, in spite of the small size of the village, but we managed to find a table.

“Look over there,” said Benson, nodding to another table. “They’re wearing our away kits.”

I looked over. Sure enough, there were four men sitting at a table, each wearing our golden-topped away kits.

“We don’t have any fans out here,” I said.

“There weren’t any at the game,” said Benson.

“Those aren’t fans,” said Roecastle. “They’re the team.”

“They’re not,” said Benson. “They’re all middle-aged, I don’t know any of them.”

“I recognise all of them,” Roecastle continued. “That’s Irvish, Devine, Treadmore and Radcliffe. They’re the players that went missing eighteen years ago.”