F Chap 4

Chapter 4

It was the night of the first match. We were dressed appropriately, we
were showered and shaved, we each had three darts in our back pockets
and a multi pack of flights between us. We were outside the first
venue.
"Look," said 16. He was pointing up at the metal sign, still with the
lack of wind. "The Fig and Firkin. We're here."

"Yes we are," I said and I tried to laugh. The laugh sounded hollow
even to me. There had been a rising tension between us ever since
Captain Vegas had picked us all up in the Castro half an hour earlier.
Even The Poet's joke about the best laid best laid plans of mice and
darts players hadn't lightened the atmosphere. We were all
nervous.

"I don't know about this," said 16. "I've never been in a straight pub
before. I don't know what to expect. I mean, The Fig and Firkin. What
kind of name is that?"

"It's word play," said The Poet. "The 'firkin' is supposed to sound
like 'fucking'. Straight people say it and they think it's
funny."

"Oh," said 16. He still looked puzzled. "But what about the
fig?"

"The fig is a fruit," I said.

"So I'm going to a place called the fucking fruit," said 16. "The
abuse has started and I haven't even stepped through the door
yet."

"The fig is an aperitif," said The Poet. "That's all I can think
of."

"I don't know," said 16 again. "I really don't know."

Then Captain Vegas broke in. I think he was trying to be masterful. He
did that sometimes. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll be OK. At the end
of the day, it's just a gay bar without the gays. Think of it like
that."

"That's easy for you to say," I said. "This is home ground for
you."

Captain Vegas jiggled his hips. "Are you never going to let me forget
that? What can I do? I mean, WHAT CAN I DO?"

"Come on," said The Poet, taking charge. He spoke like he was about to
set something into print that would be passed down from generation to
generation. He spoke like this was a significant moment. "We've made
our decision. We knew it wasn't going to be easy. We're going in. We're
going in."
And we did. Me, The Poet, 16 and Captain Vegas. The team. All for one
and one for all. We went in.
At the door I noticed 16 looking behind him as if he expected wild
beasts to be gambolling in the car park. At least, that's what I saw in
his eyes. Or perhaps it was a reflection of my own. Despite everything
we had said I was nervous too. I didn't know what was going to
happen.

Once inside we battened down our eyes against the flock wallpaper and
introduced ourselves to Pam the buxom barmaid, our contact from the
phone. She leered at us, hoisted up her breasts and then introduced us
to Dave, the captain of the opposing team. Dave was large with a flat
face you'd usually expect to find in an ornamental garden. I told him
our names, one by one. Me aka Loop Garoo. The Poet. 16. Captain
Vegas.

"So you're the captain mate," said Dave, shaking Captain Vegas's
hand.

"No," I said. "I'm the captain. He's Captain Vegas. That's just his
name."

Dave looked at Captain Vegas and then he looked at me. Already I could
see doubt there. "OK then mate," he said. He looked over my shoulder.
"Where are the rest of the troops? The others of your motley? We'll
make a start." He clapped his hands. "No time like the present
mate."

"The rest of the troops?" I said.

"The others of our motley?" said The Poet.
"Yeah mate," said Dave. "That's what I said. The rest of you. You
know. To make up the team. Mate."

I had a feeling already that a game of darts was going to be more than
three arrows, a cork board and a steady hand eye coordination.

"Well?" said Dave.

"There's just us," said 16. "One, two, three, four." He counted down
on his fingers until only his thumb was left.

"OK mate," said Dave. He pulled a face. "Actually you need six for a
team. One, two, three, four, five, six." Dave counted on both hands
until four stubby fingers remained, mocking us, like the last troops
standing after a bloody battle.
The Poet was on the floor again. Captain Vegas said it wasn't his
fault, he didn't know anything about it and so on. I just shook my
head.
"Wait here mate," said Dave. "Hang on a sec. I'll be back."
Dave went away. I watched his retreating form. He stopped and talked
to some more men who looked like him, like fixtures from the same
ornamental garden. He came back.
"No problemo mate," he said twisting his lips to form each word. "You
can borrow two of our players. Just for tonight." Then he laughed. "But
you can't take them home."

"Thanks mate," I said. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all. Things
were looking up. We had a team. We had a chance to put all our dreams
into action.

"Let the battle commence," said The Poet.
Dave pulled a face again and strode off.

"This is it then," I said.

"Our first match," said Captain Vegas.

"I've got a good feeling about this," said The Poet.

"Cooee," said Dave from across the bar. "We're ready." Then he said
something else, quietly, and everyone laughed.

"Why are they laughing?" said 16.

"I think it's nerves," I said.

"Yeah," said The Poet. "We'll show them. We'll show them."

First up was 16. We wished him luck. He stepped up to the oche. He
threw three darts. They all missed the board.

"You're supposed to hit that circular thing," I said. "It's a kind of
target."

16 looked shaken. "I can't concentrate," he said. "I didn't expect
such homophobia. Look at them all. They're all standing with their
backs to the wall."

"I don't think that's homophobia," said The Poet. "You nearly skewered
one of them with your first dart. I think it's fear."

"We should have stuck to snooker," said 16. "I'm good at
snooker."

"Just go for it," I said.
He went for it. He lost.
Then it was The Poet. He went for it too. He lost.
Next Captain Vegas. He nearly won. But he lost.
I began to have a bad feeling. A gay darts team was one thing. Being
slaughtered was another. We were supposed to be destroying bastions not
setting them in stone. I hoped the players that Dave was going to lend
us would be good. They were our only chance. We were three-nil down and
there were just three games left.

"This is Pete mate," said Dave the captain, striding up with one of
his ornamental accomplices. "He's one of our players but he's going to
play for you. For the gay team. Actually, he's married. Happily
married."

"Great," I said. I held out my hand and Pete shook it. His arm went up
and down and I expected water to shoot out of his mouth. "Who's Pete
going to play?" I said.

"Pete," said Dave the captain. "Pete is going to play Pete. He's going
to play himself."

Both Pete and Dave the captain's lips curled up in the same way.

"I thought he was going to play for us," I said squeezing the words
out one by one.

"He is mate," said Dave the captain. "But don't forget, he's one of
our players. On a normal day he would play just for our team." Dave
spoke as if explaining something to a very small child. "However,
tonight is not normal. Tonight is abnormal. So he's playing for us
both. He's batting for both sides."

"We're doomed," said The Poet. "Doomed."

"It's not over yet," I said.

Pete stepped up to the oche. We were the visiting team and he was
throwing first for us. He threw his darts.

"Are you allowed to throw underarm?" said 16.

"There's nothing in the rules about how you throw," I said. "As long
as you throw."
Meanwhile Pete was having a good time. Every time he threw for our
team he adopted a new style. He threw with his eyes closed. He threw
with his back to the board. He threw lying on his back with both feet
in the air. With one shot he even tried to bounce the dart off a metal
tray and into the board.
"I don't know," said Pete shaking his head after one particularly poor
shot. "It's me wrist, it's gone limp."
The members of the Fig and Firkin darts team were in hysterics. They
were slapping each other on the back and wiping their eyes.

"At least they've got a sense of humour," said The Poet.

"Yes," I said.

"I didn't expect that," said The Poet.

"No," I said.

We lost the game.
The next game it was more of the same. Except this time Ron was
playing Ron.
Ron threw with his eyes closed. He threw with his back to the board.
He threw lying on his back with his legs in the air. With one shot he
even tried to bounce a dart off a metal tray and into the board.

"I've seen it all before," said 16. "Now I'm getting bored."

"At least they've got a sense of humour," said The Poet.

"Yes," I said.

Finally it was me. What could I do? We were 5-0 down. Even Rambo would
have put the barrel in his own mouth. Even Mohammed Ali would have said
this bee was not for floating. So I won't beat about the bush. I'll
tell you. I lost. The final score was 6-0. We had been humiliated,
crushed. We hadn't taught anyone a lesson. We hadn't defeated any
bastions. Not a single one.