Beef Bagel

The ball rolls straight to his foot, where it’s trapped perfectly between his sole and the pitch. Dead centre, dead on he pauses on the edge of the area and looks the keeper right in the eyes. The keeper shimmies and shakes but the question is who is more scared, the striker with the ball at his feet and the world in his palm or the lone figure, the No.1 with a whole net to cover and nothing to lose? They’re lost for a second; a calm of complicity within this moment of chaos. They are together as predator and prey but which is which they cannot tell.

 The hold is broken by the stamping feet of a defender running in to stop the unstoppable shot, to get near the ball, to put the striker off, to do anything, anything he can. Time’s up. He breathes in one last breath and remembers the words of the legends who’ve gone before him.

‘Take your time and pick your spot.

The time he’s taken. The spot he picks. With precious little space left he takes the shot with minimal back swing but maximum accuracy. The ball arcs away from the outstretched right of the wide eyed and beaten keeper and into the top corner of the net. 3-1. The game is won. The Bagel drops to his knees, sinking back onto his heels he crosses himself like an Italian footballer but it’s not the Madonna to whom he’s grateful. He’ thanking a different mother altogether, the sweet mother of all that is good and Spurs.

My team mates are as unimpressed by my theatrics as the opposition are. I try a few tears to complete the picture but all I receive is a solitary round sardonic applause. Still chuffed to bits and thoroughly self-satisfied with my performance I end the show and rise to my feet. My smiles turn to a wince, accompanied by a sharp whinnying like a sleeping rotweiler brought to life by the flick of an elastic band on its balls. Don’t ask me how I know what this sounds like. The skin on my legs tears a little more as I stretch the already well grazed flesh even further over my knees. The fresh cuts are already bloody with a little sand added in for good measure. There are two little red patches at the site where I struck my shot. Note to self, no dropping to knees on astroturf.

With the game up and thankfully so, my fitness is way below average and it’s not just my knees that’ll be hurting in the days to come, we pat our ‘well played’s onto soggy shirts, wiping hands when backs are turned. No time for a drink. No time for any pleasantries or cursories, shin pads still on, I throw my money to the organiser of this 5 a-side, or 4 as it turned out and run straight out the gate not stopping until I get to Brixton station. It’s 2.30pm and I’ve a game to catch.

No ticket today, with not enough time or money or will or somewhere between the three to travel up to Birmingham, I’m rushing back home to get to my radio and my little piece of the action from the comfort of my own abode, the New Bakery. Moving house must be like moving stadium, it may be bigger, new, more comfortable and organised but no matter how much of yourself you bring to it straight away, it’s the history and the memories that’ll take their time. Legends are long in the making. Still, I’ve done what I can. The wall is already adorned with my Slavia Prague scarf, the trophy of a European tour. On top sits a sliver box with new Spurs logo, flanked by practiced church candles and my season ticket sitting quietly to the side. The Tottenham shrine must be a killer blow, a panic alarm for any female lured back to my den; the same stark panic I feel in a princess pink bedroom of ponies and fairy wings. At least in my case the neighbouring dildo and sturdy bull whip should give them a clue that there’s more to my life than just football.

I arrive at the tube with 20 minutes to go. I’m not sure of my journey times just yet. All is too new and unfamiliar but I know that I’ll be missing the start and despite myself, I relax in acceptance and let the train do the worry.

I pick up an abandoned tabloid and turn straight to the back pages, no, not page 3. No point. You don’t get tits at the weekend.

‘Luke Moore is definitely out, as is Thomas Sorenson and Tottenham sweat on the fitness of defender Ledley King and striker Jermain Defoe.’

I note that they’ve left Aaron Lennon off the probable team sheet and bench. These papers are so far behind. After ten minutes of shaking my buried head at the pages I throw the rag away. There’s nothing it can tell me that I don’t already know. I look up with a start at the picture that greets me, sitting on the opposite seat. There is an attractive lady but I can’t really tell you what she looks like. In fact, I don’t know at all. The only adjective that I can use is ‘green’.

‘Hello,’ I hear myself say, though both of us know we’ve never met before.

‘Hello,’ she says back and we smile as she gives me time to take in the scene. The lady sitting beaming at me is propped up rather awkwardly forward at the front of her seat. She cannot lean back as there are balloons between herself and the unthinkable fabric of the London Underground upholstery and the balloons aren’t just there. They’re everywhere on her, from her knees to her neck and every one of them green.

‘I’m a bunch of grapes,’ she says as she answers my inevitable question.

‘Ahhhhh,’ I half comprehend, ‘any…particular reason?’

‘I’m going to a fancy dress party but I’m starting to think that this wasn’t such a good idea. I can’t get close to anything and I’m getting quite hot.’

‘You could always burst the balloons one by one as the night goes on,’ I suggest and add, ‘that depends just how naked you are underneath or maybe how drunk you get.’

There’s a beat. Have I overstepped the mark? She’s not sure either. It’s not that I’ve offended her necessarily but we’re neither of us sure of the protocol of this situation. A line between two strangers is one thing but what mark is there to overstep between a man and a bunch of grapes?

She laughs and we decide it’s ok. It’s her stop next and frankly I’m glad that the comfort of our silence does not have to be tested. She gets up to go and gives me a cheeky smile and wave as she waits for the antique doors to slide open.

‘Have a good time at the party,’ I nod, ‘I’ll look out for you next time I’m not feeling so well.’ We’re neither of us sure what that was supposed to mean but we give me the benefit of the doubt as we know that it was probably meant well. She leaves my life and I’m just grapeful I didn’t crack any more gags.

As the train rolls on, I feel the draft from the tunnel down the back of my neck, my muscles stiffen and cool and my body begins to hurt. The fresh pheromone smell of my sweat is beginning to turn into stale B.O. and the seats around me empty one by one. By the end of the ride I’m sitting alone. Each new traveler making quick decisions to opt for the other carriage as they catch sight and smell of me on entrance. I’m grateful for the space. I’ve managed to stretch my limbs and sooth my aches and pains.

It’s 3.10pm as I leave the station and my mind races as my body is back in action, the responsibility of time is once again my own. I want to get back to my flat, I really want to but there’s a whole in my stomach like the Great Pit of Carkoon and the mighty Sarlacc within will not tolerate delay. It turns me toward the local shopping experience that is the Iceland supermarket, measuring 6.2 on the pikey scale, second only to Lidel. I stride through the aisles passing babies in prams pushed by babies with fags; no time to ponder the horror just now. 3.10pm and ten seconds when I’m queuing for the check out, fish fingers, bread, spinach and tartar sauce in my basket. Guess what I’m having for lunch. What the hell. It was lucky last time.

A black lady and her family are packing their bags in front of me. Well, she’s packing the bags and her fifteen junior offspring of assorted terrible ages are fighting with packets of biscuits, bleach bottles, vats of economy shower gel, anything they can get their hands on. My patience is thin but I’m not suicidal enough to hurry them on. The poor lady is spending 4 out of every 5 seconds trying to control her brats and only 1 of them packing but a comment from me and she’d focus all that suppressed wrath just bubbling under the surface into this middles class white male behind her and all her kids would turn on me like piranah to an injured bull.

I wait. I bite my tongue. The minutes count down and it’s 3.20pm before I’m through my flat door and I’m throw the shopping bags down and diving for my digital radio. As I turn it on the commentators are lamenting ‘Yet another chance spurned by Tottenham this half. When will they start finding the back of the net?’ Doesn’t sound like I’ve missed much as they recount the three or four efforts already gone begging. A shot from Defoe, a header from Dawson, a free kick from JJ and now a volley from Ghaly.

Shoes, shin pads and socks off my aching feet and I’m trying to figure out my new oven and grill, complete or incomplete with the very sleek and minimal effect of having no picture whatsoever by each setting. I turn the dial a notch every five minutes and hope that the element will start to glow. My stomach rumbles. The beast will not tolerate another failure. It’s clear that the boys have got it in hand. We’re all over them as Villa suffer another escape, this time at the hands of Dimitar Berbatov and their fans have been silenced save the expected ironic applauses and comedy jeers at Paul Robinson’s every touch.

As the half time whistle blows the cooking is under control and I’m most of the way towards the food I’ve been missing all day. The commentators are concerned that we’ve not scored despite our dominance but I’m unphased until I remember the words of my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through,

‘You’ve got to score in those periods when you have the advantage otherwise it wont matter how well we play. The other team will always be capable of netting one if we don’t.’ Wise words and it takes a good two rounds of some of the finest comfort munch to calm my fears. I lie down on my mattress (no sofa yet) chewing quietly, my sandwich close to my chest like a security blanket.

The BBC news rounds off on the radio and the shuffling of papers and bleeping of the hour turns to the sounds of the stadium again.

‘We’re back here at Villa Park, where Tottenham Hotspur and Aston Villa are still even at nil all despite Spurs clearly having the better of the first 45.’

My ears and whole body prick up, apart from the undigested lump in my belly and I’m confident that we can get something out of this game. After minute one, Michael Dawson has sustained yet another injury to his head. Juan Pablo Guy Smiley has kneed him in the temple and I can only imagine what kind of leap he must have performed to get his leg up to that lofty height. A few minutes later and Safety First Michael Dawson is off the pitch, concussed for the second game in a row, leaving Callum Davenport, apparently sporting a broken nose as the only recognised centre half both in our team and on our bench. Chimbonda moves in to help him as fan favourite Paul Stalteri is brought on at right full back.

We’re a hell of a lot weaker at the back but as yet Villa have not really taken advantage. The game has quietened down and I’m very nearly dropping off with all my blood gone to the rescue of my damaged muscles and bloated stomach when after 73 minutes all chaos has broken out. The commentators are almost drowned in the Birmingham din but I can just make out that Davenport has fouled in the box. He’s off with a straight red, it’s a penalty and Angel has the ball at his feet.

I grip my head in my hands. ‘Come on Robbo, come on,’ I’m thinking. I’m willing our keeper to make the save. I know how he feels, I’m sure of it. The horrific moment to make up for in mid-week, the chance to put things right, not just for the press and England but for himself; vindication, absolution. I know that’s what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too. I stare fixed on the bricks of my wall, the colour, the rough surface, the joins of the mortar but I’m a hundred miles away with a man, who’s waiting at the end of a barrel of a gun.

The crowd quietens as Angel steps up and the whistle blows. There’s a commotion and for a second I don’t know what’s going on. I flounder in my panic until a voice comes over loud and clear.

‘He’s missed it! Angel has missed the target altogether.’ Perhaps Robbo was not the hero I wanted him to be but I’ll take a miss too. Only ten men to their eleven but it’s still all to play for. The next question is, how the hell are we going to defend with no centre backs. The obvious choice is to bring on Davids as the strongest and most experienced player but before the substitution can be made we go from the sublime via the ludicrous to the ridiculous.

We’ve won a corner and while I’m still thinking if we’ve got any players on the pitch capable of jumping for a header, there comes Angel to the rescue once more. He has seen our aerial problem and solved it for us by turning a nothing corner from Jermain Defoe into his own net. I’m on my feet and jumping around my flat. I kiss my Spurs shrine and settle down for 14 minutes of hanging on. Come on!

I can believe our luck no more than the commentators, MJ and poor old Angel himself.

‘He’s missed an easy goal down at one end and scored a great one down the other!’ the radio marvels.

I’m sitting up, wishing I was there but as the crowd settle down I realise I am. A sound grows, a tune, a rhythm and one I know very well indeed. Across the radio waves I can hear as clear as a bell,

‘We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham from the Lane, we are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, we are Tottenham from the Lane!’

I mouth the words along with the fans. My eyes well up with tears and my heart soars with pride. I am represented. I’m there. I can hear the boys.

The substitution is made and it’s all hands to the pump as Berbatov goes off leaving Chimbonda, Stalteri, Benoit Who, Lennon, Davids, JJ, Murphy and Zokora to do what they can at the back while the Little Yiddo waits as the lonely figure up front and although the pressure is most definitely on, the job is being done. Done that is until I hear the crowd go crazy once again and as far as I am aware we weren’t on the ball when last I heard.

‘They backed off and they backed off until he let rip an absolutely beauty and once again Gareth Barry has given Steve McClaren something to think about. It’s level here again at Villa Park!’

I clench my teeth and curse but I know that we were lucky to be ahead. We’ll be lucky to be the first team not beaten by Villa at home and I can cope with a point from this fixture that most usually ends this way. Somehow though, somehow I feel that we can still win this. Defoe’s been on form all game. I can hear it in the commentary. They talk of the player I know. The one that ducks and weaves and makes the space. Just get him the ball and he can score and on 84 minutes he may well have if the linesman had got it right. With the ball at his feet inside his own half and no players between he and the keeper, he’s flagged offside despite his position on the field being outside the boundary for this rule to apply. He’s just too quick for the eye.

Minutes and a scramble or two later and the whistle blows for full time with a point apiece for the clubs. I switch the radio off and enjoy a moment of silence before I get ready for the evening’s fun. It’s Jimmy Fingers’ birthday. Charlie will be there too and there’s football to talk and European plans to hatch. Little do I expect to see a friend estranged for the last two years or to gatecrash a party in Tower Hill but I do so with hope in my heart. We’re still playing well. It’s just a question of time. And there’s a little twinkle in my half closed, drunken eyes before I pass out at home fully clothed on my unmade bed and I slur to myself before I disappear,

‘He’s coming back on form. Jermain’s back on fo…r……zzz..z.zzzzzzzz……’

The Bagel.   

 

This entry was posted on Monday, October 16th, 2006 at 3:59 pm and is filed under Match Reports. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.