Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

to one of Mervyn’s nephews. “Give him an option! Get square!”

      Billy jumped like he’d been hit with a cattle prod, but moved square and the left back (whose name I didn’t know) gave him the ball. All of a sudden, we were in their half, in space, and a small spark of energy lifted the team. Trevor made a short run into space on the left, got ball to feet, and slipped it into the path of young Andy whose legs were swept from under him on the edge of the box by the massed defence.

      The whistle went, but the team were in righteous uproar - all clamouring for cards and jostling for space over the ball. The card came (yellow) and Trevor shoved the other free kick pretenders out of his path. He placed the ball about twenty-three yards out and slightly left. The whistle blew long and portentous. He paused, looking over the wall, then curled the ball into the top right corner as the keeper stood and watched.

      Immediately, the whole bench was on its feet and punching the air - with the exception of Ronnie, who sat and stared at me, shaking his head. Then, in the midst of the excitement, we realised that Cockie was lying on the ground, clutching his shoulder. I all but laughed, as the trainer (Rossy Parker) shook his head and waved to the bench with the old twirly-fingered sub signal.

      “Oh do me a fahkin’ favour!” swore Ronnie. “Get up, ya fahkin’ blouse!”

      Cockie climbed to his feet with his right arm dangling like a broken wing.

      “‘Ow’d yer fahkin’ do that?” demanded Ron as Cockie approached the sideline under Rossy’s tender care. “You weren’t in the play, mate!”

      “Punchin’ the air in celebration, Boss,” replied Cockie, in apparent agony.

      Ronnie turned to me in a state of some agitation: “What the fack you waitin’ for?” he enquired and, suitably encouraged, I crossed the white line for the first time in England.

      But I wasn’t content to just make up the numbers. If being 40 years old had (finally) taught me one thing, it was not to take a back seat when opportunity grudgingly knocked. I trotted straight over to where the boys were just dispersing from the congratulatory ruck, and before they could escape back to their positions I said, “I got news boys. The first team are watchin’ this game, an’ you know how they feel?”

      There were a few blank looks, as I continued: “They feel relaxed.”

      Trevor understood exactly what I meant.

      “‘E’s fahkin’ right lads,” said Trevor, pointing at the woebegone Havant boys. “They’re not the fahkin’ enemy.”

      He then pointed at the first team stretching on the sideline.

      “They’re the enemy. It’s your duty, as a member of this side, to put pressure on those fuckers an’ maybe take their places. Awright?”

      “Awright!’ shouted Billy, punching fist into palm, and as I retired to tend the ol’ onion bag, I could already feel the hardened edge about the team.

      After that, it was carnage. I did a lot of barking, but only touched the ball once in my eleven minutes - and that was a back pass that I hit first time to the left back (I still didn’t know his name). When the final whistle blew, it was 6-0. Andy got a hat trick, Trevor got two - I can’t remember who got the other, but the noise in the shed was deafening.

      Billy, in particular, was in excellent spirits. He’d been in the middle of everything in the last ten minutes - winning the ball - giving it straight to Trevor or playing it down the inside channels for Andy.

      Somehow, he knew that I’d had something to do with the result, even if he wasn’t sure what.

      “Yer had a great fockin’ game, Eric.”

      “I only touched the ball once, and I didn’t make a save.”

      “Aye. Still but - great game.”

      Far from being jubilant, Ronnie was, if anything, in a sulk. Cockie had made a miraculous recovery and was claiming his place on the bench for the first team.

      “Yer said you were done in, mate,” peeved Ronnie. “‘Ow can I ‘ave any confidence you’ll do a job if I need yer?”

      “Well don’t pick me then,” said Cockie. “Pick yon Aussie wi’ the can-do attitude!”

      Ronnie just fumed, but it was Cockie’s name that went on the team sheet.

      Trevor flung an arm round me in Keepers’ Corner, where he was not, by rights, entitled to be.

      “Well done, mate. You fahkin’ got us goin’!”

      I was gagging for a beer, but beer wasn’t allowed in the change room, except on special occasions. I said I reckoned 6-0 was pretty special, but I gathered that “special” did not apply to the Reserves.

      Gradually the celebrations subsided as we emerged from the shower in twos and threes and drifted outside to watch the first team. I had an eye out for Doreen, but the first bloke I saw when I got outside was Bernie Malone.

      “G’day, Bernie. How’s Danny?”

      “Much better t’anks. ‘E’s much obliged.”

      “I don’t know what for,” I said. “If you think about it, it was me that got ‘im beaten up.”

      “Sure an’ dat’s bollocks,” replied Bernie. “It were no fault o’

      yours.”

      We stood watching the first team finish their warm up, and you could tell straight away there was a jump in class between the two teams. The snap and swagger of the firsts was in stark contrast with the studious restraint of the Reserves before the match. Jaffa, in particular, was a star in the making - pity about the fags. He trotted about the edge of the box, occasionally juggling a ball, occasionally knocking thunderbolts into the empty net. Charlie the Cat was warming up with Cockie, and I was delighted to see that Cockie was introducing Charlie to the turn away drill I’d showed him.

      “Glad yer still in London,” continued Bernie. “When Danny gets out o’ hospital, ‘e wants to express ‘is gratitude. Maybe hit the town together? Danny’s buy.”

      “Bernie!” I moaned, absolutely delighted. “There’s no need for that.”

      “Doesn’ matter. It’s whut ‘e wants.”

      The whistle went to start the game.

      “Well,” I said, glancing about for Doreen, “if that’s what he wants.”

      * * *

      Bernie and I sat with Trevor in the stand. The rule against beer did not extend that far, and Trevor produced a few long cans from somewhere or other.

      We watched in satisfied silence for a while, sipping Carlsbergs, as the two sides felt each other out. I was a bit disappointed with the Santos brothers, Juan Pablo in the centre of the park and Juan Marco at right half. They weren’t exactly taking charge, but Rags, the captain (ex-Crystal Palace Youth and Reserves), was all class at sweeper and Gareth was like a rock at stopper, cutting out everything that came within the danger zone and straightaway slipping the ball to either Dennis on the left or Juan Marco on the right - both of whom would, more or less, give it straight back to Havant with long balls that suited neither Jaffa, nor Vince - Jaffa’s partner in crime up front.

      “The Santos boys are in the wrong positions,” I remarked, and immediately, Trevor was off on a rant.

      “‘Ow fahkin’ long ‘ave I been sayin’ that?” he demanded. “They got brilliant skill, mate, don’ get me wrong, but they’re not ‘ard enough in the engine room. We need someone oo can put ‘is foot on the ball in the middle o’ the park.”

      “Like you,” I said.

      A spasm of pain seemed to cross his face.

      “Aaarhh … I dunno. Probably too old,” he said.