32
On the day of the Mayfield match, I manage to concentrate on my exam prep up until just after lunchtime, when Dad pulls up outside our house in the coach he’s brought home from work for the evening. It looks huge and out of place on our residential street.
He’s not behind the wheel, I should point out. He does have a coach licence so he can move parts of the fleet around at the company HQ when required, but as a special treat for our first game, we’ve splashed out on a driver, so Dad can focus on prepping the team rather than road safety.
‘Er, where are you going to park it?’ I ask from the doorstep as he jumps down from the doorway and turns back to give the driver a thumbs up.
‘At the Marks and Spencer,’ Dad says with a smile. ‘I called them from the office and they’ve agreed to let us borrow their loading bay. They’re not expecting another delivery till after seven and we’ll be long gone by then.’
‘Should I contact the players and get them to meet us there instead?’
‘They can still come here, then anyone who’s early can wait indoors. We’ll bring the coach back to load up just before we set off. It won’t block the road for long. It’s probably too risky changing the location anyway– half the fans who are joining us would probably not see the message and end up missing out on their free ride.’
This means there’s quite a crowd assembled on our driveway and flowing out on to the street by the time the coach returns, and a few of our neighbours come out of their houses to see what’s going on, drawn to the sound of our excited chattering. While Cassie, who’s rushed to get here straight from her last lesson at school, does a headcount and ushers everyone on board, I apologise to the neighbours for the disruption, and to the two cars stuck behind us. I promise them it won’t be long before we’re loaded up and moving.
‘Just Craig and Phoebs still to come,’ Cassie tells me when I rejoin her. She checks her watch. ‘Come on, Craig,’ she mutters, drumming her fingers together anxiously. ‘Don’t let me down today of all days.’
‘They’ll be here,’ I reassure her, although I’ll be having a strong word with my poor timekeeper of a friend, who was adamant she wouldn’t be late. If Crawford was one of the top flight clubs, Craig would almost certainly be getting fined for this.
Cassie and I stand side by side staring at the coach while we wait. I think we’re both having a bit of a hard time believing it’s real.
‘It’s a shame they wouldn’t let us spray the club name on the side,’ she says.
‘I’d say that would be an ask too far.’ It gives me an idea though. ‘Back in two,’ I promise as I race back into the house.
I emerge with a bundle of A4 paper and take it straight on to the bus, handing a sheet and a felt tip pen to each person sitting on the side nearest the pavement. I dish out instructions and strips of sticky tape and by the time I’m back outside with Cassie, the grin is back on her face. The large, coloured letters being drawn and stuck to the inside of the coach windows eventually spell out Crawford FC. It might look a bit haphazard, and it’s a shame all the letters aren’t in purple, but at least it’s something. And I can get some more professional versions printed up for both sides of the coach ahead of the first game of the league.
It means Cassie is less cross than she might have been when Craig and Phoebs finally run up, full of apologies. She just herds them on board and shouts, ‘Okay, let’s get going!’
There are whoops all round as the driver pulls away.
Spirits are high on the journey. I’d say our seat-filling fans have a really positive influence, offering encouragement to the players and sharing tales of their favourite past Hamcott Park victories. If there are any nerves ahead of our first ever game against anyone other than ourselves, they’re momentarily forgotten. It gives me a good feeling about the evening ahead.
When we get to the Mayfield North ground, Cassie starts prepping the team with a light warm-up while the fans head off to their allocated area in the stands. In the hour leading up to kick-off, a straggle of other supporters arrive, bringing our attendance up to around a hundred and fifty– about half the number of the opposition fans. It’s not bad for a first gig.
A few nerves start to show on some of our players as the start time approaches. Levi shifts agitatedly from one foot to the other; Jamie’s jaw is visibly clenched. Cassie reminds them today is all about practising together and learning, and does her best to make them forget it’s only six weeks since we cobbled them together and started calling them a team.
I desperately want a win for them. It might not mean anything in terms of the league, but the confidence they’d gain would be invaluable. I watch from the sideline as Cassie delivers a final pre-match pep talk. Ben claps each player on the back as they jog out on to the pitch. Then he comes and sits beside me and grips my hand tightly in his.
‘Steady on.’ I laugh. ‘It hasn’t even started yet.’
He apologises and rubs the blood back into my fingers. ‘I don’t know why I feel so anxious for them. I think it’s just because I know how much a win would mean to them.’
The first half is a difficult watch, though. Our players may have got used to each other’s little foibles during the in-club games we’ve played, but they don’t have that advantage against their opponents, and from as early as ten minutes into the game, the Mayfield number ten gives our defenders the slip and fires in their first goal.
It’s gutting, even if it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but I’m pleased to see Thomas and Levi respond by patting each other on the shoulder and trying to gee each other back up, rather than getting despondent.
When they fall out of formation again not long afterwards and concede another goal, it’s clearly harder for them to shake the disappointment off. Nico fails to hide his frustration, throwing his arms up in the air theatrically. But Thomas has a quiet word and he quickly settles down again.
‘Don’t get deflated,’ I implore them quietly as heads are shaken and eyes are turned up to the sky. ‘There’s still time to turn it around.’
‘Come on, Crawford,’ a fan shouts out from behind me.
‘You can do it,’ another calls.
‘Show ’em what you’re made of!’ Barbour’s voice rings out across the pitch.
A cheer goes up from the stand as Nico passes the ball back to Bailey to get the game underway again. And after that our fans continue to cheer every single time a Crawford player makes a successful pass– a heart-warming gesture that does give our players a lift.
Sadly, Craig still can’t find a way past the Mayfield defence though, and the opposition score an exasperating two more times before half-time. Lifting our players’ spirits during the break is going to be an uphill battle for Cassie.
Dad, Ben and I head over to the team with her and pass on any feedback we think might be useful based on what we’ve observed so far. Aaron could try taking the ball wider to the left, where we think Mayfield’s defence is a bit more hesitant. All of them are guilty of trying to kick the ball straight up to Craig without passing or dribbling it.
I think they all must be feeling that a win is impossible now, but Dad points out, ‘If they can score four in one half, so can we.’
And I’d say there is a noticeable improvement in Crawford’s performance in the second half, with two decent– albeit thwarted– attempts on goal and no more conceded. Our fans continue to make as much noise as they can throughout the game, and I’m so grateful to them for making the effort to join us, despite the distance and the fact that it’s only a friendly.
We all stand and applaud when the referee blows the final whistle, which I hope goes some way to making our players feel less fed up about losing four–nil. I don’t want them to be too hard on themselves over it. It’s not the result anyone hoped for, but we can’t expect it to all come together immediately.
The journey home is somewhat subdued though, even after Dad reminds the team this is only the beginning. The players either focus on their phones or stare out of the windows and Dad decides to leave them to it for the time being. Ben idly strokes my hair as I lean against his shoulder. After all the time and energy he’s invested in Crawford, I know he’s as upset for everyone as I am.
When we arrive back in Hamcott, Dad calls for everyone’s attention. ‘I wanted to give you this time to lick your wounds, but once we get off this coach, I don’t want a single one of you to still be thinking of this evening as a crushing defeat,’ he says defiantly. ‘The full post-match analysis can wait till tomorrow, but for now I want you all to have a think about what we’ve actually achieved.
‘Two months ago, we’d never met. Ten days from now, we play our first league game at our new home ground in front of two hundred fans who have so much faith in us they’ve shelled out their hard-earned cash on season tickets. That doesn’t sound like defeat to me.
‘So I want you all to draw a line under today. We all knew there’d be ups and downs along this road, but no matter what, we will always be the team that came from nowhere and proved that anything is possible if you put your mind to it.’
I don’t think I’m the only one who isn’t sure whether to applaud.
‘Can I say something too?’ Ben asks, hauling himself out of his seat.
For a second Dad looks surprised at the interruption, but as Ben is now standing he tells him to go ahead.
‘I just wanted to add that I find humour to be a great reliever after days like today,’ he says, looking round at everybody. ‘It doesn’t mean you don’t take your games seriously. But when something awful happens, be that missing the penalty that costs your side a game, or hoofing a shot so far over the top of the goal that the ball nearly clears the stadium– both of which have happened to me– you really only have two options. You can either beat yourself up about it or choose to laugh it off, and you don’t need me to tell you which is easier to live with. And if your teammates start calling you Hoofs for a little while afterwards, which also happened to me, my best advice is to just take it on the chin.
‘You’ve got to be able to deal with it when things don’t go your way. Sometimes you’ll feel like you’ve played the game of your life and you still won’t get the result, but you can’t let it drag you down or you’ll stop enjoying it. Your motivation will go, your enthusiasm will dip and then you’ll find it really hard to play at your best again.
‘So I guess what I’m saying, in a slightly longwinded way, is just to always try and keep in mind that sometimes it’s your day and sometimes it’s theirs. The next time you meet it could be you who outplays them. Be hungry for the win, but don’t get eaten up by the losses. Because once you develop that mentality, that’s when it really is game over.’
It’s another heartfelt speech and for a moment I wonder if Dad’s going to think Ben was trying to steal his thunder, but Dad in fact breaks into a grin. Then he lightens the mood for everyone by saying, ‘Thanks for that, Hoofs. We really appreciate it.’