TWO

I knew it were considered bad luck to be seen anywhere near Starcot Lane on a non-match day but had no choice. Ibrahim wanted to meet us after training but all I could think about were Jet and Lassie. These two players – who weren’t quite the Brad Pitt and Orlando Bloom of the team – were caught with a prostitute in the B&Q car park about half a mile from the ground. They were convinced Partington were operating a spy ring in and around the ground and had sworn never to come near Starcot Lane unless it were a match day or a special function.

The rest of us agreed to this exclusion zone around Starcot Lane but it were just one of many superstitions. Pearly liked to piss on a certain lamppost the night before a game, Mags watched Steptoe and Son every week to appreciate his good luck and Kraney always wore black tights beneath his blue shorts. It all seemed a little childish and immature because I couldn’t see how any of it would change the result of the match. So when I got into the team, I decided not to have any superstitions. Once, however, I banged my head against the door before going into the tunnel. We won 4-0. The next time, I deliberately grazed it against the door, and we won again 3-1. The harder I did it, the more success I seemed to have. It weren’t a superstition, though.

So the ‘ring of fire’ around Starcot Lane were about to be tested as I sat in Pie & Match with Ibrahim. This chippy-cum-restaurant, which actually didn’t offer mash because fans flicked it into each other’s faces after a defeat, were a dark, crumbling hole of a place which reeked of vinegar and had about 16 very uncomfortable cream-coloured tables decorated with one salt pot and one sachet of brown sauce. The four plastic chairs around them, which were red and immovable, were about as bum-sucking as the bench I warmed in an FA Cup tie at a non-league ground three years ago.

But Ibrahim sat there in front of us looking alert and poised, this time in a red Albion Town tracksuit top, blue jeans and a neat but, incredibly short, centre-parting haircut. The only blemish were his pointy shoulders and dodgy fingers but I got used to them over the years: a legacy of his eight years in a Sialkot sweatshop before coming to these shores.

‘I heard your sister’s having a few problems,’ he said.

‘How did you know?’ I asked, finishing off the chips from the side of the plate before picking up the muffin.

‘People tell you everything when you’ve been away for a while.’

I sunk my teeth into the muffin and relished the squidgy dough crushing the thick, salty chips in my mouth. I put the half-eaten muffin down on the plate and looked away towards Pete, the owner, who were talking on the phone. Pete, whose surname were so long that nobody bothered with it, put down the receiver and walked behind the counter. He picked up the fish basket and dipped it into the cooking oil. This caused a wild crackle and sizzle which fizzed up into his face. He rubbed his eyes, wiped his hands on his greasy white coat and then dealt with a customer.

Ibrahim picked up his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. He got up and walked towards us. ‘How stiff are you feeling?’ he asked.

Well, apart from my left bollock, which had been graced by Rico’s flailing boot, I weren’t that stiff at all. But what the hell were he getting at? Granted, this were the man who helped us become a pro and drove us to training and all that, but this new Ibrahim were in a hurry; and for the most laid-back fella I knew, this were an escalation.

He walked away from us and went towards the window. He looked outside towards the floodlights at the Billy Moss End. ‘When you’re father and I were at Lings, Sadiq,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘Albion Town were a non-league team and now look at them.’

Oh please, not Lings. I’d already had a lifetime of that at Simpkiss Street. No more shite about being screwed by factory foreman and working long hours. I realise conditions were hard but when you’re flogging your guts out for 20 hours a week then you can complain; standing still on a factory floor for ages just ain’t the same.

The strain of trying to keep fit ain’t exactly a cakewalk either. When I get anything out of the fridge, I have to be careful it doesn’t end up crashing into my toe. When I go down the stairs, I have to make sure I don’t trip up. When I’m playing cricket I have to have extra vigilance for yorkers and when I’m in the street I have to watch out for car bumpers crushing my knee. So screw being down the mill for a lifetime, football is the most tortuous occupation of them all.

He turned around and walked towards us again, this time more briskly. He bent down and lowered his head over my right shoulder. I could feel his warm breath rushing through my ear.

‘I’m in injury-time,’ he whispered.

‘What?

‘I’m in injury-time…come on, we need to go.’

Jesus and Mohammed, this were a bit heavy for 2.17pm wasn’t it? What were he on about? The only occasion injury-time had a direct impact on us were when Lassie scored the winner in the 92nd minute at Swindon a few years ago. I were on the bench and wanted it do it myself.

Just as I were about to take a last bite of my muffin and follow Ibrahim out of the chippy, my mobile rang.

Ibrahim turned quickly and gave us a strange look. ‘Aren’t you using the phone I gave you?’

I pulled my mobile out of my jeans pocket. ‘Erm, this one’s my favourite, it’s got the most games…’

Ibrahim shook his head and turned away as I took the call.

‘IT’S A FUCKIN’ GIRL, SID,’ screamed Molly, with breathless excitement. ‘I just can’t believe it, I feel so great. Scoring goals is nothing compared to this.’

‘Aw that’s brilliant mate, I’m really chuffed…’

‘I’ve just been ringing everyone I know, I can’t stop…texting isn’t enough, I need to say it. I think you must be the 20th person, at least.’

‘Ta…that’s nice to know.’

You could say that Molly were my best friend in the team, although this seemed to be changing by the minute. We were the only two players who’d come up through the ranks – and suffered the same upper school – so we knew how our bread were buttered, unlike some of the foreign lads. But I knew Molly were desperate to be team captain and that, added to his new dad status would be his only mission now.

‘Look, I’ve got to go back in the delivery room and see the two loves of my life now,’ said Molly. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks…’

‘Got a name yet?’

‘Maria Louise…’

‘Great…I’ll see you soon.’

I put the mobile away and watched Ibrahim walk out of the door. I took a final bite of the muffin, threw it back onto the plate and followed him out. We got outside and he stopped on the pavement. He seemed to be looking at the stadium; sizing it up in his head, looking up and down it, almost savouring it.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

He said nothing again. He just nodded and grabbed my arm.

‘Did you bring it?’ he asked, as he let go of my arm and raised his hand.

‘What?’

‘The ball I gave you.’

‘It’s in the boot,’ I said, pulling the keys out of my pocket.

To say there were something fishy going on would be a low blow considering we were standing outside Pie & Match. But this were the man who were partly responsible for my career, so, for now, it were time to go with the flow.

‘Expensive car,’ he said, as he walked towards the boot of my Audi R8. ‘Can you give me the keys; I want to open the boot.’

‘…Don’t need the keys,’ I said, pressing the remote control on my ignition key.

‘At least you’re taking good care of it,’ he said, as he opened the boot and pulled out the ‘KATMINA’ football. He calmly pulled down the boot and looked up at the floodlight to his left. ‘Come on, this way.’

The flow, however, were now getting dangerously to the area I didn’t want it to go: Starcot Lane. Although, it were true I still had muffins, dribbles and spy rings on my mind rather than Ibrahim’s instructions.

He crossed the road and were obviously ushering us towards the ground. As we turned off Starcot Lane and into the Billy Moss End – where Town’s most fanatical support were based – I started to get that queasy, horrific pre-match feeling. But this one felt like a match against a crack Champions League outfit: a match I couldn’t win.

All the turnstiles were closed with the hefty blue wooden doors bolted and scattered among the imposing brick structure. The bold white sign above said ‘Adults £24, OAPs and Under 16s £12’.

Ibrahim bounced the ball up and down on the rough surface as he walked towards the ticket office. The sound overwhelmed the light mid-afternoon traffic and the silence between us added to the eeriness. It were obvious what he wanted and he got it within the next ten minutes. I fetched Stephen ‘Spares’ Forsythe, the club secretary, and he agreed to let the two of us onto the pitch after telling us the groundsman were at another Premier League stadium.

We walked into the ground through the ticket office and Spares walked away to leave us at the back entrance to the Billy Moss End. Ibrahim looked out at the immaculate green turf and closed his eyes. The ground seemed bigger than usual but that may have been down to the empty terracing and seats. It felt as though it were allowed to breath, without the suffocation and exhilaration of fans.

‘I had a trial here when I was 17,’ said Ibrahim.

‘I don’t get it…what are you on about?’

He looked at us and then ran down the Billy Moss End towards the goal. He jumped over the advertising hoardings and ran onto the pitch. He then unzipped the old Albion Town top and revealed a bright, new club shirt with the number 9 – and Mullah – written on the back. He took off his trousers and had blue shorts on underneath.

He kicked the ball ahead of him and ran across the pitch towards the centre circle. He clapped his hands above his head as though there was a capacity crowd of 23,000 in the stands. He stopped at the centre circle and put the ball down on the spot. He then looked back and ushered us over.

Something obviously weren’t right, but I swallowed my pride, fear and whatever else were sprinting through my veins to join him in the centre circle.

‘You had a trial here, for this club?’ I asked, slightly out of breath.

Ibrahim looked at us and pointed to the ball on the spot.

‘We’ll play ten minutes, me versus you, one against one.’

‘I’m a bit knackered, to be honest. I’ve just had a three-hour session.’

He put the ball down on the centre spot. He blinked many times before adjusting to the sunlight within the stadium. He looked around the ground and eased into a smile.

‘This is how it should have been,’ he said. He bent down and touched the ball with his finger. ‘I’m sure they’re watching now,’ he said.

‘Who are you on about?’

He didn’t answer and stepped forward towards us. He reached over and stroked my neck. I looked round the ground to make sure no-one were looking. I mean, two blokes touching in the centre circle weren’t what I had in mind. Luckily, he needed to take his hand off and look at his watch, which were a relief. He then started his stopwatch, kicked off and came towards us with the ball. I’d improved my tracking back and tackling in the last six months but he used his instep to put the ball past us and he were away. His bandy-legs took him towards the penalty area and he crashed the ball right-footed into the top corner.

Bloody hell, I thought, it’s like Gregory’s Girl, Escape to Victory and The Albion Stadium Mystery rolled into one.

He went and retrieved the ball and put it back on the centre spot. But as he bent down with the ball, he grabbed the side of his stomach.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Yes, let’s carry on.’

‘No, you have to tell us what’s going on.’

He looked at us, picked up the ball and staggered away towards the Billy Moss End. I followed him and he eventually sat down behind the goalline in the right-hand corner of the net. I joined him and sat down in the other corner of the net.

I must have scored about 20 goals in this net and I poked my finger through one of tiny squares. Ibrahim lay down flat on his back and looked up into the sky through the roof of the net. Something were on its way, and I didn’t want to hear it.

‘I may be going up there soon,’ he said.

‘Come on, tell us what’s wrong?’ I said, firmly.

Ibrahim used his hands to turn the collar up on his gleaming Town shirt; the points of the collar rested against his cheeks.

‘I’m dying Sadiq…I’m dying. Only Allah knows how much time I have.’

Suddenly, a film about football came shooting into my head. Larry, whose girlfriend were a big film critic, had told us about a film called The Crying Game which he said were the greatest football film ever. He also said it had the most amazing ending he’d ever seen and that we had to check it out. I’d never got round to seeing it, but now I didn’t need to as the action were unravelling right in front of my eyes. This were The Crying Game.

‘Are you sure?’ I said, resting my head against the post. ‘I mean…you don’t seem to be too bad.’

Ibrahim stroked the bright and colourful club badge on his shirt with his hand. ‘The years of toil have caught up with me, Sadiq. I’m so ashamed of my hands that I wish they were like feet, and you could cover them all the time. But now, there’s not much I can do.’ He reached out towards the ball and slowly drew it towards him. He rubbed the leather with the palm of his hand and sighed. ‘I feel nothing, Sadiq.’ He turned away and looked at the blue seats behind the goal. ‘All those years of partnership and now my hands are alien to the leather. They’re numb…and so am I.’

‘Let us call an ambulance,’ I said, standing up.

‘No, don’t do that,’ he said, raising his hand. ‘You should let me live my dream, Sadiq. I dreamed about finishing things off in this goal, ending moves here, making it the final destination. And here I am, I’ve made it, Sadiq…I’ve made it.’

My mobile rang again and I thought about not answering it – but it got so loud that it reverberated around the stadium. I took it out of my pocket and walked to the side of the post.

‘NAPPIES SID,’ said Molly, with even more excitement than he’d shown last time. ‘That’s what we need as our next goal celebration, nappies.’

‘What?’

‘After we score a goal, drop our shorts and we’ll have nappies on underneath. Those old rocking celebrations are boring, we need something new. What do you think?’

‘Erm, look…can I call you back.’

Ibrahim coughed and turned on his side.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Molly.

‘It’s a bit difficult to talk now…’

‘Whay hey…who have you got there you dark destroyer.’

‘I have to go, so tara…’

I ended the call and slipped the mobile back into my pocket. I took a deep breath and went to stand against the other post.

‘You said you had trials here…’

I saw his head shift a little to the left. He then lay on his side to face us, curled up like a baby. He rolled the ball towards his forehead and his nose were almost sniffing the white leather. He blinked repeatedly as he looked intensely at the ball.

‘I see hexagons,’ he said softly.

‘Hexagons?’

He looked up at us and said nothing but raised his hand slowly. He drew an imaginary six-sided figure with the tip of his finger. His hand dropped by his side after he drew the last line.

‘There’s something else you need to know,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

He kept staring at the ball, and then he stroked it. He shook his head and seemed to be close to tears. ‘If I have enough strength in my body, I will tell you later. You need to know but not like this. It isn’t the right way.’

I looked round the ground to try and make sense of what were happening. ‘What about the trial then?’

He looked up into the roof of the net again. ‘I knew I could play a bit,’ he said. ‘A scout at the club was at one of our schools’ matches…’

I looked down and the tears were now definitely emerging in his eyes.

‘He asked me to come down for a trial,’ he added. ‘I had to skip reading class at the local mosque so I had to make a decision. I didn’t tell anyone in my family and decided to get the bus down to the ground.’

Ibrahim turned to lie on his back once more and picked up the ball, putting it underneath his head like a pillow.

‘Everything just felt right,’ he added. ‘I scored two goals in the match we played and they were amazed by my fitness levels. I was asked to come down again the next time so they could take another look. I was told they might want to sign me. It was the most exciting day of my life…and on the journey home I had a special feeling. But when I got in the house, I saw the imam standing there with my father…and that was that.’

I used to know one of these guys: a real dark lord if there ever was one. He used to wait for the kids to come to his mosque after school and then whack them silly if they couldn’t recite their lines. After double Physics or Maths, there weren’t many kids with much memory left by the time they got to the dark lord at 5pm. So Ibrahim had been snared by one too. Maybe it were the same guy, or his son. Somehow, this information about the dark lord seemed to shift something inside us.

I walked towards Ibrahim and kneeled down beside him. ‘So what did they say?’

He turned his head towards us so the ball rested against his cheek. ‘There was no future in the game for me. I had been doing well learning the Koran, so I should concentrate on that.’

I looked away to the empty Main Stand on my right. The massive white letters of the club were draped across the blue seats: the first two letters ‘AL’ felt more significant than the others.

‘You had amazing talent,’ I said, moving my right hand to rest on Ibrahim’s shoulder. ‘You should have made it as a player. I can’t believe you weren’t given the opportunity.’

‘It’s all gone now, Sadiq, it doesn’t matter.’

I looked into his bloodshot eyes and the vitality I remembered had gone. I felt awkward about tending to him but some other force were now in control. Usually, such a tight embrace at this end of the pitch would be joyous, but this one were sending different, hazy signals to my eyes. I had to work hard to keep the wussy water at bay.

‘Look, don’t fret,’ I said, breaking from the embrace. ‘I can take care of you, now. I can get the best care, it’s not a problem. I’ll do anything for you.’

He smiled with a tinge of pain. ‘You’ve been a like a son to me, Sadiq. You’ve come such a long way and I’m so proud of you but…it’s probably too late for me now.’

‘Oh come on, don’t talk like that,’ I said, squeezing his right shoulder. ‘I can get access to the best doctors in the world, never mind the country.’

‘It’s not that…it’s just that I’ve haven’t got much time and I have so many things to do.’

‘Look, I’ll do them for you, what are they? I told you, I’ll do anything for you.’

‘Anything?’

‘Course.’

He looked down and picked up a blade of grass with his left hand. He rubbed it in his fingers and allowed it to blow away towards the post. He looked back at us with restored conviction.

‘I’d like to you to marry my daughter.’