46
My stomach is in knots on the day of our Ashbridge game, and I don’t think I’m alone in that. Dad can’t sit still, pacing the corridor outside the locker room while we wait for the last of our players to arrive, and Cassie’s just as fidgety, glancing at the wall clock every two or three minutes. After six straight losses, we’re in desperate need of a win today. And with Alasdair and Angela here to watch us, it would be a good time for a victory.
We’ve called the team to the ground earlier than usual because we don’t know exactly what time our star guests will arrive and we want to make sure we’re all there to greet them. We’re also ready to share the news of Alasdair’s donation with the players, having calculated what we’ll now be able to pay them for the rest of the season. We’re hopeful it will give them a much-needed boost.
Dad claps to get everyone’s attention once the team is fully assembled. ‘Just a couple of club announcements today before we get started. First, as ever, a huge thank you to all of you for everything you put into Crawford United. We haven’t got off to the easiest of starts, but I want you all to know my faith in this club is unwavering.
‘And that’s why it’s an absolute privilege for me to be able to tell you that there are no longer any question marks hanging over our longevity. Thanks to an incredible donation from the author Alasdair Frowley this week, I’m now in a position to extend our contract here at Redmarsh to a minimum five-year tenure, which means Crawford United is here to stay.’
There are whoops across the room.
‘Way to go,’ Levi says with a grin.
‘Is that our best result so far?’ Jacob asks cheekily.
Dad laughs. ‘I think it might well be.’
He holds up his hands for silence again. ‘Back to the serious stuff, though. We want you to know this isn’t going to change anything in the way we run things. All it means from our side is that Cassie, Lily and I will now be official staff, not just volunteers. My title will officially be manager, Cassie is head coach and Lily is club secretary and treasurer.’
‘Do we have to start calling you sir?’ Adio asks.
Dad looks horrified. ‘Always just Mike if you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Adio says, laughing.
‘Thump him, will you, Elliot?’ Dad requests, then waits till everyone has settled again before continuing. ‘Lily will be looking after the day-to-day running of the club full-time. Cassie and I will be maintaining our other jobs, but all three of us are dedicated to making this club the success it absolutely deserves to be.
‘We can’t do that on our own though, of course, which is where you lot come in. The time and energy you’ve each devoted to this club has never gone unappreciated. So it gives me immense pleasure to be able to tell you that going forward there’ll be a fixed payment per match, regardless of your position or how long you’re on the pitch. And as an extra thank you, we’ll be backdating it to the start of the season.’
‘Get in!’ Thomas punches the air.
‘You can give up your paper round now, Jacob,’ Craig teases.
‘There’s more,’ Dad calls out, commanding their attention one last time. ‘Frowley is coming here to watch the game today, so you’ll have the opportunity to meet him. And he’s bringing a special guest with him.’ When he reveals it’s Angela Paramore, it sparks a round of wolf whistles.
‘So I want us to really bring our Agame this afternoon. Let’s show them what we’re made of. I know we can do better than we have done so far. Now it’s time for us to get out there and prove it.’
‘We’ve got this,’ Thomas says, his voice full of confidence.
And an equally fired-up Craig adds, ‘We’re ready for it.’
But there’s still no sign of Alasdair and Angela when it’s time for the team to start warming up on the pitch, leaving me fearful they’ve changed their minds about coming and that our players might lose their earlier momentum.
When they eventually arrive mere minutes before the starting whistle, flanked by our last-minute security guards, I’m almost too relieved to speak. They make their way to the seats alongside me and Dad, and Frowley is immediately full of apologies. ‘We had such good intentions, but it’s not always easy getting through a crowd with Angela.’
Which is no great surprise given how striking she looks in her purple jumpsuit, with her black hair cascading down her back.
‘It only takes one person to ask for an autograph and it starts an avalanche,’ Frowley explains. ‘But your chaps were very efficient at whisking us through once it started looking like we were in danger of missing the kick-off.’
‘Or like they were,’ Dad corrects, making Frowley chuckle.
Dad holds his hand out. ‘Mike Crawford.’
‘A pleasure,’ Frowley says, then reaches across to shake hands with me, before insisting we call him by his first name.
‘And Angela,’ the actress says. And I notice she’s even done her nails purple as she puts her perfectly manicured hand in Dad’s then mine. ‘I’m so excited to be here. I even learned the offside rule on the flight over to make sure I don’t say anything stupid.’
‘Eleven hours well spent,’ Dad says with a supersized grin.
I’m slightly in awe of the effort she’s made when I’m just in a Crawford sweater and jeans, but I stop feeling self-consciousness as soon as she’s on her feet shouting encouragement as loudly as the rest of us when Craig and Jamie make it into the penalty box an unprecedented three times in the first twenty minutes. Suddenly we’re just two people who want the same thing.
But it’s agonising for our strikers. The Ashbridge goalie is probably the best in the league and pulls off a series of frustratingly brilliant saves. Then we have to brace ourselves for their counter-attacks and they push themselves back up the pitch with annoyingly impressive speed. But credit where credit’s due– Elliot plays the game of his life. Without him we could easily be five–nil down by half-time.
My adrenaline is pumping as we clap the players off the pitch. If I was someone who bit my fingernails I think they’d be down to the cuticles after the last forty-five minutes. Angela’s face is glowing as she asks me if now would be a good time to meet the players. ‘Or would that be too distracting? If they’ve got a strict routine to follow, I don’t want to interfere.’
I honestly don’t know the right answer. Cassie will be delivering her usual pep talk in the locker room. Will Angela’s presence disconcert the team or inspire them? In the end, I decide there’s nothing to lose.
Alasdair stays pitchside with Dad, keen to hear more about how we’re planning to use his donation, and our security guys head off to find refreshments as the corridor to the locker room is not open to fans. Angela’s animated chatter about the match as we walk reminds me of how giddy I used to feel when Dad first started taking me to see Hamcott Park.
‘It’s so much more dramatic than baseball,’ she says. ‘You do usually get a good atmosphere in the bigger baseball arenas, but even if it starts off entertaining it just goes on and on– and it’s so repetitive. I’d say it’s worth seeing once if you haven’t seen it before, but I can’t imagine devoting every weekend to it like you guys do with your football.
‘The last time I went with my boyfriend it lasted more than five hours. Can you imagine? I could have flown from Los Angeles to New York in the time it took the LA Angels to win. There’s no ebb and flow like we’ve been seeing today. Maybe I should persuade him to start watching LA Galaxy instead. I’ve never thought about it before, but I could really see myself getting into it.’
We arrive at the locker room and I shout out ‘incoming’ before pushing open the door, to give everyone inside fair warning. But while I’m expecting to find the players sitting on the benches while Cassie runs through what she wants to see next from them, it only occurs to me when I’m confronted by the sight of eleven bums pointing up towards the ceiling– not as terrible a view as it might sound– that it had been too quiet for Cassie to have been mid-speech.
She registers the alarm on my face as our eyes meet, but when I spin round to tell Angela it’s not a good time to meet the players after all, it’s too late, she’s already followed me in.
‘Oh gosh,’ she exclaims. ‘This is more than I bargained for.’
‘We’re doing some yoga,’ Cassie explains.
‘Now?’ I ask, incredulously.
‘I thought I’d try something different,’ she explains. ‘Rather than trying to hype everyone up, we’re working on grounding ourselves so we can focus better.’
‘Oh, that’s exactly what I like to do before a big scene,’ Angela says. ‘It stops me from panicking about whether I’ll fluff my lines or not. I highly recommend it.’
The sound of her voice has the nearest players scrambling to their feet. I watch Scott and Jacob smoothing down their tops and sweeping their hands through their hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Levi smile so broadly.
‘I love you in Dying Days,’ he gushes, thumping his chest. ‘Big fan.’
‘Playing it cool as always,’ Craig mutters, rolling his eyes.
Angela laughs. ‘It’s always lovely to hear. I hope you’ll all forgive the intrusion today. I’ve got such a fascination with what goes on behind the scenes. I think it comes from being on TV and knowing how different the reality is to what you get to see on screen.’
‘It’s not usually like this,’ Craig tells her.
‘But if it helps you guys be even more awesome, then it’s got to be worth it, right?’
‘Exactly, so how about you get back into position,’ Cassie says, her voice commanding. ‘Hands to the floor, buns back in the air please. Two more minutes of downward dog then we’ll have just enough time for dancer pose, then tree.’
She catches my eye again and winks at me as the players drop back on to all fours. Angela smiles approvingly and says, ‘That’s how to boss it.’
‘I’m just going to film a bit of this for the fan site,’ I tell them, and Angela asks if I’d like her to join in with the team for it.
‘I don’t imagine the floor is particularly clean.’
‘Hands can be washed,’ she says brightly, ‘and there’s no harm in letting people see my fun side every now and again.’
The resulting footage later becomes our most-watched reel.
Hamstrings stretched, Cassie gets everyone into dancer pose to work on their thighs. While Angela is perfectly poised, with one leg raised up behind her, the same can’t be said for Jacob or Elliot, who wobble precariously next to her. It gives Elliot the giggles, which sets everyone else off. It makes me optimistic that Cassie may be onto something here. The team definitely seem to be leaving the stress of the match behind them.
‘Last up, tree,’ Cassie instructs. And this time Angela makes her way round the room while everyone’s balancing, telling each player how privileged she feels to meet them. It’s so humble, given that she’s the star, and I think they all fall a little bit in love with her.
Back out on the pitch, our fans have another surprise in store for us. As the lads fire themselves back up with a few short sprints, the crowd launches into a rendition of our new team song. It makes my heart swell. The sound of four thousand voices echoing round the ground in support of our players will never grow old.
‘Come on, boys,’ I whisper under my breath, crossing my fingers in my lap as the referee blows the whistle and the second half gets underway. They so deserve a break. Please let it be today.
But it’s a fraught first ten minutes for our team as Ashbridge waste no time piling on the pressure. They quickly close in on anyone who gets the ball in midfield until it’s back in their possession. Twice they break away from our defenders and race towards the goal, and we only get away with their first surge forward thanks to a poorly taken header. The second onslaught is even more gut-wrenching as the ball skims the top of the net with mere inches to spare.
‘It’s giving me palpitations,’ Angela admits and I think we all share that sentiment.
Our fans step their chanting up a notch and the team song rings out round the stadium. Spurred on by their support, Nico manages to keep hold of the ball long enough to reach the thirty-yard mark, but it’s almost like he’s so surprised to find himself there that he doesn’t know what to do next and Ashbridge take full advantage of his hesitation, leaving Crawford on the back foot yet again.
Some solid teamwork from Thomas and Jacob puts things back in our favour, and this time Bailey weaves his way through the opposition with a timely display of the skill for which we selected him in the first place.
‘That’s my boy,’ I murmur. ‘You can do it.’
But when he passes the ball wide to Adio, instead of running with it Adio decides to fire a wild ball down the pitch in the hope it’ll be picked up by Craig.
I think everyone watching feels their heart sink, believing he should have just kept hold of it as both Craig and the Ashbridge defenders tear after it. But it’s the seventy-seventh minute, legs are starting to get tired and it turns out Craig just has the edge.
The Crawford fans leap to their feet, hollering ‘come on’ at him as he gets to the ball first.
‘Keep your cool now, don’t rush it,’ I murmur, on the edge of my seat as his teammates scramble up the pitch to help him.
But Craig isn’t waiting. He deftly switches the ball to his right foot and pelts it towards the goal when he’s still some distance away, and for a second you could hear a pin drop as four thousand fans hold their breath.
We follow its arc with our eyes, willing it– for once– to go in, and there’s a horror second in which we all hear the clink of metal that tells us he’s hit the post yet again. But just as disappointment is about to send everyone slumping back into their seats, the ball ricochets awkwardly, slips through the goalkeeper’s fingers and drops into the back of the net. I can’t even describe the euphoria or the volume of the cheering as Craig slides across the grass on his knees in celebration.
I get goose bumps at the sight of all the dancing, hugging and even tears in the stands, while the rest of the team pile on top of Craig on the pitch. We’ve done it! We have finally broken the dry spell that’s plagued Crawford United since the beginning of the season and scored our first ever goal. I’d say it’s just about the happiest I’ve ever been.
There’s an agonising wait for the clock to tick down after that. The fightback from Ashbridge is relentless, with no less than three shots on target, and I can feel the tension throughout my whole body, my hands balled into fists, my knees squeezed together, my jaw clenched. But Thomas and Levi defend as if their lives depend on it, and Elliot makes the save of the match, flinging himself into the path of the ball in the closing minutes as if he’s trying to save a family member from a flying bullet.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved than when I hear the three long whistles from the referee to signal the end of the game. As the crowd erupts, Dad, Cassie and I race out on to the pitch, throwing our arms round the players who haven’t sunk to their knees as if they’ve just won the FA Cup. It’s been such a long time coming. It is such a relief. And to have won against the top team in the league only makes the victory sweeter.
If Ashbridge are in any way put out by our over-the-top celebration, they don’t show it. They were here too once upon a time, so they know how much it means. When Dad and I have finally calmed down a bit, their managers congratulate us on a brilliantly played game and wish us well for the rest of the season.
Back in the dugout, Angela and Alasdair are equally full of praise, but I’m lost for words. ‘I just... I can’t... Thank you so much for being here today,’ I finally manage. ‘I genuinely think it made a difference.’
‘Oh no, we’re not taking any of the credit for this,’ Angela says. ‘This was all on you guys.’
‘And there I was just about to ask if you could come back again next weekend,’ Dad says.
She smiles warmly. ‘I’m flattered, but I think the Dying Days production team would have something to say about it if we’re not back on set on Monday.’
She and Alasdair spend a bit longer chatting to our delighted players before they thank us again for our hospitality and are escorted back to their waiting car. Levi does try to persuade them to come to The Fox, but they’ve both got friends to catch up with while they’re on this side of the Atlantic, which is probably just as well because when we arrive at the pub it’s already mobbed.
Ben calls me while I’m queuing at the bar. ‘Wow, it’s loud there,’ he says when I answer.
‘There’s quite the party kicking off,’ I explain.
‘And so there should be. I’ve just seen the score on your website. You must be buzzing.’
‘We all are. It was such a brilliant afternoon.’
‘Hopefully the first of many. Please pass my congratulations on to all the others. I’d love to be having a celebratory drink with you. I’ll actually be in Hamcott in a couple of hours, so I could always drop in to The Fox for last orders, if that felt okay to you.’
Just the thought of it makes my heart race. It’s nearly six weeks since we’ve been in the same room as each other. I know we’ve been talking more lately, but I don’t know whether seeing him in person will upset me or give me closure– and I’m not sure I want to find out with the whole of Crawford United watching.
‘How long are you down for?’ I ask.
‘I’ve got my grandparents’ anniversary lunch tomorrow, then I’ll head back in the afternoon.’ Sensing the vibe, he says, ‘We can meet for breakfast tomorrow morning, if that would be easier. But I would really love to see you.’
‘Breakfast sounds good,’ I tell him, even though my insides have turned to jelly.
He promises to have a full English ready at his place at ten thirty.