You broke the rules, man. Then again, you always did.
Saw it yesterday and thought of you, thought of us.
There were six of ‘em in the cage in the rec’; the one we used to knock about in after school before teatime, miss it and you’d know about it! One of the lads, straggly little thing, knackered trainers and a worn-out tracky, was standing in the goal when the ball flew past him.
They were on him like hyenas before the ball had even hit the back of the net. Punches, kicks, even a cheeky armpit poke. I was about to hop over the fence and sort it out when they all broke away laughing; the unwritten rule telling them when to stop. The little bugger took it well to be fair to him, rubbed his arms and legs, had a go at a stocky lad who must have landed a good ‘un, and then went back in net without any fuss.
Ten-and-you’re-dead, what a game!
I’d tried to explain the rules to my new uni mates one sunny afternoon before the finals. Felt weird to be honest, like explaining water to someone. Kids off the estate just knew.
‘It’s like football, but with just one net, and everyone works together to score headers or volleys. Every time someone scores a goal, you count up from one and if you miss, you go in net. The person in net for the tenth goal gets beats.’
‘Beats?’
‘Yeah, punches and that.’
‘What, properly? Why?’
‘Cos they lost.’
‘How many punches?’
That’s when I’d known it wouldn’t work. Sure enough, it was a shit-show. I tried to tell you about it in The Feathers when I got home that summer. I’d grown my hair a bit and was wearing jeans and a chequered shirt instead of the standard sports gear.
‘You look a bit poncey, mate. No barbers in Bristol?’
You didn’t want to know about uni life or at least made out you didn’t. You were full of it or full of something. We sat at the same table where we’d had our first underage pint, me, you and the rest, maybe one weak beard if we’d pooled together, arguing for five minutes about who looked old enough to go to the bar until the wizened landlady had shouted over, ‘There’s no fucking table service here, lads.’
Six years in, she was still there, watching you with one eye as you necked pint after pint. Yeah, you were full of it, giving it the big man about your new job in Allsports and what you could jack, who you knew, what you could get, and disappearing into the toilet every five minutes.
I found you at the same table when I was back for Christmas last year. I’d been to your mum’s gaff first, but she said she didn’t see much of you anymore. Sounded like she didn’t want to, either. She looked tired, man. None of the old gang had your number anymore, hadn’t for years, but I guessed where you’d be.
You were sitting alone, already half-cut, looking rough as, not from a day’s bender though: flaky skin, blotches on your cheeks, hollow eyes, grotty stained fingers and a frame you’d hang a jacket on. So bad I didn’t even take the piss. I didn’t tell you about Sammy starting school, my promotion, the new place we were buying. We were in different worlds.
Instead, we talked about the past: the time you annoyed the older boys walking back from school and we got launched in a bin, when we robbed dustcaps off all the teachers’ cars and were shitting bricks for weeks, the pack of ciggies we found and smoked until we were sick. I saw a bit of you return; you were still in there somewhere.
We didn’t talk about my favourite memory, though: ten and you’re dead in the cage. We were playing with the older boys, Tommy’s brother and all that lot, the lads you’d get your gear off later. I didn’t want to play, but you bullied me into it.
‘Come on, man. Don’t be a soft-arse.’
This was high stakes, but it started like it always did: everyone taking shots for fun. As we got to seven, people started to see their arses, terrified of going in net. On nine, there was no chance of me having a shot.
This was the question the uni lads should’ve asked: why would anyone shoot? There was nowt to win, and everything to lose.
But you did. The cross came in and you caught it on the volley, so sure, so full of yourself. Fuck the risk. It was you in a nutshell. Your eyes lit up and then you skied it. You slumped, burst in front of my eyes. A minute later, you were in net and the tenth goal went in.
I knew you’d leg it before even you did. You ran for your life as they chased you like dogs on a rabbit.
I went and closed the cage gate, trapping you in. You dodged an arm and legged it towards me and the closed gate. I wasn’t going to open it, would have watched you get the digs the game demanded, but you didn’t even break your stride; you trusted me completely. I couldn’t fuck that up.
Our eyes locked. You knew I’d open it before even I did. We went through it together, slamming it behind us, and didn’t stop running until we got back to mine.
‘Nice one, man,’ you panted, keeled over, stitch on its way.
‘No worries, bro. We’re gonna get it tomorrow, like.’
‘Aye. Not today though, eh,’ and gave me your ear-to-ear grin.
And now I’m back again and I’m putting on my tie.
I knew about the drink, the drugs, the loneliness. But that’s just three. I didn’t know you were at ten, mate; I would’ve opened the gate.
