Page 5 of Playing the Field
‘Some of them thought I was downright bonkers,’ Marge admits.
‘That was nothing to do with the flyers though, was it, love?’ Bob teases, which lightens the mood again.
We turn towards The Fox and slip into our usual routine of analysing the match we’ve just seen– who played well, who we think should be benched, who we’d like the club to buy if it had unlimited funds.
‘I hear Ben Pryce might be out of contract soon,’ Marge says.
‘Too controversial,’ Bob replies. ‘I think a lot of clubs will steer clear of him after his suspension, even if he is one of the best strikers in the Premier League. They won’t want to risk their reputations.’
‘And it’s not like he wasn’t creating waves even before that,’ I point out. ‘He must have been carded, what, four times this season for overreacting after a foul. And not even when it was him being fouled. It must drive his teammates mad.’
‘Then he’ll probably be cheap,’ Marge says. ‘But it’s not going to kill his career. If Cantona managed to come back from that karate kick all those years ago, I can’t see any team blacklisting Pryce, even if he won’t talk about what happened at the Hamcott game. Everyone deserves a second chance.’
‘True, plus it’s not like Lionel Messi’s about to come knocking at our door,’ Dad says.
‘I still think we’d be better off with someone like Kyle Robertson,’ Cassie insists.
‘He couldn’t dribble his way out of our backyard!’ Marge snorts.
And so it goes on.
When we arrive at The Fox, the landlord, Olly, greets us warmly and agrees to leave our last few remaining leaflets in a pile on the bar.
‘I’m a bit busy now, but I look forward to hearing more about this,’ he says, which puts a smile on Dad’s face.
And it gets even broader when one of the regulars– who I’ve seen here on match days before, but don’t know his name– tugs on Dad’s sleeve from where he’s sitting and asks, ‘Hey, Mike, what’s this I’m hearing about a new club you’re starting up?’
The man, who introduces himself as Barbour, hangs on every word of Dad’s animated description of Crawford United, and halfway through he calls out to the surrounding tables, ‘Here, you lot should be listening to this. Hey, Olly, turn the music down a minute, would you? Mike here is trying to talk.’
Olly obliges and more heads turn Dad’s way. Soon he’s addressing the whole pub and I spot a few people retrieving our flyer from their pocket and giving it a closer look. And Dad sells our idea brilliantly considering it’s his first public speech since his wedding with Mum twenty-five years ago. I want to give him a hug, but I’m holding both our pints so he’ll have to make do with an encouraging smile instead.
‘So that’s our plan,’ Dad concludes. ‘We hope some of you will see it through with us and, er, thanks for listening.’
Barbour, who seems to have some influence, stands up and kicks off a round of applause, which is swiftly taken up by his friends and spreads outwards till the whole pub is clapping. Dad gives an awkward little bow– so Dad– and Barbour shouts to Olly, ‘Get Mike here a pint on me.’
Then he turns to Dad and holds out a crisp fifty-pound note. ‘I’d like to make the first donation.’
‘Oh!’ Dad is clearly not sure what do with it. I quickly step in and ask Barbour if he wouldn’t mind going through the official GoFundMe page instead, to make it easier for us to keep records, and Barbour pulls his phone out straight away.
I think the whole pub watches as he types in the details, then he shows me the screen and holds his hand out for us to shake. A round of cheers ensues as my clearly choked-up dad manages to thank him and tell him, ‘You’ve really made my day.’
‘Sounds like you need this,’ Olly says, passing him a fresh pint. ‘And good on you for what you’re trying to do here. I don’t think it will go unappreciated. Maybe hang back a bit after closing, if you’re still here that is. I think you and I should have a chat, see if I can’t help in some way.’
I don’t think Dad stops checking his watch for the next five hours.
Cassie heads off quite early to have dinner with her fiancé, but my best friend from university, Phoebs, joins the rest of us briefly, glammed up in a silver minidress and with her hair in perfect ringlets. Her only interest in football is to see whether she thinks any of the supporters are hot enough to date, so once she’s concluded she doesn’t fancy anyone, she makes her excuses and slips away to join her friends who are going clubbing. I’ll catch up with her properly at one of our lectures next week.
Even less interested in football chat is my boyfriend Greg, so we never meet up the night after I’ve been to a home game. The Fox on a match day is probably his worst nightmare. But it’s never been an issue in the six months we’ve been together. He sees his mates on the nights when I’m here and we always catch up the next morning.
Tomorrow, though, there’s more Crawford financing I want to work through, so I’ve postponed our get-together– and he did have a bit of a moan about that. While he’d never discourage me from doing something that makes me happy, he’s not exactly brimming with enthusiasm about there being even more football in my life.
Not wanting to be groggy in the morning, I leave The Fox before closing time, while Dad joins Barbour’s table and waits till Olly is free to chat. But I’m not asleep when I eventually hear his key in the door, so I pad down to the kitchen in my slippers and pyjamas to find out what Olly had to say.
Dad has a serious case of the hiccups and is holding on to the back of a chair.
‘Are you smashed?’ I try not to laugh. It’s usually me trying to hide how tipsy I am after a big night out. I think I might be getting an insight into what it’s like to be a parent.
‘They made me do shots,’ Dad explains, hiccupping again. ‘To celebrate our new sponsorship deal.’
