Carlton, Steranko and I called for Freddie on our way to play football. His room was full of books and bits of paper; a record was playing so loudly on his new stereo – bought with the money from his inflated insurance claim after the break-in – that we all had to shout. Steranko had his football boots tied around his neck; Freddie was on his hands and knees, looking for his.
‘Where are they? I think the animal they made these boots out of is still alive. They’re always scurrying off somewhere.’
‘What’s this record?’ Steranko asked.
‘What?’
‘What’s this record?’
‘The Art Ensemble of Chicago,’ Freddie said, looking under his bed. ‘It’s a soundtrack for a film that was never made.’
‘Ah the avant garde,’ said Steranko. ‘Those were the days.’
‘I wonder if there’s an avant garde now,’ I yelled.
‘We’d definitely have heard of it if there was,’ Freddie yelled back. ‘Where the fuck are they?’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah. We’d probably be it if there was one,’ Steranko said.
‘We’d be in the guard’s van more like,’ said Carlton.
‘There’s never been an avant garde in this country,’ Steranko said.
‘Is that true?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bohemia is the last refuge of the avant garde,’ said Freddie. ‘Actually maybe I’ve got that the wrong way round.’
‘How’s the writing going then Freddie?’ said Carlton, kicking the football skilfully from one foot to the other without letting it bounce.
‘Terrific. If that ball lands on my new turntable, by the way, I’ll be very upset. I’ve got some work writing copy for police Wanted notices. Apparently the police have decided that they need them done in a more punchy kind of way, a bit livelier and not so off-putting. Steranko’s got some work there as well: he’s assistant Photo-fit arranger. It’s quite well paid.’
As Freddie finished speaking the ball bobbled awkwardly off Carlton’s foot, hit the stereo and bounced towards Steranko.
‘Must be the most creative thing you’ve done in about two years then Steranko,’ said Carlton, glancing at Freddie who was storming round the room like a junkie, looking for his football boots.
‘On the head, on the head,’ said Carlton, gesturing at Steranko to throw the ball. Steranko did so and Carlton headed the ball as hard as he could into the door.
‘Jairzinho!’ he shouted. The 1970 World Cup in Mexico had made a deep impression on us all.
The music came to an end just as Freddie found his boots.
Steranko and Carlton were trying unsuccessfully to head the ball back and forth to each other.
‘You nearly ready Freddie?’ I asked.
‘Fuck! Now I can’t find my shinpads,’ he said.
After the recent rain the grass was thick and green under the enamelled blue sky. Trees fanned the breeze. On the path beyond the touchline, old and young couples walked by or sat on benches.
I knew most of the rest of our team from around Brixton or parties or just from playing football. Some of us changed shirts with people in the other team until we were more or less in white shirts and they were in an assortment of colours. I played as a sort of left-winger and after ten minutes I was breathing hard and starting to feel good. On the other wing Carlton tried to dribble past two or three men with occasional success; Steranko charged around the middle of the field (no one was quite sure where he was supposed to be playing); Freddie, who was surprisingly skilful and tenacious, played up front. As we rushed forwards and backwards my heart thumped in time with the pounding of our feet on the grass. Bracing my neck for the shock I headed the ball from a high clearance, catching it full in the forehead and hardly feeling it except for the sudden smack of impact. We dribbled, passed and ran back to tackle. Both teams clapped when their goalkeeper made a spectacular flying save from a shot by Carlton.
At half-time we drank water and didn’t bother talking tactics. I lay on my back feeling the blood flowing through my limbs and the soft ground beneath my head, looking up at the still blue of the sky.
In the second half both teams tried long shots at goal and eventually we scored after a header of Freddie’s bounced off the crossbar. Now that we were one-nil up they attacked more desperately but our defence tackled and headed the ball clear of danger. Steranko seemed to be concentrating on work-rate, charging around in circles.
‘Steranko,’ I shouted. ‘You sure you wouldn’t rather I just threw you a stick so you could chase after that?’ He grinned back at me. People stopped and watched for a few minutes. Young boys ran to fetch the ball when it bounced out of play. I looked around. The trees around the park were perfectly still as if time had stopped, as if every second of the afternoon were held in a single moment: Steranko frozen in his running, his feet barely touching the grass; Carlton bent down tying his shoe, the breeze rippling his shirt; the muscles straining in someone’s leg; players jumping for the ball, their feet suspended in mid-air, the goalkeeper’s hands rising above their floating hair; the ball hanging over them like a perfect moon. And everything around us: the crease of the corner flag, the wind-sculpted trees, the child’s swing at the top of its arc, the water from the drinking fountain bubbling towards the lips of the woman bent down to drink, the cyclist leaning into the curve of the path, a plane stalled in the sky, someone’s thrown tennis ball a small yellow planet in the distance.