Page 22 of Men in Shorts

“Aye. I don’t get it. Why does he care so much about that Arsenal team? They don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s about being part of something bigger than yourself. Whether you’re playing for a team or just supporting one, for ninety minutes the world isn’t about you. It’s a bit like religion. There’s love and faith and even hymns—and it’s all built on suffering.” Duncan snickered at that last bit, though he thoroughly meant it.

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Brodie said. “The guy in that book, he’s so miserable most of the time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Feelings don’t make sense. That’s why they’re feelings.” Duncan’s face warmed with passion. He had to find a way to make Brodie understand. “Haven’t you ever loved something far past the point of sanity?”

After a long moment, Brodie said, “No,” in a voice that left the answer’s truth a complete mystery. Before Duncan could respond, Brodie asked, “I assume Arsenal’s your favorite team?”

“God, no. I’m Scottish, I’ll not support a London side. My favorite’s Sunderland. They’ve been pretty crap my whole life. This year they look doomed to be relegated—that’s when the last-place teams get sent down to a lower league.”

“Okay,” Brodie said, clearly uninterested.

“My point is, they never win, but they’ve got the best supporters in the world. When they play at other stadiums, the away fans’ section is always sold out, even when it’s a six-hour bus ride to Southampton. Before every match, the crowd sings Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s pure romantic.”

“Pure masochistic, more like.”

“Maybe, but everyone in English football—except Newcastle fans, of course—says Sunderland supporters are the best.” Duncan finally reined in his blethering. “So why do you hate football?”

“Because I’m weird, apparently.” Brodie inhaled, then exhaled, through his nose. “Also, the footballers in school used to bully me.”

Duncan turned his head to look at Brodie, who was still facing the wall. The heaviness in his voice belied his casual use of the wordalso.

“Was it bad?” he whispered.

“It’s over,” Brodie said emphatically. But then he folded into himself, pulling up his knees, perhaps on reflex at the memories. This crowded him into Duncan. “Sorry.” He straightened his legs again and restored the space between them.

“No,I’msorry. About the bullying.” Duncan wanted to reach out and touch him, but it felt like a barrier had fallen. “I know how homophobic the sport can be. Fuck’s sake, I play for a gay football club.”

“How do you stand it? Don’t people call you names?”

“There’s rules against abusive language, but some players still say things when the refs can’t hear. That just makes what we’re doing more important. We play our hearts out and stand together as a team. No matter what names we’re called, we hold our heads up and show the haters they can’t touch us.”

Brodie made a faint grunt of admiration—or possibly skepticism.

Duncan continued. “It’s not political activism like your LGBTQ club does, but it makes a difference, to us and to the kids out there who are learning it’s okay to be themselves.”

There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to sing the praises of the Warriors’ loud and loyal fan club, the Rainbow Regiment. He wanted to point out that the team had chosen to join a straight football league instead of a gay one, to prove they were just as good as (and in some cases better than) straight players. He wanted to mention how the Warriors included lesbians and trans folk and had a female manager, though it was rare for men and women to play on the same team, even in amateur football—even in LGBTQ amateur football.

But he stayed silent, letting Brodie contemplate the most important part of the Woodstoun Warriors’ existence. It wasn’t popularity or talent, or even gender equality. It was pride.

Finally Brodie turned onto his back and spoke, barely above a whisper. “If I’d known about your team a few years ago…it definitely would’ve made a difference.”

Duncan felt sick at the thought of a younger Brodie feeling alone and despised, battered by athletes like himself.

“I hope you’ll come to one of our matches,” he said. “I can’t promise we’ll win. We used to be really good before Evan left, and even on our bad days, we played with pride.” Duncan thought of how he’d lost his temper in the last match. “Now we’re in pieces.”

“Evan. The one who dumped his boyfriend and ran off with another man?”

“Aye. It was horrible, what he did to Fergus, but what he did to the Warriors was even worse. Am I a selfish wee bawbag for thinking that?”

“Not sure yet. Go on.”

“Evan was more than a captain to me, see. He was my mentor. He discovered me, offered me the chance to be part of something special.” Duncan resisted the urge to deliver another Warriors advert. “When I came back to Glasgow after being ill in America, I was half the player I was when I left. Evan could’ve said, ‘Sorry, the situation’s changed and we’ve got standards you’re not meeting.’ I would’ve understood. But he kept his word, and he helped me get fit again. By midseason, I was a starting forward.”

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