Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

looking by Premier League standards, but fairly similar to many of the grounds I’d played on all my career. Only one stand, on the western side, probably held about 300. There were a few benches either side of the stand and more on the eastern side. All up, seating for about 600 with a grass and concrete bank all around the pitch that would probably accommodate 4000 at an absolute pinch - in the unlikely event that so many would ever want to see Bentham United play (the 2nd round Cup tie was scheduled for the following week - away to Barnet).

      The spectators were separated from the pitch by a low wire fence covered with rusted, metal hoardings - advertising places like Graham’s Motor Repairs and the West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

      The 17s were playing (the Youth team were away to East Finchley) so I stood at the corner of the field, checking out their form. Not bad, but no better than I was used to seeing back in Australia at that age. The red and gold strip looked good.

      Trevor was sitting on a bench near the stand with his head in his hands - not exactly raring to go.

      “What’s up, Trev?” I asked him.

      “Fack off,” he mumbled, to the dismay of a handful of the 17s parents, who moved a little closer to the stand to get away from the former third division star.

      Well, this is great, I thought. I’ve been busting a gut to get into a side captained by a pisshead. What fuckin’ next?

      At that moment, Ron Wellard appeared at my side.

      “Yer on the sheet, but don’t get yer fahkin’ ‘opes up. You won’t be playin’ if I’ve got anyfin ter do wiv it.”

      I glanced at him and then turned back to watch the 17s, setting up pretty relentless pressure round the box.

      “They hold possession well,” I observed. “Our number seven’s got pretty good vision.”

      “Young Mikey? Only 15, that lad. Play for England before too long.”

      “Will you be able to hang onto him?”

      As we watched, Mikey sent two larger boys the wrong way with a dip of his shoulder, then hit a perfect ball to the far post where it was nodded ten feet over by his gangly team mate.

      “Naahh. Wouldn’t try,” said Ron. “What can we offer ‘im ‘ere? ‘E needs better players around ‘im to improve, an’ I won’t stand in ‘is way. If he goes on to play Premier League I’ll have somefin to tell me grandkids.”

      We stood together watching the game for a few seconds. Then, it was like Ronnie realised he was being civil to me when he hadn’t meant to; and if anything, that made him angrier than before. He suddenly turned on me and snarled: “I won’t be doin’ you no favours, son. Son? You’re older ‘n me. It’s a fahkin’ disgrace!”

      With that, he stormed off to his sanctum under the stand.

      “Whorra bastard.”

      It sounded like a tortured soul lamenting from the deepest pits of hell, and sure enough, when I looked around it was Trevor speaking.

      “Eric, can yer get us some water, mate?”

      I sighed, and wandered off towards the shed where a tray of water bottles sat on a rusty old card table. I grabbed a couple and took them back to Trevor who, at least, was sitting up slightly straighter.

      “Cockie says yer can play,” he said.

      “What Cockie says don’t matter if Ronnie doesn’t want me.”

      We sat and watched the game for a while - Trevor swilling down water, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms and generally stinking of beer. Suddenly he straightened up, breathed deeply a few times, then stood.

      “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get stripped.”

      * * *

      The Bentham United goalkeeper’s strip was orange and black - quite smart looking. I pulled on the shorts and socks and then I pulled the small linen bag from my kit - the bag that contained Uncle Jimmy’s boots.

      I’d tried them on, but never played in them. They were very soft and ultra-light, and best of all, they came with three sets of studs, which I’d never really needed in Oz, as the condition of the pitches doesn’t change that much (either hard or fucking hard). Surreptitiously, I watched to see what sort of studs the other blokes were going for and locked in what seemed to be the popular choice.

      “Are yer reet, Eric?” asked Cockie with a wink. “Ma shulder’s feelin’ well dodgy the day. Yer’d best be oan yer toes.”

      I gave him a grin and we trotted outside for a bit of a warm up. The 17s had just finished: a 3-0 win, and if anything the crowd was getting slightly smaller in the lead up to the Reserves match.

      Cockie and I went to his favourite spot just to the right of the posts at the southern end and I started putting him through some of my old drills. He particularly liked the one where I got him to face away from me and I would hit gentle shots, calling “Now!” as I hit the ball, and he had to turn and make the save.

      “Och … tha’s no bad fer the reflexes,” he said. “C’moan, yer’d best do it yersel!”

      Trevor seemed like he’d recovered a bit. He was just trotting up and back around the middle of the pitch.

      “Is he gonna be alright?” I asked Cockie.

      “Dinnae worry aboot Captain Dutch Courageous,” he laughed.

      “Eh’s well capable to look after umsel.”

      * * *

      I took my place on the end of the bench. As far from Ronnie as it was possible to get.

      “Hey, Eric! ‘Ow’s it goin’, mate?”

      I turned round to see Jaffa, Dennis and a few of the other first team blokes milling about on the other side of the fence, as the whistle went. I nodded at Jaffa and turned to watch the game. It wasn’t a bad standard, but it certainly didn’t scare me.

      The next thing I knew, fucking cigarette smoke was stinking us out, and without even turning, I said, “Jaffa! Put that fuckin’ fag out will ya?”

      As I spoke, I happened to glance in the manager’s direction as he looked in mine. He nodded, then went back to watching the game.

      * * *

      At half time, the Reserves led 1-0. It had been a fairly low-intensity spectacle. Havant and Waterlooville Reserves were almost last in the league and our Reserves were third. I hardly knew our team, but I could tell we weren’t getting out of second gear. Trevor, despite being old and pissed, was a class above at this level, and Cockie was untroubled.

      Ronnie didn’t have much to say to the team. It was clear that Havant were already beaten.

      “Keep yer fahkin’ shape,” he said. “Nuffin’ fancy, just stay tight. An’ keep the fahkin’ ball fer chrissakes. I want a second goal, but don’t get pulled out o’ shape lookin’ for it.”

      Cockie gave me wink in Keeper’s Corner - the part of the shed he usually shared with Charlie, and now me.

      “Are yer fit?” he asked, under his breath.

      I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant but I nodded, and he gave me a grin.

      “If we go two up, make sure yer stretched.”

      * * *

      Of course, it took most of the half for us to go two up. The team just weren’t interested in getting out of a gentle trot and Havant sat back, defending in numbers - content to be beaten but not thrashed. It went completely against my grain and I just felt myself getting more irritable as the half wore on - or wore down, more accurately. And what the hell was wrong with Ronnie? Why wasn’t ‘e getting into ‘em?

      With about 12 to go, and before I could