Sometimes brothers are the very best of friends. Other times they are the bitterest of rivals. But most of the time they’re both. That’s exactly how it always was with me and Jerry.
I should get it out of the way now, I suppose. Yes, I’m Tom. And my younger brother’s Jerry. What were Mum and Dad thinking when it came to naming us? You needn’t bother coming up with jokes about us being cartoon characters. We’ve heard them all. Actually, we heard them all a long time ago. And there were times, when we were younger, when we probably looked like Tom and Jerry, too. Chasing each other around the block of flats, getting into fights, arguing about anything and everything. That’s how brothers are.
We could’ve been twins, everybody said. We looked so alike. Although every time Jerry grew a bit, I’d put a spurt on too, to make sure I stayed a centimetre or two taller. Anyway, together we were the Barlow Boys. Any time anybody talked about us, the chances are it was to do with one thing. Jerry and I did loads of stuff together, when he wasn’t getting on my nerves at least. But what we did together more than anything was play football. School playground, down the sports centre, out on the grass in front of the flats. Even indoors if Mum wasn’t looking. Anywhere, everywhere. All day, every day.
No surprise, really, that the Barlow Boys loved the game. Our dad, Mick, played for Shelby Town FC back in the 1970s, when they were still knocking around in the Midland Combination League. He was always telling us how good a player he used to be. So we’d ask him, “What were you doing playing in the Midland Combination, then?” Only joking, though: Dad’s a Shelby man through and through. I don’t think anybody is prouder of how far Town have come since the old non-league days.
All the while me and Jerry were growing up, Dad had his own windows business, which meant he could work his own hours. Once he realized his sons liked football, that was it. Windows came second to running our little estate team, Rosemount Rovers – “The Reds”. Dad did all his coaching badges. He got the council to let us use the park for training. He got to know all the parents on the estate and managed to convince them that the best players should join us instead of going off to one of the bigger teams in town. Before we knew it, Dad’s under-10s were beating all comers.
Not that winning was what it was about for Dad. Not when we were eight and nine years old. Training? Well, he just used to arrange a time and a place, then me and Jerry – and all the other kids from the estate – would turn up for a game. Two-a-side, five-a-side, seven- or eight-a-side. If you were there, you played. When it came to coaching, all I can ever remember Dad doing was showing us how to kick the ball properly. In fact, Dad used to call it out so often that it became the Rosemount Rovers catchphrase: “Laces!”
I loved to play and my little brother Jerry loved to play. Although he hated it when I called him “Little Brother”, which obviously made me do it all the time, just to wind him up. Even if there was nobody else around and Dad was at work, we’d have a game between ourselves. Some of the biggest matches happened right there in our hallway. Mum and Dad’s bedroom door was one goal and the cupboard at the end was the other. One against one, and the winner would get a free flick at the loser’s ear. That hallway was Manor Park or The Emirates, Wembley or the Bernabéu.
I was only a year older than Jerry. That’s what he said, anyway. Actually, it was more like fourteen months. But, like I say, he didn’t want to seem like the little brother. Whatever we were doing – but especially if it was football – Jerry was always desperate to get the better of me. Sometimes he’d come flying into a tackle and I’d think, If he doesn’t hurt me, he’s going to hurt himself! He had to beat me, had to prove he was quicker, cleverer, better at football than I was. And that kept me on my toes.
So if it was me versus Jerry, the competition was fierce. Every now and again, of course, it would end in a scrap: Jerry used to think he could fight me as well. But it wasn’t always brother against brother, and I think Jerry liked it even better when we were on the same side. When we went down to the grass out in front of the flats, the game would always be the Barlow Boys versus the rest. Jerry loved that and, to be honest, so did I. I wouldn’t ever tell him to his face but my brother really was a good player. If I had the choice, I always wanted Jerry on my side.
That was the two of us, from as soon as we could walk. Mum says I even got Jerry to go in goal before he could walk. I don’t know about that. But I do know that all my best memories of growing up are football and Jerry and me. What started out as a kickaround for the boys on the estate turned into Rosemount Rovers when I was six and Jerry was five. Dad never pushed us; he never needed to. The problem was him and Mum getting us indoors for dinner and bed. But then Shelby Town came along and turned things upside down.
I was just coming up to eleven so Jerry was almost ten. With Rosemount Rovers, it didn’t matter how old or young you were; we just played. Not in a league or anything, but friendly games over in the park when Dad could get them organized. We lived for those Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons, though, when The Reds could take on the world. Somehow or other, Dad got us some kit from somewhere so we looked the part as well. And so did he: for special occasions he used to get out his old Shelby Town tracksuit and put it on. He’d laugh and say, “You boys had better call me ‘The Boss’!”
It all happened at one of those friendly games. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were playing a team from Lea Vale. Most of them were a year or two older than us, but we weren’t worried about that. We got a team of eight together. There were more of them, but Dad agreed with their coach that they could just use subs whenever they wanted. We lined up, ready to go, with me and Jerry playing up front.
Sometimes when we played, it was as if me and Jerry knew what the other one was going to do before he did it. I’d make a run and, without me calling for it, the ball would suddenly be rolling into my path. Or I’d cross the ball without even looking and Jerry would be there to head it into the net. Well, against that team from Lea Vale, we had one of those games. Whatever we did seemed to come off and we both scored hat-tricks. Eventually, they put on a couple of extra players just to make the game a bit more even.
I’d already lost count of the score by half-time. We all gathered around Dad as he handed out bottles of water. He didn’t really say anything; he didn’t need to – just asked us if we were enjoying ourselves. Before any of us could answer, the other team’s coach came over and tapped Dad on the shoulder. They walked a little way away from us. Watching out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dad nodding at what the man was saying and then both of them started laughing.
After the game, Dad took us all out for a meal on the High Street. He’d never done that before. I knew we’d played well but he must have dug into his savings for pizzas and ice creams for eight, mustn’t he? He had this big smile on his face that lasted all the way home. But when I asked him what was going on, he just told me to mind my own business and then ruffled my hair.
Well, a couple of days later we found out what’d happened at the game, although, by then, me and Jerry had forgotten all about it. A letter came in the post, addressed to me. I opened it and straight away saw it had the Shelby Town club badge at the top of the page. I called out to Mum and Dad and they came through to the lounge. Shelby Town were inviting me along to Manor Park to play in a special practice game, where they were going to choose boys to join the under-12s squad at the academy. The letter said they’d had very good reports about me from a local coach they knew.
I could see by the look on Dad’s face how proud he was, and I was really excited as well. But I had this funny feeling that it wasn’t all good news. At bedtime, I showed Jerry the letter and he burst out crying. Not that he wasn’t happy for me; he said he was. But he was heartbroken, too. The idea of me going off to play football and him not being there? He couldn’t handle that at all. He said it felt like he’d never get the chance to play with me again. I tried to explain that it was only a trial and I might not get in, and even if I did, I’d still want to play out in front of the flats every day. But Jerry just pulled the covers over his head and told me he wanted to go to sleep.
I could tell that Jerry was lying there thinking. I was lying there thinking as well. Should I turn Shelby Town down? I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. Dad would’ve been really upset; they were his team, after all. But I hated seeing Jerry so unhappy. I didn’t want to let him down either. I lay in bed, staring at the orange light from the streetlamps glowing behind the curtains. I don’t know how long it took me to get to sleep but, by the time I did, I’d decided what we’d do.
Mum said she was too nervous to come and didn’t want to put me off. She probably meant she fancied a couple of hours of peace and quiet around the house. Whatever: me, Dad and Jerry drove down to Manor Park early. Very, very early. Dad said I shouldn’t blow my chances by being late before I’d even kicked a ball. But an hour before kick-off? Well, at least it gave me and Jerry time to go over our plan. In whispers, obviously, because we couldn’t let Dad know. He’d find out soon enough.
It was fantastic. The Shelby Town youth coaches were at the ground to meet us. We went through to the first team dressing room and I started getting changed. They’d laid out kit for all of us. It was as if we were professional players for the day. I recognized a couple of the other boys from Rosemount Rovers games. I could see how nervous they were, and they could probably see how nervous I was. One of the coaches split us up into teams; they had all our names and positions. Then we went out onto the pitch to warm up.
They’d put out moveable goals on the edge of the two penalty areas, so we didn’t play on a full-sized pitch. But it felt like Wembley: playing in a proper stadium, in front of a crowd, even if it was just a couple of hundred parents and friends. And Jerry and Dad. I gave Little Brother the thumbs up and he waved back.
The game kicked off and I played up front. It was hard. All the other boys were good players: the best, I suppose, from their schools and their Sunday teams. One of the defenders I was playing against towered over me. Surely he couldn’t be the same age as the rest of us? I just got my head down and played. I didn’t score but I set up a goal for the boy who was playing left wing. It felt like I was doing OK. The side I was playing for were 2–1 down at half-time.
During the break, while we got a drink on the side of the pitch, I looked over and saw Dad, sitting with some other parents and grinning from ear to ear. I didn’t know if that was because I was playing well or because he was just proud I was playing at the ground where he had twenty years before. I gave him a wave and then saw Jerry, sitting behind him with a “Well, what d’you reckon?” look on his face. I winked at him and then ran on to start the second half.
We equalized almost straight away. The boy on the left wing crossed the ball in low and I got there ahead of the big centre half. Goal! One of the coaches was refereeing the game, and as I jogged back to the centre circle he gave me a grin and said, “You’ll do for me, son!”
I was chuffed but I tried not to show it and just shrugged.
“Thanks, sir.”
Was that the right thing to say? Is a football coach like one of your teachers at school? Anyway, the game carried on until there were about twenty minutes to go: and it was still 2–2.
I peered over towards the stand and I could see Dad but no sign of Jerry. Now was the time! I went up to the ref and told him I really needed the loo. “Go on, then, son,” he said. “But don’t take all day.” I sprinted off to the changing rooms and, just as we’d planned, Jerry was there waiting for me. I got out of my kit and he put it on. I slipped into the tracksuit he’d been wearing. As quick as I’d run in, Jerry ran out. The ref waved at him, thinking it was me, and told him to come on. I sneaked out of the changing room and up into the stand. I slid into the seat behind Dad, who was so involved with the game he didn’t even turn round.
I’d had my chance and now Jerry had his. I don’t know what I thought might happen but I just wanted Jerry to get a taste of the big time. If worst came to worst, we’d just change clothes back again after the game. But, within a minute or two, I could see Jerry wasn’t going to be satisfied with that. Other players were starting to tire but he was racing around: a man on a mission. One minute he was clearing the ball in his own six-yard box, the next, he was making a run in behind the other team’s back four.
And then it happened. I knew Jerry was a good player but maybe even I didn’t know how good. He picked up the ball just inside his own half and raced off across the pitch. Their midfielders didn’t know whether to tackle him, or stand off. He found himself out on the right, with two defenders in front of him. What did he do? He just chipped the ball over their heads and dashed between them before they could react. I held my breath. Jerry was in on goal, then as the goalie came out to close down he bent the ball around him with his left foot and it went in off the far post: you could hear the “ping” before it settled into the net.
There was a moment of complete silence, on and off the pitch. I mean, that was the kind of goal people expected to see Lionel Messi score. Jerry just clenched his fist and then ran back for kick-off as if it was something he did most days. I leapt up and gave Dad a big hug from behind.
“What about that, Dad?”
What happened next was straight out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Dad looked at me. Then looked out onto the pitch. Then back at me. And then, very slowly, back towards Jerry. His mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish’s. Until he swung round and spluttered, “Which one are you?”
A few minutes later, the full-time whistle went. Rather than face Dad, I jumped out of my seat and ran down towards the pitch. I could see that the coach who’d been refereeing the game had already gone up and started talking to Jerry. I ran on, not wanting my brother to get into trouble – or, at least, not get into trouble on his own. I could hear him asking Jerry what his name was, and how old he was. Just as I got alongside them, the coach turned to me and growled, “Stay right where you are.” I froze on the spot.
Then he turned back to Jerry. As the coach spoke, Jerry’s eyes opened wider and wider. It turned out that Shelby Town were starting an under-11s group in a month’s time. The coach wanted to talk to Dad about getting Jerry back for those trials.
“Not that I need a second look, really,” he said with a grin.
His smile disappeared, though, as he turned back to me. For a minute, I thought he was going to explode. Suddenly, I wanted Dad to be there, just in case. The coach sent Jerry away and took a deep breath. “You’re Tom, aren’t you?”
I just nodded.
“Well, Tom. I’ve had boys pull some tricks on me in my time. But what I’ve just seen is right up there with the best of them. The worst of them, I mean. Swapping places with your brother in the middle of a match? What were you thinking?”
I just shrugged.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Well, I didn’t at first, to be honest. It wasn’t till after your brother scored that I got a good look at him. But I was bound to find out. And what did you think I’d do then?”
I just looked at the floor.
“I should be sending you on your way now, telling you that you’ve missed your big chance. But, right now, I’m not sure that’d be the best thing to do. What you did was wrong but, somehow, it seems to me like it was right, as well. We’ve had brothers together at Shelby before, but I don’t think I’ve ever come across one who’d do what you did. You really wanted to give him a chance. And because of that, you’re going to get a second chance.”
I just grinned.
“Your brother can join the under-11s when we get them started. And you can join the under-12s from this time next week.”
At that moment, Dad arrived. I was still grinning, still speechless. I ran off to tell Jerry what the coach had said. As I went, I could hear him talking to Dad.
“Ah, you’re Mr Barlow, aren’t you? I’m Dan Farley, one of the coaches here at Town. I think you and I need to have a chat about those boys…”
