Journeyman

Journeyman

‘That paper was always in the way; he sat next to me for three years at work. The seats are uncomfortable enough without that. Not that he was the only one to bring a paper, you understand. Lots of us did that, our papers were just smaller, more convenient. But that wasn’t the only thing: he didn’t drink, for a start. Well, not properly, not like we did. Always going on about wine and how lager ruined his ‘pallet’. He’d never been on a building site in his life, ha ha. I admit it wasn’t often I spoke to him at all. Just

-How’s the knee/ankle/meta?

Metatarsal’s too long for me; I’d thought it was a Greek restaurant until Becks did his. Some things do rub off though: he’d always called it ‘work’ or ‘the job’. That’s one thing he was right about: it’s certainly just a job for me now. We all took the piss out of his clothes: I mean, not a label in sight - my dad was better dressed. He read books on the coach, ignoring the card schools, the beeps of the playstations and the graphic accounts of last Saturday’s visit to Spearmint Rhino. He lent me one once, after I saw him with it: ‘The Goalkeeper’s Fear of the Penalty”, it was. The boss asked me if the motivational coach had recommended it. I don’t think he was a homo, the guys all said he was. He just ignored us. You’d think he’d have protested a bit. He was married to a journalist once, I think. According to the goss, she was well fit, but I never heard her name. But you know what they say, ‘no smoke’ and all that. I see him on ‘Match of the Day’ now, one of the know-alls in the studio he is. Anyway, can’t stop, the groundsman’s giving me a lift to the match.’

Journeyman II

He looked out of place in all the photographs; most of the others were six footers. He was different in other ways too. He had a degree, in French Literature, or something. At 27 he was bald, as though his scalp couldn’t contain his vast brain. People said he’d published a poem. Naturally, his fellow professionals assumed he was gay. He might have been, but his name had never, ever appeared outside the back pages of the tabloids. There were rumours of an ex-wife, but no-one could put a name to the gossip. A deep, malted voice came out of his small-boned frame. He did try to fit in once: his second year at the club, he tried Guinness, vomited at La Manga and looked bored at Spearmint Rhino. Everyone could see his heart wasn’t in it. He dressed like a farmer come to town or a rugger-bugger; all hacking jackets, twill and brogues. A distinct lack of jewellery also marked him out – it was hard to guess what he spent his money on. It wasn’t cars; his was the only people carrier in the car park.

He gave the captain a book once, after he’d asked him about it. ‘The Goalkeeper’s Fear of the Penalty’ it was. He didn’t even open it, but the manager later said it was the worst motivational book he’d ever read. What made him most unpopular was the newspaper: the dressing room isn’t the place for a broadsheet, it takes up too much room. They gave him all the room he wanted in the shower, after matches. He works in TV now, where detached superiority appears knowledgeable and no-one asks about sexuality.