It's a Game of Two Halves

Norbert

Chapter 44

It’s a Game of Two Halves

Two minutes after the interval, at six – two, the amorous midfielder’s passions get the better of him. He lunges at Dougie and pulls his white leather shorts down, right in front of the referee, who blows his whistle and reaches for his pocket. ‘Off you go,’ he snaps, brandishing the red card. ‘I won’t allow lewd behaviour on my park. You’re gone.’

As the jilted player trudges off, head held low in shame and to the jeers of the crowd, Cattermole-O’Hare storms over to Dougie and pushes him. ‘You sorry excuse for a cricketer,’ he yells. ‘You deliberately got my man sent off.’

‘Me? An opening batsman?’ says Dougie, his arms spread wide to protest his innocence. ‘He pulled my kecks down, remember.’

The referee comes across to diffuse the situation. ‘Did you know your boy was a cricketer?’ he asks Cattermole-O’Hare.

‘Actually, I didn’t, no. None of us did.’

‘He certainly chose a great moment to come out, I must say.’

With Biochemistry down to four we hold our own for the next fifteen minutes, but we don’t look like scoring. It is time for my final roll of the dice.

With the crowd pressed so close to the touchlines, the ball never goes too far out of play, except for wild shots over the crossbar. To counteract this, two ball kids (children of staff members) stand behind each goal. One tosses a spare ball to the goalie whilst the other fetches the match ball.

At this point in the game, the Biochemistry goalkeeper has adopted the tactic of playing the ball short to his most skilful player as the best option for keeping possession. I urgently signal GT to blast the ball over the bar, which he does. The ball kid hands the spare to the keeper, who places it and kicks it out wide. It rolls a lot slower than he expects, and their star man has to run to get there before GT. Suddenly, Weggie bursts out of the crowd, tail wagging in ecstasy. (I had given Nunky a pound coin to bribe the ball kid into swapping the spare match ball for squeaky ball.) Seeing the enormous gaping jaws of the monster Alsatian bearing down on him, the terrified player has no option but to jump or slide. In panic, he loses his footing and does indeed slide, speedily across the wet turf and with legs wide open. Weggie reaches the ball first and thumps it with his head. Squeaky ball accelerates into the man’s unprotected groin, hitting with a sickening thud. The simultaneous groan from the fans is nothing compared to the agonised shriek ripped from the throat of the near castrated player, who may well forever remember with dismay the loud toy-like squeak his testicles made at the moment of impact. Weggie jumps out of the way at the last second. Recognising a fellow creature in extreme pain, and being the big softy we all know and love, he licks the poor man’s ashen face. The player is carried off to sympathetic applause and Weggie is shown a red card, which he eats.

Down to only two outfield players it is now one way traffic. We score within a minute and again within a minute of the kick off. Disgruntled, one of their team ungentlemanly slide-tackles Isabel in the muddy centre circle and rolls on top of her: the first physical contact on either girl. Isabel squirms from under him, slips back into the mud and is helped to her feet by Hungry Henry. Several hundred red-blooded male spectators simultaneously cross their hands in front of their flies at the sight of Isabel Wringing-Lowd, caked from head to foot in wet mud and with what little clothing she is wearing sticking tightly to every contour like clingfilm.

*

Two minutes to go and we are seven – six in front. An apoplectic Cattermole-O’Hare orders his goalie to come out and help the others with close marking. It works, damn him, and our attacking threat is nullified.

‘We’ve done it,’ I say excitedly to Ruben, who joins me on the touchline to celebrate.

‘I wouldn’t start your lap of honour quite yet. Look, the referee has awarded them a free kick on the edge of our box. He won’t blow until it’s taken.’

Dougie has gone down with cramp, so I send Velcro on to tend to him with my instructions.

Moments later, GT comes running to the touchline, seething with anger. ‘Two in the wall! Are you out of your grannytickling mind, you short-bottomed dufus? He’ll never get it round or over all of us.’

‘If I’m not mistaken the same player has already scored two goals by doing just that,’ Rube points out.

‘Nob you, old man,’ GT snarls. ‘This is madness. We’ll handle this my way.’

‘You are not the captain.’

‘Nob you, too, you stunted grannytickling son of a dwarf.’

GT is blaspheming so loud, Maine-Rhodes trots over and produces a red card for foul and abusive language. GT head-butts him and has to be manhandled to the ground and sat on. (Dora Mae Blimp does the honours.)

The crowd is going berserk as the referee trots back to the play holding a handful of tissues to his nose. Dougie still can’t stand and is sitting behind the touchline receiving treatment, which from a distance looks like a spray painting contest.

Isabel and Dora Mae stand together in the wall, hands crossed over their loolybells to protect them. Biochemistry’s three remaining players confer over the ball. Colin stands in the centre of his goal, flapping his arms like a penguin. Henry chats with Dougie. Seeing this, two of their players peel away and take up position unmarked on the edge of the area. Henry lifts Dougie and helps him limp over to mark them. I signal Colin to come out of goal and help.

I look at Cattermole-O’Hare making his own signals. With a wide open goal protected only by two tiny wee girls it is clear what will happen. The striker steps back and measures his run. Over the wall, round either side, or even straight through and the scores will be level with only seconds remaining. A draw is enough for them as holders to keep the trophy – a moral victory, perhaps, but with our questionable tactics more than justified.

I move a few yards on to the pitch and wave my arms to make sure the girls are looking at me, not at the striker, not at the ball. The striker is on the balls of his feet, looking at the target, then down at the ball, then back at the target. The crowd is hushed in expectation. He steps up and breaks into a measured run, eyes on the goal. The crowd volume soars. ‘NOW,’ I scream at the top of my lungs.

As one, in perfect harmony, Isabel and Dora Mae yank down their tops and four of the most perfect, delicious, sensual and shapely loolybells in the city of Macarbrough flop out and bounce thrillingly up and down. Isabel’s gleam especially white against the mud. The striker totally forgets to look down. The ball skims off the outside of his boot and flies harmlessly wide of the goal and over the crowd. The referee just has time to book them both for indecent exposure before blowing his whistle for full time. West Haem United have won.

One minute the crowd is howling with delight at the flash show (I mean literally. Flashes from numerous cameras light the scene), the next they are booing that the entertainment is over. Our girls race for the bench before they are mobbed. The remains of the Biochemistry team troop dejectedly off the pitch – outthought, outsmarted and just plain out.

I stand on the touchline alone, lost in utter relief, but only for a second. I am immediately enveloped by a horde of jubilant players. I’m sure GT would have joined in, but having got him where she wants him, Dora Mae Blimp is still wriggling on top of him.

Peregrine Foote-Wharmer and Baldy Warnetires-Skidmore appear, holding up our well-rounded and well-woozy Matron between them. Each clutches a bottle of champagne. My hopes of a celebratory drink are dashed when they drain the last dregs and drop the empty bottles on the ground.

‘Damn good show, Rockhampton-Smythe,’ says Baldy. ‘Did we win?’

‘Yes sir, by a single goal.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘I’m full of spirit,’ Matron slurs.

‘I bet that’s not the only thing she’s full of,’ Isabel whispers in my ear and nods.

I can see Peregrine’s shirt tail poking out of the fly of his cavalry twills.

‘Yes, I’m afraid we missed the second half,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer. ‘We had a firm meeting, furthering relations with the nursing side.’

‘I enjoyed it a lot,’ says Matron. ‘We thrashed a lot out between us.’

‘I thought you handled it very well, Matron,’ says Baldy.

‘It was a stiff assignment, but I’ve no complaints either,’ says Peregrine.

‘I should introduce you to our victorious hero,’ says Baldy. ‘Name of Norbert.’

They help Matron forward and hold on to her as she stretches out a hand.

‘We haven’t met, Snorbert, I’m Kirsty.’

‘I think you’ve drunk too much already, ma’am,’ I say, as she squeezes my hand. I have terrible visions of the last two things she has squeezed.

‘I’m getting cold,’ Dora Mae moans.

‘I can see that,’ says Hungry Henry. ‘They’re sticking out like tank starter buttons.’

‘Yes, it’s time for the traditional communal shower,’ says Colin, ‘when we all get in the bath together and splash about and have fun.’

‘Count me out,’ says Dougie. ‘I really ought to and go apologize to the guy I got sent off.’

‘What about you, GT?’ says Asif. ‘Are you coming?’

‘A couple more quick jerks and he’ll be there,’ says Dora Mae Blimp.