8
Our original plan had been to let everyone know whether they’ve made it on to the team before the end of the weekend. But that was before we knew we’d have a couple of hundred candidates to review. By the time we’ve whittled the number down to a more manageable level, it’s already late on Sunday night.
‘We need another tryout day,’ Cassie says, skimming through the names still in the running on my laptop. ‘We can’t afford to rush this– we need to get it right.’
I agree. We’ve been through all our notes, watched the video clips sent over by Phil, discussed everyone at length, and we’ve still got more than thirty players on our potentials list. It’s a privileged position to be in, given that we didn’t know if we’d attract any decent players at all.
‘Shall we say same place, same time, next Saturday?’ I suggest. ‘I’ll send an email out. I want to make sure all those who are left can definitely commit to our Tuesday and Thursday training schedule too– and the match days and the post-match fan interaction at The Fox.’
‘Thanks, Lil,’ Dad says. ‘You might want to remind them we won’t be able to pay them either. I know we’ve already said it, but I don’t want anyone to pull out down the line because they didn’t realise what they were signing up for.’
‘And perhaps mention that they’ll be expected to launder their own kits and bring their own refreshments,’ Cassie adds. ‘I don’t think that will put anyone off but we want to be completely transparent.’
‘Noted.’ I add it to the list.
‘I’d like to handle the rejection emails myself, if that’s okay,’ she says. And I know this is because she’ll want to give everyone a personalised response, even if it takes her hours. After her own frustrating experience of not hearing back from some of the teaching positions she interviewed for, she won’t want anyone else to feel that undervalued.
Something else occurs to me. ‘What do we do if some of them can’t make it on Saturday?’
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Dad replies. ‘Put the email out, let’s see what responses we get and we can go from there.’
Happily there’s only one player who isn’t able to make the second session– Jacob Cox, who has a family wedding that day– although annoyingly he was one of our favourites.
‘Is he off the list then?’ I ask Dad and Cassie. We’ve said we’ll be strict about timekeeping and attendance once the club is up and running, but this is a different situation. He didn’t know he’d be needed this weekend.
‘I think we can see wait and see how Saturday goes,’ Dad says. ‘Tell him he’ll hear our final decision a week on Monday, along with everyone else.’
Which seems like the fairest solution, under the circumstances.
When the other thirty-four players assemble in the park for round two of our tryouts, we don’t quite recapture the festive feel of the previous weekend. A handful of fans still turn up to watch the proceedings, including Barbour and Helen, but thanks to the heavy grey sky and biting breeze, no one who doesn’t have a vested interest in the club is shivering on the sidelines to see who makes the final cut.
Dad and I thank them for coming and supporting us, while Cassie explains to the players how the session is going to work. She wants to simulate a match, so they’ll be playing against each other in teams of eleven in blocks of forty-five minutes– but there’ll be no restriction on substitutions so she can make sure everyone has some time on the pitch.
‘I’m going to start you in the position I think you’re best suited to, based on what I’ve seen so far, but I’ll be switching things up as we go along, as I get to see more of how you perform during a match and who you gel with. Try to work together, even though you’re competing, because what we’re trying to create here, remember, is a team. Best of luck to all of you.’
With no personal details for me to record this time, they get stuck straight in, with the first set of twenty-two players taking their places on the pitch and the rest watching from the sidelines. Dad takes on the role of referee, while Bob, Marge, Barbour and Adam act as linespeople, but we all keep a close eye on the players. I take notes and record sections on my phone to help guide our discussions later.
There’s quite a lot of stopping and starting as Cassie manipulates the team, but the players all seem to ramp up their efforts now there’s a very real chance they’ll bag a place in the squad, and by the end of another long afternoon, I think we all have a clearer picture of who we want in our final selection. Now we just have to see if we agree with each other.
After we’ve praised the players for the effort they’ve put in and promised we’ll be in touch imminently, we head back to Dad’s and take our usual places round the kitchen table. Dad makes sure everyone has a beer and a bowl of crisps in front of them before turning his attention to the easel he’s set up in one corner, which I recognise from when Cassie and I were into painting as kids. He must have had it stashed away in the attic for years.
He props an artist’s pad on top and quickly draws a box diagram of a four-four-two formation, then adds a Post-it Note bearing the name of each prospective player in the position where we think they were strongest. It leaves us with eight strikers, fourteen midfielders, ten defenders and two goalies.
‘It shouldn’t be too hard to pick the goalkeeper then,’ he says, laughing.
For the most part, we find ourselves in easy agreement about the other positions too. There are nine players who stood out to all of us, so a lot of the Post-its are discarded quite quickly. It’s the left striker and right fullback that cause us the most difficulty. In the former case, our two favourites are barely separable. In the latter, four of us are keen on Jacob, even though he wasn’t at the second tryouts, but Bob and Barbour think it’s too risky to offer him the place.
‘He might have impressed us at the first session, but so did everyone else here,’ Barbour points out. ‘And at least we’ve had a chance to see how all the others work together.’
‘He did come out much higher than the others in my first assessment though,’ Cassie argues. ‘I think that’s worth remembering.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any way we can get another look at him before we make our final decision?’ Bob questions.
I shake my head. ‘Not if we’re letting everyone know whether they’ve been successful tomorrow.’
‘We’ve got enough candidates to recruit a full set of eleven reserves,’ Marge points out. ‘So if we pick him and he doesn’t turn out to be up to the task then we could always switch things up later.’
‘Agreed,’ Dad says. ‘So while I understand the reservations, I’m comfortable with giving Jacob the opportunity to prove himself in our first team. And we’ll just make sure we pick our reserves carefully.’
‘Fair enough,’ Barbour says, and Bob also nods his acceptance, so Dad moves Jacob’s Post-it into the corresponding box on the chart and we turn our attention to the last position to be filled. Craig Campbell and Billy Holt are the two strikers we’ve narrowed it down to.
‘Before we get into it, there’s something I should probably mention,’ I tell them.
‘What’s that?’ Dad asks.
‘I had an email from Craig’s dad William this morning.’
‘I know William Campbell,’ Barbour says. ‘Lives in one of those fancy mansions up on the hill. Fingers in a lot of pies.’
‘Well, it seems he wants to stick a finger in this one too,’ I explain. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to bring this up, but according to his email, he strongly disapproves of his son’s current career and is willing to do whatever it takes to get him on to our football team. So he’s offering a significant investment in the club to help persuade us to make that happen.’
‘How much?’ Dad asks.
‘Ten grand.’
I watch his eyebrows fly up his forehead, in much the same way mine did when I first read the message, and Marge sucks in a deep breath. Cassie sits back in her chair and whistles.
‘I can’t even tell you how much I wanted to give him our bank details,’ I admit, because a sum this size would comfortably cover the deposit for our ground share and mean there was a lot less of a burden on Dad. ‘But we’d be no better than Hamcott Park if we start letting money influence our decisions and we’d be crucified by the press if they found out we’d accepted a bribe.’
‘It’s bloody tempting though,’ Marge agrees.
‘Ten grand,’ Bob repeats. ‘There’s a lot we could do with that.’
‘I know it would take the pressure off our finances,’ Dad says, ‘but aside from the ethical question, we wouldn’t want to feel indebted to him. If Campbell is trying to pressure us into bringing his son on board now, how do you think it will go if we ever want to sub him off, or if there’s a player he takes a disliking to?’
‘That’s true,’ Marge concedes. She shakes her head and sighs. ‘He must really hate Craig’s job.’
‘He’s a life model,’ I tell them. ‘I think his dad’s exact words were: “He gets his kit off at hen parties and lets people draw his penis.” He reckons half of Hamcott have probably seen his son naked.’
Marge’s eyes go wide. ‘I didn’t even know that was a job.’
‘I did write in my notes that he’s a bit on the cocky side,’ Cassie says.
When we’ve stopped laughing, Dad suggests we forget about both the money and Craig’s anatomy and take a vote to select our eleventh player.
‘Based on performance alone,’ he says, ‘raise your hand if you think we should offer the last spot to Billy.’
No one moves.
‘So we’re all agreed on Craig anyway?’ Dad checks.
‘He is pretty nifty with the ball,’ Cassie says.
‘Then, ladies and gentlemen, it looks as if Crawford United has passed another milestone and we’ve got ourselves a team.’