Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

completely undermined!” yelled Ronnie. “That’s bad enough for me, but what’s ten times - a fousand times worse: it’s bad for the team. I gather you’ve already got a couple o’ mates in the team?”

      “I guess so.”

      “You wanna do the right fing by yer mates?”

      “Of course, I—”

      “If you wanna do the right fing by yer mates, an’ by this fahkin’ club, what’s the proper course of action?”

      “Well, I guess you’re gonna say I shouldn’t pl—”

      “You shouldn’t fahkin’ play, mate!” interrupted Ron, the saliva totally flying by this time. He paused for breath, calmed himself a little. Then he said, “So what’s it to be?”

      “Ron,” I said. “Mr Wellard. All I want to do is train. An’ if I’m good enough and the need arises, then maybe I can do a job for you.”

      The contempt on Ronnie Wellard’s face was priceless.

      “Yer see,” he snarled. “You ‘aven’t understood a word I’ve said.

      * * *

      He trained us really hard that night. None of the other blokes had heard our tete-a-tete but there were a few whispers and I felt more than a tad self-conscious when he upped the usual multiples of four for every exercise.

      “I feel it slippin’,” shouted Ronnie as he strode among his sweating legion. “I sense the discipline we’ve built is bein’ e-fahkin’-roded.”

      It was absolutely freezing. The first gropings of an early winter had slipped chilly fingers under our jumpers, but after a few minutes we never felt it. The sweat and steam poured off the boys like an outdoor turkish bath, and despite the pain - despite even the animosity of the manager, and his unsubtle attempts to make the other blokes dislike me - I realised I was happy. The jetlag was fading and I had my fitness back. My only concern was that Doreen expected to see me play, and all the indications were against it.

      I determined that tonight I was gonna spend some quality drill time with Charlie and Cockie, but there was a complication - the lights. I’ve always hated training lights. Unless they’re full stadium power, they give off a kind of dreamy half-light in which it is difficult - for me at least - to assess direction and velocity. The Kentside Field lights were better than most local grounds back in Oz, but they weren’t full stadium power.

      Finally, the fitness work was over and we got into a bit of ball work. It was mostly three-on-one grids and my estimation of Ronnie went up even further as he kept hammering into us exactly what he expected. Every now and then he’d stop the drill and emphasise the point: “It’s all about time!” he’d shout, striding among the witches hats and steaming bodies. “You’re s’posed to be makin’ time for the bloke off the ball! That’s the whole point of everythin’ we do. If we’re gonna score goals, we need to create time in the box.”

      Intensity was another big thing with Ronnie. If he saw someone trying to sneak a rest, he’d haul them out of the drill and give ‘em 50 push ups. Nearly everyone copped this punishment at some point, except for Trevor, who was Roy Keane-like in his relentless determination, and the Santos brothers. I suspect Ronnie knew that there was no point trying to punish them, so he ignored their lack of intensity, but like everyone else, admired their effortless skill.

      Finally, the keepers got a chance to get away for some separate drills and I just went with ‘em. They were both pretty good blokes, and rather than resent or fear my presence, as many would have done at other semi-professional clubs, they both welcomed me. They were genuinely concerned about the lack of cover (after young Chris had been arrested) and worried about what it might mean for the club.

      “Goat ter be realistic,” said Cockie, a Scotsman from Stirling. “Ah’ve goat a dodgy shulder, ‘n Charlie’s fine, but ya nivvir know.”

      They asked me a bit about what level I’d played back in Australia, but there was no real comparison in terms of league structure. I said I reckoned that I’d played, more or less, at the same level as Southern Conference, and if they looked skeptical then maybe that was just my paranoia.

      “Let’s ‘ave a look at yer, then,” said Charlie, so I did a few quick stretches and then found myself between the traffic cones as Charlie and Cockie hit a few shots at me.

      To my relief, the lights in this part of the field were fairly strong so my eyes were able to adjust quickly. And the first few shots were straight at me, which is the way you always start a keeping drill - hands first, then agility. But then Cockie mishit a shot about eight feet to my left.

      “Sorry, mate,” he started to say, but before I knew it, I’d launched myself - all reflexes and adrenalin - and just got my finger tips to the ball.

      “Farrr-kinell!” said Charlie. “That was top drawer, mate.”

      I was a little stunned myself. I hadn’t taken off at training like that since I was about 30. It could only be the inspiring circumstances - and possibly my need to show Doreen that I wasn’t full of shit.

      After that, the shots from Charlie and Cockie started coming in harder but I was equal to (just about) everything. My confidence grew and I even started a bit of showboating - turning on the style as well as making the saves. Soon Charlie and Cockie were just staring at me and rubbing their chins.

      “Goalkeeping’s not just about shot stoppin’,” said Charlie. “There’s ‘eaps of other stuff just as important … positionin’.”

      “Aye,” agreed Cockie. “Anticipation - timin’ oaf the line.”

      “Takin’ crosses,” said Charlie.

      “Oh aye, goat ter command the boax. Takes courage. What about communication an’ organisin’ defence?”

      “Distribution,” added Charlie. “Turnin’ defence into attack …”

      They trailed off as I wandered over to join them, bouncing and raring to go.

      “Need ter see ‘im in a game,” said Charlie.

      “Not much chance of that,” I said.

      They just looked at me. So I filled them in on my conversation with Ronnie. The edited highlights at least.

      “Och. Dinnae worry too much aboot yon Mr Wellard,” laughed Cockie. “Yer’ve jist goat ter show um yer love the team as much as he does.”

      * * *

      FROM: [email protected]

      TO: [email protected]

      SUBJECT: Saturday football

      Hi Eric,

      I really enjoyed our outing yesterday. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly, but that’s the nature of my work. When the professor suddenly finds time for me, I have to jump. I’ve come all this way to work with her after all. She’s actually dragged me up to Birmingham for a conference. I’m not scheduled to be back until Saturday night, but I’ll be trying to get back for the game. Maybe we could do something on Saturday night?

      Love and kisses,

      Doreen xxx

      * * *

      The Beast sat in a darkened bus shelter down the road from the chapter house, gnawing over his plans. It was clear that he’d taken a bit of dive down the pecking order, although he couldn’t think why. He’d never done the wrong thing by Vin, with the exception of quietly plotting to overthrow the fucker.

      The only blokes he could rely on were Macca and Benny, and they were both outta fahkin’ action after that screw up in The Rose. Useless twats.

      Yeah. The Rose.

      The Beast had absolutely no doubt that the big fucker in The Rose was the one Vinnie was after.