FOUR

As soon as I walked in, I knew it weren’t the place for me. I weren’t a sissy or a wuss but these kind of places made us shiver. The charts and monitors were a bit like those in the treatment room, but this were a step up: humans and machines locked into one by a network of wires, tubes and plasters. I took one look at Ibrahim’s pale face and bare arms and could feel my power diminishing. So I touched his right foot and left.

Now you may think I were a sissy or a wuss for not staying, but if Ibrahim were to wake up, who’s to say he wouldn’t take one look at us and kick the bucket straight away. It’s awful to think about but if a 47-year-old man – whose football dreams have been shattered, who can’t have a new son-in-law and who’s off to meet Allah – wants to recover then he shouldn’t really feast his eyes on Mr Jilted should he?

These wild thoughts were thankfully clearing as I went out into the corridor but, just as I got my mind on the next game, one of the visitors collared us. I recognised him as the man who’d politely nodded as I stood by Ibrahim. He’d been sitting by a woman whose face were muzzled by an oxygen mask.

‘Sorry,’ he said, tapping us on the shoulder ‘…Just got a little request.’

He handed us a small, torn piece of paper and a small red pen regularly used in betting shops. ‘I hate football,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s not for me.’

‘Who’s it for, then?’ I said, as I tried to find a surface rigorous enough to rest the paper against.

He looked at us with a resigned smile. ‘…Just make it out to Stephanie.’

I rested the paper against the wall and tried to begin writing, but the pen weren’t really up to the task. I changed the trajectory of the pen and thankfully some letters emerged.

‘It’s not great but it’s the best I could do,’ I said, handing the pen and paper back.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, taking the piece of paper and looking at it.

‘She’s a Town fan?’ I asked.

‘Yes, she even wanted to be buried wearing a Town shirt.’

‘Anyhow I hope she makes it.’ I said, offering to shake the man’s hand and preparing to leave.

‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘…And I hope your father gets better.’

These kind of presumptions seemed to follow us wherever I go. Have you been back to India then? Are you allowed to have a shower? Do you kiss the floor? Have you got a bomb in your bag? And the one circulating around the dressing-room at the moment: how minging do you think some birds look on HDTV?

‘He’s not my father,’ I said, firmly.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said the man, as he headed back to the intensive care unit. ‘Is he a relative then?’

Suddenly, my mind seized up as a doctor walked past. ‘He’s a…friend,’ I said.

‘Well, at least you’re still close,’ he said, raising his hand.

Yeah, about as close as Albion Town will ever be to the Champions League.

Now I’d never bought into that ‘you wait ages for one and then two come at once’ drivel because I couldn’t actually remember the last time I waited for anything. At restaurants, cinemas and clubs I usually went straight past the murmuring, miserable bodies standing out in the cold and, it’s true, my heart did flutter a bit but then it soothed again when I went in and the owner told us how good I were.

But the reason I were citing this gawper pauper stuff were that I’d just had a couple of dreams on the bounce and there could be something in them after all. The latest one happened on the coach on the way back from the 2-2 draw at Birmingham after Larry sat next to us and persuaded us to listen to a few tracks on his iPhone.

I were sat next to the window and he had his right elbow on the table. He were looking into my eyes as I listened to the music. His playlist had already bored the pants off us with the likes of Secret Machines, Nick Drake and Pink Floyd but he said he had a final treat for us. It were a band called David and the Citizens with a song called Are You in My Blood? So I started listening to this but the combination of guitars going in my ears and cars whistling past us on the M6 made us doze off.

Anyhow, when I woke up, the coach had obviously stopped because there were some kind of commotion to our left. Larry weren’t sitting next to us any more and when I looked out of the window there were three stationary police cars and at least six other damaged cars in the fast lane. They were cordoned off with traffic cones on the fast lane and the car at the front were crumpled up so its boot and bonnet were nearly touching.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: I had a dream about some poor innocent in his Ford Fiesta and he’d been mown down by a toff in a Porsche. But no, the actual dream were a double header about Ibrahim and Starcot Lane. Firstly, I’d turned into a giant hammer and looked down on a helpless Ibrahim lying in the net at the Billy Moss End. Anyhow, he’s begging for mercy but all I say to him is ‘All in all, it’s just another game of football.’ Then, just after that, I see Ibrahim driving a bus on the Starcot Lane turf but it’s not one of Lanacashire’s finest but one of those dusty, multicoloured buses in Pakistan which honks its horn all the time. Man it were scary.

So as I looked out at a medic giving first aid to a woman lying between the middle lane and fast lane, I threw off my earphones and picked up my Puma bag from underneath the table. I rummaged in and pulled out the number nine shirt Ibrahim wore at Starcot Lane. I looked out of the window again and felt the badge between my fingers.

I needed cheering up so Jimmy’s 40th anniversary party came just at the right time. It were bad enough that I had to clean the sick stains off my Audi but Jamil, who should have been picking us up in his black Alfa Romeo, were late because he were meeting some boffins about his new idea for a restaurant chain. He were still on his mobile when I got into his car and when he did eventually stop gassing, he proceeded to tell us about the restaurant which he called Naania. He said people would sit in horizontal wardrobes with ‘magical food’ in the middle and naan bread would cover the interior. He were obviously passionate about this because Jimmy’s party were almost over by the time we got to Orchard Hall.

The hall were situated in the centre of town, at the bottom of a slope, next to a church and a library. It were close to a redeveloped area which had been transformed to include a better standard of restaurants, bars and shops. Tiffs were only 500 yards away and that were making us more nervous than a crusty old ref walking around in a brothel. I kept on thinking some heavy would come out of the tatty back door and march us down to the slammer, where I’d be knobbed by a group of grizzlies. It weren’t pleasant.

Anyhow, apart from being well late, this were a good excuse to think again about not going in. The man in the butterfly collar and silk blue tie took our invites and ushered us in, but I stopped at the door.

‘I can’t be bothered,’ I said, hearing the dreary music coming through one of the speakers near the entrance. ‘I’ll go to Jimmy’s house later and wish him well. It’ll be embarrassing if we go in now.’

‘Oh, come on you wimp,’ said Jamil, feeling the stud in his left ear. ‘We’re not that late.’

Now, if you’d seen Jamil’s haircut, I don’t think it would take long to deduce who really was Mr Wimpy. His dark brown curtains, nearly down to the shoulders, gave the lads dodgy ideas that he liked the odd game at the back. He also looked very young for his age, which annoyed him, especially when he were asked for ID at the odd nightclub.

‘I’m going in.’ he said, checking that this cufflinks were showing outside his black blazer. ‘It doesn’t seem that packed. Anyway, did you go and meet Mullah?’

‘Aye, I didn’t stay long. It were hard.’

‘As long as you were there…’

‘So he didn’t matter then? It were the just the fact that ‘I was there’?’

‘Do you lot never stop whingeing?’ he said, undoing another button from his lime green shirt. ‘Just don’t forget who got you your GCSEs.’

This line were one of his favourites and more annoying than an off-duty ref trying to be friends with the players. But, in my eyes, it’s sadder to still look like a teenager when you’re in your 30s: that’s unnatural.

‘I’m not coming,’ I said. ‘You go on. I don’t like sitting down for a long time.’

He shook his head and sighed. ‘I think you need a long spell on the bench in a communist country. You wouldn’t have an arse left.’

‘They pay to watch my arse, not yours.’

He sighed and walked in through the double doors. I stayed in the foyer and looked through the doors into the packed hall, which had about 15 or 20 immaculate round tables draped in white sheets. Most of the plates and wine glasses were empty and all the guests were looking towards the small stage as Jimmy and an elderly woman went through some kind of routine. They moved around languidly like the big hand on a vintage clock and the music sounded like something from Granny Fatima’s era. It were a screeching sound with this woman singing: ‘Oooh…I never cried so much in my life.’ It weren’t quite P Diddy, so I left.

A couple of hours later, I were sat on the sofa with Emily with a cup of cocoa and a hefty blue photo album. There were a tatty Graham Greene novel – May We Borrow Your Husband? And Other Comedies of the Sexual Life – on the table. Rosemary’s Baby were on TV but the sound were turned down because a crackling record player in the corner were playing Congratulations by Cliff Richard.

‘We wanted to get into the swing of things,’ said Emily, flicking through the photo album. ‘Jimmy wanted to dress up as Henry Fonda in Once Upon A Time in the West but I thought it was going a bit too far.’

‘He’s a bit of a cowboy anyhow, the stories he gets away with.’

Emily smiled and fiddled with her thick, beige-rimmed glasses which reminded us of a brown Lada a careful neighbour used to have.

‘It’s lucky Gary and Emma aren’t here,’ she said. ‘They’d think we’ve gone loopy.’

‘Were they at the party?’

‘Yes, they’ve been here for the last week, but they had to get straight back to London.’

The door opened and Jimmy walked in with his white, butterfly-collared shirt half unbuttoned. He had a bottle of vodka in his hand and slumped on the armchair. He couldn’t get totally comfortable, and, as a bulky, well-built man of six four, it were obvious he hadn’t sat on the armchair before ordering it.

‘God I’m exhausted,’ he said. ‘Give us some of that cocoa will you, Sid.’

I handed him the mug and he carefully poured about half of it into the bottle. It turned the clear vodka into a horrific, sicky-type colour. He took a swig and seemed to feel refreshed.

‘That’s better,’ he said, settling back. ‘Pity you couldn’t come. You’d have enjoyed it.’

‘I’ve had a few heavy days…’

‘I know what you mean Sid,’ laughed Emily, looking at Jimmy.

‘It’s been forty years of hurt with her,’ sighed Jimmy, taking another swig from the bottle. ‘Don’t even think about it, Sid.’

Don’t worry, Jimbo, I haven’t. It’d take more than Ibrahim playing his own version of Match of the Day at Starcot Lane to get me nobbled on a long-term contract. I mean, I’ve seen what it’s done to Pearly and his headers are now going all over the place. Imagine, if his wife had been standing on his toes or something? His feet’d be going all over the place on the pitch by now and we’d never get a pass out of him.

Emily closed the photo album. ‘Look, Sid I know Shazia’s thinking of packing in the shop but I need her around. You should tell her not to worry. She always listens to you.’

‘Does she?’

‘Yes, she’s always talking about how great you are and how you’ve come through against the odds.’

Too right, the odds of anybody progressing from a dive like Simpkiss Street must be really high. Even boffins like John Hopkinson didn’t make it. I saw Hopko behind the counter at KFC a couple of years ago when he stuffed a customer’s chicken burger down his cakehole right in front of their eyes. He then slurped their Tango and burped into their face. He looked well frustrated but that’s what happens to boffs if they mess with the muck and nettles. They’re too posh to park their backsides in our pad but when they do, as Hopko found out, they lose it like a pervy ref in a peado ring.

Emily opened the photo album again. ‘You’ll probably think some of these quite dated, Sid.’

I moved a little closer to Emily and looked down at the first big image. It were a black and white photograph of Emily and Jimmy at a fairground. Because of the size of the photograph, I could see Jimmy’s little finger touching the edge of Emily’s left hand.

‘This is me and Jim, just after we’d met for the first time in 1968,’ she said.

‘So that were the year you married as well?’

‘Yes, it was the same year that pounds and pence came in, like they are now. There was this Save the Sixpence campaign.’ She looked across at Jimmy. ‘You hated it didn’t you, Jim?’

‘It was still money; I don’t know what they were blathering on about.’ Jimmy took another swig. ‘I’m sure you’ve got God Save the Queen memorized, haven’t you Sid? For England and all that.’

Course, I have but the other night I woke up in a cold sweat after watching an England international. I kept having these weird thoughts that one of the royals weren’t too happy about my inclusion. So there I am sticking my chest out and singing ‘Happy and Glorious’ in front of 90 grand at Wembley, but this Duchess is giving us the eyes near the touchline. So I stop singing and she winks at us like she wants us or something. Anyhow, she slowly unbuttons her posh suit and underneath she’s wearing a full union jack strip and black Doc Martens. She then sprints up to the lads and boots us right out of the line just as I’m about to roar ‘Long to Reign over us’. Anyhow, I end up in the centre-cricle clutching my chest while she takes over the anthem. I hope I don’t see her when I do it for real; she were dirtier than Colin the Cropper from Chesterfield.

‘I’m not a very good singer,’ I said.

‘Would you still sing it if you didn’t believe in it?’ asked Jimmy. ‘You shouldn’t do what you don’t believe.’

‘Don’t listen to him. He’s always been against the Royals,’ said Emily. ‘They’ve done so much for us.’

‘…Joe Royle’s done more for this country,’ said Jimmy, winking at us for acknowledgement.

‘Oh…’ huffed Emily. ‘You’re a terrible influence.’

I looked at the photograph again. ‘So how many times had you met before you married?’

‘Only twice,’ said Jimmy. ‘There were riots in America and France, astronauts had landed on the moon and there weren’t any free love around, so I thought I might as well take the plunge. Plus the fact that Emily thought she’d end up like Eva Peron if we didn’t tie the knot quickly.’

‘Eva who?’ I asked.

‘Just stick to Maradona,’ said Jimmy, taking another swig of his special combo.

It were my turn for a ‘community visit’ and it weren’t something I were ever enthusiastic about. The endless visits to schools, hospitals and community centres may have been part of the job but I looked forward to them as much I did training. It went downhill from the time I attended the opening of a new children’s ward at Clutterbuck Hospital. I had the scissors in my hand ready to cut the tape but Lassie – the bastard – shouted ‘Someone’s porking you from behind’ and I turned around but it were just the hospital boss with his hand on my back and a wide smile on his face. Anyhow, as you can imagine, Lassie’s words didn’t go down too well with the staff, but the fact that I turned round again and nearly cut the boss’s finger off instead of the tape went down a little worse.

Larry and Kai were the two players who really seemed to enjoy having conversations with kids and disabled people and they filled in when other players weren’t available. This time I were pencilled in with Jet who were signed in the close season and were still a long way from learning the Queen’s lingo. He spent most of his time – we only ever saw him at training, matches and team meetings – with his interpreter by his side and it kept the rest of the lads amused while they gassed away.

It also made us laugh when the tabs – and even Jimmy – went on about a possible split in the dressing-room between the foreign lads and the so-called homegrown lads. It’s true that Pearly, Molly, Lassie, Mags and us hung around together and the rest of the lads did their own thing, whether it were together or on their tod. But this weren’t a split; it were natural. It were a bit like school where you had 20 to 30 people in a group and you end up hanging around with four or five of them. It just were the way it all panned out. And anyway how come Mags hung round with us if he were a dirty foreigner? As usual the stories were shite and it were nice setting the hated papers on fire at Molly’s monthly barbeque.

They only thing I would say about the ‘split’ were that we did have five-a-sides at Royds where we played ‘foreigners v homies’. Obviously, the seven-four split meant we had to mix and match a little to even it up. So Pearly, the cheeky psycho, usually suggested I went over to the foreign side and Mags and Larry – who spoke almost perfect English and who ‘looked British’ – came over to the homies. It’s true I were a bit peeved about this – after all I were born in Clutterbuck Hospital just down the road – but the foreigners nearly always won anyhow so that always cheered us up.

So Jet and us sat down on the bench at the newly-unveiled sports hall at Oakenbrook Secondary School. The pupils were squeezed together on their small, cherry-brown benches set out in loose semi-circle formation around us. Some children were wearing shorts and t-shirts and some were in uniform.

The PE teacher Mr Murphy were stood up at our side, presumably to direct the flow of questions and give information to the pupils.

‘Right everyone you know who these two people are,’ said Mr Murphy, after waiting a few minutes before the pupils quietened down. ‘They’re Town’s dynamic duo, Li Foong and Sadiq Karim.’

A piercing blend of cheers, applause and stamping feet reverberated around the hall.

‘Right, okay settle down,’ said Mr Murphy, walking closer to the children. ‘…Daniel, have you got a question?

A slim, dark-haired boy in a Manchester United shirt stood up. ‘You don’t need to stand up,’ said Mr Murphy. He sat down again.

‘Do you have nicknames?’ asked Daniel.

Jet looked at his interpreter who were stood next to him.

‘Do you want to take that Sid?’ said Mr Murphy. ‘Give Jet a bit of time….’

‘Erm, okay,’ I said. ‘Custard Karim…’ The kids started laughing. ‘Sid Vicious too…’

‘Who’s he?’ shouted a boy.

‘Sssh, quieten down now,’ said Mr Murphy.

With the kids’ noise and Jet locked in his usual epsisode of ‘Bullshit Mr Han, man’ with his interpreter, I were distracted: a bit like the time I were about to take a corner and a fat bloke crunched into his crisps with relish.

There were six teachers or other staff stood to the left of the pupils but one of them seemed younger than the rest. She got on my nerves because she kept looking at her watch and weren’t paying attention to the main event.

Jet’s interpreter looked at Murphy. ‘We have an answer now.’

‘Right…’ said Mr Murphy. ‘What is it then?’

‘His nickname is connected to the famous international Chinese film star Jet Li. Star of Kiss of the Dragon, Lethal Weapon 4, The One, Romeo Must Die…’

‘Okay, okay, that’s fine,’ said Mr Murphy, raising his hand. He pointed to a girl in a black v-neck sweater, white shirt and striped tie. ‘Charlotte, I think you’ve got a question for Sid, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘…How difficult has it been for you as the first Asian player in the Premier League?’

‘Erm, I don’t think he is,’ said Mr Murphy. ‘Do you want to come up with another question, Charlotte?’

‘Who is then?’ shouted someone from the back.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Murphy, who were clearly irritated. ‘Charlotte, have you got another question?’

‘I think there was a man who played for Fulham,’ said a boy at the front, who looked about seven. ‘I can’t remember his name…’

‘Do you know his name, Sid?’ asked Mr Murphy.

No, I fuckin’ don’t you cheeky bugger. Why do you think I should know, because he’s the same colour and all that? Well, as long as he’s adding colour in another league it’s fine with us.

‘Charlotte, have you got a question then or not?’ said Mr Murphy.

‘Oh yes, okay…erm Sid, how difficult has it been for you as an Asian player?’

I were just about to answer but I were distracted again by Miss Ignorant who looked at her watch and then headed for the front door. I’m sure she had things to do and places to go but it were a right disgrace that she weren’t paying attention. Something had to be done: a real lesson had to be taught.

‘I’ll just answer that in a minute,’ I said, getting up from the bench. ‘Sorry kids, I need the bog.’

This set the kids off again but it were worth it because I had the matchday taste of coming in from behind and grabbing the initiative.

‘It’s just down the corridor on the right,’ said Mr Murphy, with a smile.

I were about ten yards behind her and she saw us but carried on walking. I speeded up a little and caught up with her out in the corridor. She stopped and looked at us directly for the first time.

‘Hello, I’m Sid Karim,’ I said, stretching my hand.

She unnerved us by hesitating. ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ she said softly, offering her right hand belatedly.

She looked away from us again. Her eyes seemed weary and distant. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she added. ‘Nice meeting you.’

‘You didn’t seem too interested in there,’ I said. ‘Do you teach here?’

‘Not everyone loves football…’

Not everyone loves football? Okay, you might have had the Yanks on your side at one point but even they’ve come to their senses.

‘I’m not a full-time teacher,’ she added. ‘I help out a couple of days a week in the drama department.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Mrs Latif,’ she said, beginning to walk away.

It were like Granny Fatima watching the conclusion of Miss Marple and shaking her head because she didn’t see it coming. Latif? But there’s plenty of Latif’s in town, surely.

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Little boys shouldn’t be told the first names of staff,’ she said, turning her head.

‘Oh come on, I won’t tell.’

She opened the door and leaned against it so it remained open. She turned her head and looked at us sternly.

‘Rukhsana,’ she said, as she closed the door.