Season of Sid Read online

  ‘Okay then, here goes,’ said Jimmy, clearing his throat.

  He always did a good job did Jimmy and I expected another smooth performance from him. Whenever I read his match reports, there were always something new I picked up. Although the time I raised my little finger to a kid in the Billy Moss End weren’t quite what I had in mind.

  ‘Flying winger Sadiq Karim…’

  ‘Whoa, hold on there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you make it ‘Sid’ from now on?’

  ‘Of course, but we did have ‘Sadiq’ all last season. It has been our style.’

  ‘Aye, but I prefer ‘Sid’.’

  ‘Fine, but it’ll be out of my hands, as most things are nowadays,’ said Jimmy, in weary fashion. ‘The sports editor will change it.’

  Now let’s clear up this nickname shit once and for all. I need to be called ‘Sid’, got that? I’m integrated, okay? I am a complete and utter convert to the ways and perversions of this tatty little island. It’s been good to us: it’s brought us Big Brother, Bernard Manning and Budgens. Who else can say that? Not Saddam or Osama, for sure. If they were so integrated why did they get bombed so often? It’s obviously not what they do but their names. You just wouldn’t dream of calling them Saddo or Ossie because they’re just not one of the lads. Sorry boys, but that’s the way it is.

  ‘Flying winger SID Karim…’ said Jimmy, in a firmer tone. ‘…made history on his Premier League debut but his team still went down in a feisty clash.’

  God that felt good. It were always special to hear your name at night.

  ‘The 22-year-old helped Town get back into the game with an assist for Kaijah Tete’s equaliser…’ Jimmy paused. ‘I thought I had the rest,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit scrambled. That’s going to have to be it for now.’

  The line went quiet for a moment but then I heard some shuffling in the background.

  ‘You’ve managed to wake Emily too,’ said Jimmy. ‘But I suppose she’s been to used to it recently with these blasted anniversary preparations. She’s down in the kitchen now.’

  ‘Can I come round for a cuppa then?’

  ‘Sorry, but no Karim please, bye.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Happy 40th ’

  ‘Yes, it’s nice to know I have more years of marriage than you have goals. Now bye.’

  I put down the receiver and felt better. But, as I looked again at the pictures on the wall, something else were brewing. Ibrahim’s headed ping-pong with us were warm and sweet. He had his arms outstretched for balance, his eyes looked to the heavens and the ball floated above his forehead. The hypnotic eyes and joyous expression completed the graceful image.

  But that weren’t the Mr Mullah I saw on the first day of the season. No, it weren’t his double either because that kind of vision came after a match, not before. It were more like a change of character, that kind of thing. ‘It’s precious’; what the hell did that mean? All balls are precious, aren’t they? Whatever it were, he’s still the man. Nothing would ever change that.

  Something had gone down at Shazia’s workplace. Like a brick or two. She wanted us to come down straight away and I reluctantly agreed. It weren’t as if I had any problem seeing my sister: in fact, it were nice to see her more times than the FA Cup Fourth Round, but Hassetts were in town and that were one place I liked to avoid.

  That street, however, seemed to have its own problems. A betting shop next door, called Rod’s Odds, were the source of much of it. Perhaps a couple of witch doctors lived in the cellars beneath those shops because someone were always getting shafted. It used to be one of Jimmy’s favourite haunts but his relationship with the owner Rod Vasey went belly-up after a dispute over a bet.

  Jimmy had put a wager on us to score the first goal against Luton Town. And this I did with a rasping shot from 22 yards. The shot, however, took a slight deflection and Rod said he couldn’t give Jimmy his winnings because it were an own goal. IT WERE NOT AN OWN GOAL. The Football League gave the goal to us but Rod wouldn’t have it. The two men haven’t spoke to each other since.

  So after parking my blue Audi R8 in the alleyway at the back of Blakeley Street, I pulled down my black Lacoste beanie hat and headed round to the front of the shop.

  I were a bit wary of leaving the car out back for too long because it were like a second home to us. It’d recently been fitted with a PlayStation 3 and a red, blue and white interior to fit in with the club’s colours. It had a DVD system on its dash and my top ten flicks were now in the car rather than at Shaw Crescent. Watching Days of Thunder while bombing down the M62 were nearly as good as scoring at the Billy Moss End.

  But as I turned into Blakeley Street, there weren’t much style or speed to go round in this dive. The high, hulking chimney of Lings Mill were down the other end and it were like a huge, erect elephant trunk doused in grimy red-brick paint. Pity, the elephant were always aroused: it needed to come down.

  As I got closer to the shop, I realised Shazia were sat on the entrance step with her head down and her arms folded. I walked towards her but felt some glass crunching underneath the sole of my Puma trainer. I raised my foot and picked off the glass into my hand. The shop door were partly open and I could see a big piece of cardboard resting vertically against it where the window had been smashed. She looked up at us in her Hassetts uniform of green T-shirt and black trousers. Her dark brown hijab seemed to be tied a little tighter than usual. She’d only taken up the hijab recently and it didn’t really bother us. It were as though she were more of an amateur boxer now with her head covered rather than a pro. It always spoiled the enjoyment of the bout and that’s how I felt when I went toe-to-toe with her.

  ‘So who did it then?’ I asked. ‘

  ‘Kids probably…’

  ‘What are you sitting out here for anyhow?’

  She looked at us with disdain. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions…’

  Shazia were a bit like that. Don’t leave the teaspoon in the sugar; don’t nick my chips, but most of all, don’t watch Hollyoaks.

  She got up from the step and walked into the shop. I followed her in and knew where all this were heading. She had those pussy-cat, guilt-ridden eyes ready to pry into my soul and steal the stash that she wanted.

  ‘I need money, Sadiq,’ she said, walking behind the counter.

  ‘Who’s been beaten up now?’

  She turned around and looked beyond us.

  ‘No-one’s been beaten up, but I need it to get the group off the ground.’

  ‘What, that stupid Sufferer Jets?’ I sniggered. ‘The only Jets I know are New York?’

  It were true that the tears of that early World Cup exit before the tournament even started were too much to take for a five year old. Abujee were laughing his head off at the time but I still stayed up to watch some of USA 94. From that day on, I were hooked and couldn’t wait to go to America one day. I managed to get down there a couple of years ago on a short pre-season trip but when I landed in JFK airport I were asked by one of the officials if I was a Mars-lim. I looked at Mags next to us because I didn’t understand what he were asking us. So he asked us again and I were about to jokingly say I were Jupiter or something, but I chose the safe option and said no. Now this guy looked like he had KKK sandwiches for breakfast and he asked us one last time. I said no again and he took us away to a small room. They then questioned us for hours about the Koran, 11-9 and Gee Hard. I told them I were aware of Bruce Willis in Die Hard but that were about it. In the end, after 12 hours, they let us go and I joined up with my team-mates in New Jersey.

  So the Americans have a special place in my heart but Shazia would have been straight in the slammer if she’d been questioned like that. I wouldn’t mind that KKK consumer coming down here and telling her how it is.

  She picked up a notepad and pen from the counter. ‘So can you or not?’ she asked, checking the items of stoc
k in the counter window. ‘Emily’ll be here in a minute.’

  Emily, Jimmy’s wife, would probably want to know why her shop were being attacked so I could understand Shazia being a bit jumpy.

  ‘Get us a pie first.’ I said.

  ‘Do I get the cash or not?’

  ‘Don’t give us jip, I’ve just handed some out.’

  ‘Yes, but that was for a great cause. You should understand that he went to Mecca because he wanted to and he had to. You know what he suffers from.’

  And I suffer from having to deal with hangers-on, gawper paupers and most of all, family members who cream as much cash off us as they can. Yeah, I had a few thousand to spare – perhaps a bit more – but surely I’d earned the right to waste it on Giorgio Armani, Playstations and HDTV.

  ‘I know you do a lot for charity at the club and that kind of thing,’ she said. ‘But this is important too.’

  This were the clincher and, at last, a good deed of mine had been recognised by a family who hadn’t spent enough time at Starcot Lane. If they did, they might realise I’d found another family now.

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. Just tell us how much you need. How’s Noddy and the kids anyhow?’

  ‘Do you have to call him Noddy?’

  ‘It’s what he does best.’

  Noddy, aka Nadeem, were Shazia’s husband and had a habit of nodding off on the rare times he actually engaged in conversation. On most occasions, however, he weren’t around. If you were at the house, he’d be at the mosque, if you were at the mosque, he’d be at the house and if you managed to have a person stationed at both places, he were always in between.

  I straightened my beanie hat and prepared to leave. ‘Oh one more thing…did you know Ibrahim were back?’

  Her cheery demeanour suddenly lost its zest. Her eyes wandered away from my face and danced around frantically.

  ‘When did he get here?’

  ‘He were at the game. We’re meeting up tomorrow after training…Didn’t you see him at the game?’

  Shazia didn’t answer and walked away towards the back door.

  TWO

  I knew it were considered bad luck to be seen anywhere near Starcot Lane on a non-match day but had no choice. Ibrahim wanted to meet us after training but all I could think about were Jet and Lassie. These two players – who weren’t quite the Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom of the team – were caught with a prostitute in the B&Q car park about half a mile from the ground. They were convinced Partington were operating a spy ring in and around the ground and had sworn never to come near Starcot Lane unless it were a match day or a special function.

  The rest of us agreed to this exclusion zone around Starcot Lane but it were just one of many superstitions. Pearly liked to piss on a certain lamppost the night before a game, Mags watched Steptoe and Son every week to appreciate his good luck and Kraney always wore black tights beneath his blue shorts. It all seemed a little childish and immature because I couldn’t see how any of it would change the result of the match. So when I got into the team, I decided not to have any superstitions. Once, however, I banged my head against the door before going into the tunnel. We won 4-0. The next time, I deliberately grazed it against the door, and we won again 3-1. The harder I did it, the more success I seemed to have. It weren’t a superstition, though.

  So the ‘ring of fire’ around Starcot Lane were about to be tested as I sat in Pie & Match with Ibrahim. This chippy-cum-restaurant, which actually didn’t offer mash because fans flicked it into each other’s faces after a defeat, were a dark, crumbling hole of a place which reeked of vinegar and had about 16 very uncomfortable cream-coloured tables decorated with one salt pot and one sachet of brown sauce. The four plastic chairs around them, which were red and immovable, were about as bum-sucking as the bench I warmed in an FA Cup tie at a non-league ground three years ago.

  But Ibrahim sat there in front of us looking alert and poised, this time in a red Albion Town tracksuit top, blue jeans and a neat but, incredibly short, centre-parting haircut. The only blemish were his pointy shoulders and dodgy fingers but I got used to them over the years: a legacy of his eight years in a Sialkot sweatshop before coming to these shores.

  ‘I heard your sister’s having a few problems,’ he said.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked, finishing off the chips from the side of the plate before picking up the muffin.

  ‘People tell you everything when you’ve been away for a while.’

  I sunk my teeth into the muffin and relished the squidgy dough crushing the thick, salty chips in my mouth. I put the half-eaten muffin down on the plate and looked away towards Pete, the owner, who were talking on the phone. Pete, whose surname were so long that nobody bothered with it, put down the receiver and walked behind the counter. He picked up the fish basket and dipped it into the cooking oil. This caused a wild crackle and sizzle which fizzed up into his face. He rubbed his eyes, wiped his hands on his greasy white coat and then dealt with a customer.

  Ibrahim picked up his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. He got up and walked towards us. ‘How stiff are you feeling?’ he asked.

  Well, apart from my left bollock, which had been graced by Rico’s flailing boot, I weren’t that stiff at all. But what the hell were he getting at? Granted, this were the man who helped us become a pro and drove us to training and all that, but this new Ibrahim were in a hurry; and for the most laid-back fella I knew, this were an escalation.

  He walked away from us and went towards the window. He looked outside towards the floodlights at the Billy Moss End. ‘When you’re father and I were at Lings, Sadiq,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘Albion Town were a non-league team and now look at them.’

  Oh please, not Lings. I’d already had a lifetime of that at Simpkiss Street. No more shite about being screwed by factory foreman and working long hours. I realise conditions were hard but when you’re flogging your guts out for 20 hours a week then you can complain; standing still on a factory floor for ages just ain’t the same.

  The strain of trying to keep fit ain’t exactly a cakewalk either. When I get anything out of the fridge, I have to be careful it doesn’t end up crashing into my toe. When I go down the stairs, I have to make sure I don’t trip up. When I’m playing cricket I have to have extra vigilance for yorkers and when I’m in the street I have to watch out for car bumpers crushing my knee. So screw being down the mill for a lifetime, football is the most tortuous occupation of them all.

  He turned around and walked towards us again, this time more briskly. He bent down and lowered his head over my right shoulder. I could feel his warm breath rushing through my ear.

  ‘I’m in injury-time,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?

  ‘I’m in injury-time…come on, we need to go.’

  Jesus and Mohammed, this were a bit heavy for 2.17pm wasn’t it? What were he on about? The only occasion injury-time had a direct impact on us were when Lassie scored the winner in the 92nd minute at Swindon a few years ago. I were on the bench and wanted it do it myself.

  Just as I were about to take a last bite of my muffin and follow Ibrahim out of the chippy, my mobile rang.

  Ibrahim turned quickly and gave us a strange look. ‘Aren’t you using the phone I gave you?’

  I pulled my mobile out of my jeans pocket. ‘Erm, this one’s my favourite, it’s got the most games…’

  Ibrahim shook his head and turned away as I took the call.

  ‘IT’S A FUCKIN’ GIRL, SID,’ screamed Molly, with breathless excitement. ‘I just can’t believe it, I feel so great. Scoring goals is nothing compared to this.’

  ‘Aw that’s brilliant mate, I’m really chuffed…’

  ‘I’ve just been ringing everyone I know, I can’t stop…texting isn’t enough, I need to say it. I think you must be the 20th person, at least.’

  ‘Ta…that’s nice to know.’

  You could say that Molly were my best friend in the team, alth
ough this seemed to be changing by the minute. We were the only two players who’d come up through the ranks – and suffered the same upper school – so we knew how our bread were buttered, unlike some of the foreign lads. But I knew Molly were desperate to be team captain and that, added to his new dad status would be his only mission now.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go back in the delivery room and see the two loves of my life now,’ said Molly. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks…’

  ‘Got a name yet?’

  ‘Maria Louise…’

  ‘Great…I’ll see you soon.’

  I put the mobile away and watched Ibrahim walk out of the door. I took a final bite of the muffin, threw it back onto the plate and followed him out. We got outside and he stopped on the pavement. He seemed to be looking at the stadium; sizing it up in his head, looking up and down it, almost savouring it.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  He said nothing again. He just nodded and grabbed my arm.

  ‘Did you bring it?’ he asked, as he let go of my arm and raised his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ball I gave you.’

  ‘It’s in the boot,’ I said, pulling the keys out of my pocket.

  To say there were something fishy going on would be a low blow considering we were standing outside Pie & Match. But this were the man who were partly responsible for my career, so, for now, it were time to go with the flow.

  ‘Expensive car,’ he said, as he walked towards the boot of my Audi R8. ‘Can you give me the keys; I want to open the boot.’

  ‘…Don’t need the keys,’ I said, pressing the remote control on my ignition key.

  ‘At least you’re taking good care of it,’ he said, as he opened the boot and pulled out the ‘KATMINA’ football. He calmly pulled down the boot and looked up at the floodlight to his left. ‘Come on, this way.’