Page 62 of Playing the Field
I wonder if I’m the only person from business studies having to resit and for a moment I’m embarrassed to have found myself in this position. But then I remind myself it doesn’t mean I’m not as smart as everyone else on my course– it’s just because I let life get in the way.
This time I’m feeling a lot more confident, because I’ve done all the preparation I possibly could. And sure enough, when the invigilator tells us we can start, a little party popper goes off inside my head once I’ve flipped over the question sheet. I know exactly what to write on all six of the topics. I won’t be failing this paper again.
Three hours later I’m not just satisfied with my efforts, I’m ecstatic. While I’m getting some fresh air before the next exam starts I send a quick text to Ben.
‘Pretty sure I’ve nailed it,’I tell him.‘I couldn’t have asked for better questions. One down, one to go. I hope the next one goes as smoothly.’
And suddenly I can’t wait till the second one is over. I’m so ready to get back to running Crawford United, spending time with the team and going on more adventures with Ben. If this is my last ever day as a student, I’m not in the slightest bit upset about it.
I grab a coffee on my way back to the exam hall, to give me a boost now the earlier adrenaline has subsided. So I’m not sure if it’s the caffeine or a bit of nervousness creeping back in that makes me tap my pen impatiently against the side of my leg until we’re told we can turn over our papers.
But a quick scan of the questions and my spirits lift. All I need to do is stick to thirty minutes per answer and I should sail through this exam too. The words flow on to the page, and when the professor calls time at the end of the three hours, two thoughts go through my head. One, Phoebs had better get our graduation piss-up rebooked, and two, there is now less than twenty-four hours before the first official match for Crawford United.
Ben is waiting for me outside the exam hall, which I was not expecting, with a huge bunch of flowers in his hand. I burst out laughing. ‘What’s this for, you soppy git?’
‘To celebrate if it went well and to cheer you up if it didn’t,’ he says, kissing me on the lips. ‘But I assume from the smile on your face that this afternoon went without a hitch?’
‘I’m leaning heavily towards celebrating,’ I tell him.
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say. So what do you fancy doing?’
‘Is it weird that what I want to do first is go and sit outside the Redmarsh ground for ten minutes to try to get my head out of exam mode and focused on the fact that it’s finally time for Crawford’s debut match.’
‘Totally weird,’ he says, laughing as he threads his fingers through mine. ‘But I don’t mind doing a drive-by if it makes you happy.’
‘I think it might make it feel a bit more real after being so detached from it these last few weeks. Then maybe just a glass of bubbly or two afterwards? I want to be fresh for tomorrow, so I don’t want to go too crazy.’
‘I’ve got a bottle chilling at home– we can head back and just have a mellow evening. In about twenty-two hours’ time, I think you’ll find Crawford’s debut will feel incredibly real.’
I take a deep, calming breath. I only hope our players are ready for it.
34
The following morning, Dad, Cassie and I set off early for the Redmarsh Rovers stadium– now our stadium too, though I still have to pinch myself to believe it. We want to be there well ahead of kick-off to give us time to familiarise ourselves with it.
We check in with the ground management team, who assure us everything is as it should be, then oversee our players arriving, welcome the Oakhampton manager and players and meet with the referee.
Thankfully even Craig makes it to the locker room well before the time we suggested, and I think he sums up all our first impressions when he looks round at the stark white walls and plain wooden benches and says, ‘Glad they did the place up for us.’
Not that we were expecting velvet cushions in our team colours or a welcome banner hanging over the door, but I did think it might be more plush.
The pitch is another story though. The grass is immaculate, with crisp white lines and none of the scuffs that are regular fixtures at the academy. It feels huge compared to what we’re used to, but that’s just the optical illusion created by the four thousand seats in the stands surrounding it.
It’s only when Dad and I have been in the dugout for fifteen minutes, going through our notes while the lads warm up on the pitch with Cassie and Ben, that we realise the match should have started– but the linespeople are nowhere to be seen.
‘Something’s wrong,’ Dad says, checking his watch then casting his eye round the ground. There are a fair few fans in the stands– more than we expected– and others are still arriving and shuffling down the rows to find their seats. He nods in their direction. ‘Maybe they’re just allowing them a few more minutes.’
‘Maybe this is just what happens when a match isn’t being televised,’ I suggest. Without any previous experience, we have no idea if everything is just a lot more laissez-faire at this level of football.
But even the Oakhampton players stop warming up and start shrugging their shoulders at their coach when the match still isn’t underway a full ten minutes after it should be.
‘I’ll go and find someone who might know what the hold-up is,’ I tell Dad.
‘Thanks, love,’ he says gratefully. ‘I’ll wait here in case they announce anything.’
Noticing he can’t stop jiggling his knee, I hand him a packet of chewing gum before I go. He hates the stuff, but I tell him it might help with the stress. Why else would almost every football manager always be chomping furiously?
‘Thanks, love,’ he says again, accepting the packet without his eyes leaving the stands.
