In The Family - Part 2

I slumped onto the chair behind my desk and looked at my motley crew. AKA part of the team I intended to take right to the Premier League, the pinnacle of English football according to one point of view. There were other points of view that took into account that only about a third of the players in the Premier League were actually English. Or that you might be tempted to wonder if this had some effect on how poorly England tended to play in the World Cup. I had my own views on all this and I kept them to myself, because I also wanted to keep my job.

I loved my job. Even though I had to remind myself of that fact several times during the course of certain days. This looked like being one of those.

“You look a bit fragile, Boss,” Sid said. He was standing by the window, blocking out the light, which suited me very well. The two newcomers had gone off to put on suitable attire and James was curled up on the leather sofa that I sometimes slept on when work had kept me here until the early hours.

“Cup of coffee, I’ll be right as rain,” I said, attempting briskness. It came out more like desperation but perhaps nobody would notice that.

“Yeah, good plan,” Sid said. “Pepsi, why don’t you make it?”

Donato raised an eyebrow but went over to the table where I kept a kettle and the makings. I noticed he now had bare feet.

“Is there something wrong with your feet, Donato?” I asked.

He looked down. Then he stood on one leg, lifting the other and turning his foot around to stare at it.

“You see something wrong with my feet, Boss?” He looked a little - offended? Distressed?

“No, nothing at all,” I hastened to say. “It’s just - you’ve taken off your shoes and socks.”

“My feet are clean,” he said.

“I’m not suggesting they’re not,” I said. “I just wondered why.”

“I like your carpet,” he said.

“Pepsi’s got a foot fetish,” Sid informed me. “He likes to take his shoes off and get his toes close to nature.”

“My carpet’s not nature,” I said.

“It’s wool, isn’t it?” Sid said. “That’s sheep nature. Sometimes he takes off his shoes and socks and sticks his toes into the pitch before we play.”

“I’ve never seen you doing that?” I looked over at Donato who seemed slightly embarrassed.

“I do it early,” he said. “I do it before everyone is coming. It is a superstition. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” I couldn’t imagine what he thought he had to apologise for. Footballers were generally a superstitious bunch. I’d seen everything, from lucky socks to elaborate rituals involving particular music, urinals and position in the queue waiting to come onto the pitch. Some prayed, some made wishes, some wore their underwear inside out. It took all sorts.

“For being an ignorant Italian peasant,” he said with a smile. I got the feeling he wasn’t smiling inside.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ve all got things we like to do that make us feel better. Who said that to you? Didn’t they know you were German?”

Donato laughed.

“We’re all hybrids in this team,” Sid said. “You should change our name to the Knightley Mongrels instead of the Knightley Wanderers.”

“I don’t think the Board would like that,” I said. “Donato, don’t be embarrassed about doing whatever you need to do before the match. Just go ahead and stick your toes in wherever you want.”

“Oooh, I bet he thought you’d never ask,” Sid remarked.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked to cover up the awkward moment.

“I just -” Sid glanced at Donato. Then he glanced at James. “Me and Pepsi and James were out last night,” he began. “In Leeds. We saw you.”

“You saw me.” I thought about that. “While you were out?”

“Yeah. Um.”

“So - you were out in the same places I was out?” I was trying to understand what was going on here. Was Sid saying that they knew I was gay? If so, then - what? Did they want a pay raise out of it? Were they just offering me some kind of solidarity? “What about it?” I asked.

“That guy you were with,” Sid said.

“Which guy?”

“Not the one with the pants falling down,” Donato said, with a frown. “He was - Hure?”

“Slut,” Sid translated. “Whore. No better than he should be. Tarty little -”

“Okay, okay, the other one, then,” I interrupted. “Adrian.”

“Is that what he told you his name was?” James sat up on the sofa looking interested. “That’s n-not his name. That shows you he w-was up to no good.”

“That’s not necessarily the case,” I said. “I don’t use my real name when I, uh, go out. I don’t want everyone to know what I’m doing.”

“No, but your name’s n-not Rob Ryan,” James said.

“Well, no, it isn’t,” I agreed before comprehension dawned. “What, are you saying Adrian’s that bloody reporter from Middlesbrough?”

“Yeah, him that’s always got it in for the team,” Sid said. “Saying we’ve done this thing and that thing wrong. Thinks he’s a sports reporter.”

“He works for the Knightley Herald now,” James said. “He's moved.”

“Oh - fuck.” If I hadn’t been already sitting down I’d have sat down. As it was, I felt it might be appropriate to slide off my chair and onto the floor. “That’s who I was drinking with?” I found it hard to believe. “It didn’t look like him. I mean, I’ve only seen him from a distance at the odd press conference and whatnot -”

“You should get contact lenses,” Donato said.

“I beg your pardon?” I glared at him.

“If you don’t like to wear your glasses when you are going out,” Donato said. “Or at the press conference.”

“I don’t mind wearing them,” I said. “It’s not vanity. I just forget to put them on apart from when I’m driving or watching a match. And contact lenses are bad for your eyes. I have this American friend who has a friend who’s an ophthalmologist and he’s forever having to operate on people who’ve damaged their eyes with contact lenses. ”

“Then remember your bloody glasses,” Sid said. “ At least then you’ll be able to tell who you’re talking to.”

“Good point,” I conceded, wondering what kind of trouble I’d got us all into.

“He’s probably going to publish an article all about you and where you go out of a night,” James said. “It’ll be in this morning’s paper.”

“He’s well ignorant,” Sid said. “I don’t think he’s ever sat down and watched a football match in his life. He’s probably decided to make a career out of causing a scandal because it’s easier. He probably sees himself as a paparazzi -”

“What do I do?” I said, cutting through my players’ estimation of the probabilities. It was the first time I’d ever asked them that question. I wasn’t in the habit of asking for advice from my team. Things were supposed to be the other way around. We’d never get anything accomplished, if, say, I went out onto the training ground and started the session off with, well lads, what do you think we ought to practise today? How about some fitness training? Unless, you know, you don’t really feel much like it…

This, however, was different. This was a situation.

I’m a successful football manager. My team are successful, so much so that, with a few tweaks here and there, we hope and expect to finish the coming season with a place in the Premier League. I put a lot of this down to the fact that throughout my career with the Knightley Wanderers, I’ve managed to avoid situations. Everything on an even keel has been my watchword, together with a few other of those useful nautical expressions involving not rocking the boat, a busy crew is a happy crew and so on. No drama. Drama is bad for the players and therefore bad for our results.

Now here it was at last. Drama. Right in my face.

“Maybe I should resign,” I muttered to myself. Now, I thought. Right when everything I’d worked for was about to come to fruition. I didn’t have any words to express what I felt about that little piece of celestial irony. I thought about looking through my desk drawers for some paracetamol instead. Being up all night always gave me a headache. It was the least of my worries but the only one I could do something about.

“Don’t be daft,” Sid said. “Resign, honestly.”

“You can’t!” James looked horrified and no wonder. Who else would put up with his dreadful performance?

“You are best manager I have,” Donato said.

“I’m the only manager you’ve got,” I told him.

“He means you’re the best manager he’s ever had,” Sid interpreted. “Don’t you, Pepsi?”

“Yes that’s what I mean,” Donato said. “Sorry. English flying away. Stress. You don’t resign though. Why will you do that?”

“Because - scandal,” I said, a bit incoherent myself. “Besides I might as well, before the Board of Directors ask me to. They don’t like anything like that.”

“I can’t believe we’re living in the twenty-first fucking century,” Sid said. “There’s places have gay politicians and all sorts.”

“There are places have laws that mean you are put to death if you are gay,” Donato said.

“And all the places where the local c-citizens kill you informally,” James added. “Remember what Wes was telling us about Peru?”

“Where is Wenceslao?” I asked. I restrained myself from the urge to look around and see if my team captain was lurking somewhere. My guilty conscience was suggesting that he might abruptly materialise out of my office walls. I didn’t want him to find out about any of this.

“He’s in Brazil, isn’t he,” Sid said. “Watching the World Cup. He posted on Facebook about he’s off to see Mexico play Holland today. Lucky bastard.”

“You could have gone,” James said.

“I can’t leave my mam for that long,” Sid said.

Donato and I exchanged a look. He raised an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes.

“Who is Wes supporting?” I asked, mostly to avoid discussing my lack of a future with the club. Or Sid's mum.

“Mexico,” Sid said. “He started off, you know, with England but, well.” We all nodded, gloomy expressions all round.

“Worse than usual,” James said. “Mexico are good, though. That Herrera, their m-manager, he’s a laugh a minute.”

“Well, Wes is half South American,” Sid said. “So now England are out he can support his other half with Mexico. Since Peru aren’t playing.”

“Mexico’s in Central America,” I said.

“Whatever,” Sid said, dismissing half a continent’s worth of geography with a wave of his hand.

“It’s not where they are,” Donato said. “Wes just likes them as a team. Likes the way they play.”

“They’ve got a good g-goalie, the Mexicans,” James said. “That Ochoa. Very nice.”

“Yeah, he is nice,” Sid said, somehow managing to use a raised eyebrow and a slight smile to put a completely different meaning on the word.

“That’s shameful, thinking of sex when we have all these problems,” Donato said.

“Who says I was thinking about sex?” Sid asked.

“Your face,” Donato replied. “You had ice cream face.”

“What’s ice cream face?” As soon as I asked I wished I hadn’t.

“When you see ice cream and it’s your favourite flavour and all you want to do is lick it,” Donato said.

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling that I was turning the same roseate colour that James’s face was so fond of.

“Yeah, I’d lick Ochoa,” Sid said. “Right between the goalposts, I would. Uh - I’ve lost the thread of this conversation now, somebody remind me.”

“We are distracting ourselves from our problems by talking about the World Cup,” Donato said. “You are having sex in your mind with a Mexican goalkeeper.”

“Situation normal, then,” Sid said. “What are we gonna do about this reporter, Boss?”

“I don’t know.” I wished I had an answer to give him. I wished I had an answer to give myself. “I suppose I’m just going to have to see how bad it is and what the Board say about it. I can always say I was drunk and didn’t know where I was, but that doesn’t exactly show me in a good light either, does it?”

“That gives me an idea,” James said.

“I’m glad somebody’s got one,” Sid said, then looked across at me apologetically. “Not you, Boss. I mean, none of us know what to do.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m not ashamed to admit I’m clueless.”

“What if -” James, everyone’s eyes on him, blushed again and cleared his throat. “If, B-boss, you weren’t in your right mind, say, and didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to improve matters,” I said. “That’s as bad as being too drunk to know what I’m doing. Oh, Mr Stewart, we’d like you to leave because not only do you frequent gay clubs, but you’re also subject to fugue states. Can’t see that going down too well.”

“No, I mean -” James took a breath and tried again. “What if he d-drugged you?”

“Who?”

“The reporter. Rob Ryan. What if he gave you, I dunno, w-what’s that stuff?”

“Roffies?” Donato suggested.

“Roofies, you mean,” Sid said. “Rohypnol. Date rape drug.”

“I wasn’t raped,” I protested. “And he definitely didn’t drug me.”

“Are you sure?” James persisted. “Can you remember everything that happened? I mean, with no p-possible gaps? N-no time missing? Because if he d-drugged you and we had you dope tested -”

“I see where you’re coming from,” I said. “Make it all his fault. But it won’t work. I’m not that clear about what time everything happened, because you never are when you’re out. It’s just music and dancing and so on. No time markers. But I know he didn’t drug me.”

“How c-can you be so sure?”

“Because I didn’t drink the drinks he bought me,” I said. “I only drank the ones I bought myself. Straight out of the bottle. I never drink what anyone else gives me, for that very reason. I’m more or less in the public eye and you never know when somebody might recognise you and think it’s funny to get you completely off your face.”

“Whoa. Points for paranoia,” James said.

“What did you do with the drinks?” Sid asked.

“Poured them into empties on other tables when he wasn’t looking,” I said.

“You didn’t have sex with him, did you?” Sid asked. “In a sauna or something?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Not that it’s anything to do with you.”

“It is if it loses us our manager,” he said, which I had to concede was a good point. “Dancing is one thing, but sex - that’s a lot more.”

“He wasn’t my type,” I said. “And I’m not given to groping around in saunas. It’s tacky.”

Everyone in the office was silent. I stared down at some lists that were lying on top of my desk. Players I’d been thinking of bringing into the team during the summer transfer window - should we be able to afford them - and players I was thinking of trying to pass on to somewhere else, hopefully for as much money as possible. I noticed James Halliwell’s name on the second list and quickly shuffled the papers together so that one was no longer visible. I glanced up at the miserable faces surrounding me.

“This is all my fault,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone out last night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sid said. “You can’t just hide away all your life with no company. You’re not the only gay man in football.”

“I’m aware of that,” I began.

“You’re not even the only one in the Wanderers,” James said.

“I think he will have noticed that by now,” Donato said.

“You’ll never wander alone,” Sid said.

I smiled at him. I couldn’t help it. “I might be wandering over the bloody hills and far, far away by day’s end,” I said. “What time does the paper come out?”

“Round about now, I’d think,” Sid said, looking at his watch. “Want me to go and get one?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Such a shame James’s idea will not work,” Donato said. “If you had been given drugs, Boss, it would make the reporter look bad, not you.”

“Yeah, everyone’d say, oh, that reporter, he goes to gay clubs and took our manager with him in a state of druggedness,” Sid said. “I’d love to see that. Bloody Rob Ryan hoist with his own, what’s that thing?”

“Petard,” I said as the expert on proverbial phraseology.

“It doesn’t matter,” James said. He’d been sitting in deep thought for a few moments and now looked very much like a man with a plan. I was slightly hopeful in that he seemed to be better at planning than he was at goalkeeping. “You don’t have to have been d-drugged last night, Boss. We can do it for you now.”

NOW GO TO PART 3....

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COPYRIGHT ALEX SWEENEY SEPTEMBER 2014