The Derby Winner

Football’s changed. The racists have pretty much gone, even the sexists have been reduced to a few spiteful old men, but there’s one prejudice I cannot shake. Maybe I should be old enough to let it go, maybe we all should. But maybe I don’t want to. Because even if the penny-pinching billionaire sells all our best players, if we lose every game for the rest of the season, we’ve got to beat the Mackems.

I’m in the bar. We’re one-nil up with twenty minutes to play, but we’re clinging on. If the back four drop any deeper they’ll be playing in the Gallowgate. The clock clicks to 72 minutes. It’s torture. A good drink spoiled. I mean I’m only on the Coke, but there’s no holding on any longer.

The toilets are empty, or seems like it. I’m zipping up when I see that ‘wash your hands’ sign over the boarded up window. There's this sound too, a sort of mewling like a lost kitten. That’s what makes me look.

The kid's hunched under the sink. He's rocking back and forward, with his head down and his arms crossed tight against his chest. There’s no blood on him or anything, but he’s tiny, maybe five years old. Christ. I look around for help, but the cubicle doors are open. There’s no one here.

‘You alright, son?’

The rocking stops.

‘Where’s your mam?’

His head lifts. He looks at me with the light shining in his wide blue eyes, and his lips shut tight.

That’s when this shout goes up from the bar. Not a roar, just scattered, angry voices. Something’s happened. Maybe a sending off. Please, let it be that.

It isn’t.

I practically pull the door off its hinges in time to see a load of Mackems jumping round the corner flag. I stare dully at the replay and stomp towards the bar. I’m three steps in when I stop, swear at the big screen and turn back to the gents. The kid’s standing up, with one hand on the sink.

‘Haway, son. You want some juice?’

He still doesn’t answer, but the tightness has gone from his mouth and he follows me into the bar.

I get a real pint and an orange juice, and look down at the kid staring at the boxes of crisps behind the bar.

Two dimples, like little chisel marks cut into his cheeks.

‘Alright, you scrawny get.’ I tell him. The chisel marks dig deeper. ‘Two packets of cheese ‘n’ onion,’ I say to the barman, and then I get back over to the lads.

We got in early to get the seats, but Lee never turned up. Sign of the times. Still, at least there’s a spare stool. I pick the kid up and put him on it. The lads give me a ‘what the hell’ look. I shrug, and they turn back to the screen.

I watch our centre-half belt the ball into row Z, and I can’t help thinking of my own little boy, getting bigger, over in Los Angeles with his new, rich dad. The L.A. Galaxy, he supports now.

‘But it’s alright,’ he told me on our Saturday morning Skype, ‘I still like soccer.’

I take a mouthful of beer, like that’s going to help, and feel the skin prickle along my arm.

There’s someone watching me, this lass, over by the wall. I sneak a glance. She’s not a beauty, but she’s not bad. Blond pony-tail, and a touch of something sad around her eyes. Don’t kid yourself mate. There’s more chance of us winning the cup.

Sunderland get another corner. We’re hanging on for a draw, but I know, from that ache in the pit of my stomach, and from all the decades of this. We’re not going to make it.

And what the hell am I going to do with this kid?

It’s almost a relief to have something else to worry about.

‘What’s your name, son?’

The kid doesn’t answer, just stuffs the crisps in and stares at the screen.

I shrug. There’s only five minutes to go, and maybe, just maybe, we can hang on. Someone goes down injured, making a meal of it.

‘Get up,’ the kid says, daft little bugger.

‘Stay down,’ I shout, and I feel those eyes on me again, that lass across the bar.

She turns away, but doesn’t that only prove she was looking?

Something weird must be going on because Newcastle put half a dozen passes together. Our striker’s through on the edge of the box. His foot goes back. I’m half-way out of my seat when this defender comes piling in from the side.

‘You dirty...’

‘Tackle.’

I look to see who said it, but I already know.

‘You’re a Mackem?’

The kid gives me this lopsided grin over the top of his juice.

I shake my head. ‘It was a bloody foul.’

‘Nah,’ the kid says, 'he got the ball.' And of course, the ref doesn’t give it.

We’re pressing on, upping the tempo. The board goes up for two minutes injury time. Typical, we only start playing now. But still, I can’t stop the hope rising up through my chest. Do I never bloody learn?

Every player bar the keeper is in their half. We’re knocking it around, getting nowhere fast, and the clock’s ticking. That’s why we get edgy. Give it away. Their full-back belts it over the top.

‘Yesss,’ the kid says, but it’s a ragged, anywhere ball, halfway to the clouds.

‘That’s it. Times up,’ I tell him, but it isn't. Not yet.

Our centre-half can play, but he’s thirty-three. Their striker’s nineteen. He gets a step ahead. Our keeper charges out. The ball drops out of the sky, and they all come together on the edge of the box.

‘Keeper’s ball.’

Got to be. His gloved hands come up.

‘Catch it, man, catch it.’

He doesn’t catch it. He doesn't punch it either. This ginger head pops up between his hands, and sends the ball looping into the air. All three of them land in a heap.

I look to the ref but his hands are down by his sides.

The ball bounces on the penalty spot.

‘Yesss.’ Orange juice spills across the table.

‘No.’ I jump back, too late to stop the sticky wetness from soaking through my jeans.

The ball bounces again, and dribbles about six inches over the line.

The kid’s going mental. He’s up off his stool, shouting his head off with crisps and juice flying all over.

I can't look at him, but I can feel the rest of the bar staring daggers at the pair of us.

‘Sit down, man,’ I hiss, but he just stands there with his fists stretched towards the

ceiling.

There isn’t even time to kick-off again before the ref blows for full-time.

‘We’re away to the town,’ the lads tell me, like they're going to a funeral, and the bar

empties in about ten seething seconds.

I’d go too, just to get away, but I know I’m going to feel sick for the rest of the night. No amount of beer’s going to change that. And anyway, I’ve got this kid to sort out.

I don’t even know what makes me look, but that lass is still there. She gives me a little nod, and this edgy, tight-lipped smile. I smile back, and like magic, the world changes. All that bitterness washes away.

I think of my empty flat, and the way her hair falls across her shoulders. I should go over, say something, but the fear’s still aching in my stomach, left over from the bloody football. And what am I supposed to do with this damn kid?

Leave him, this little voice whispers in my head. He’s not your problem.

I look at him, legs crossed, feet swinging nowhere near the floor.

Three years on my own, and a few seedy one night stands to show for it. This is different. I can feel it. And how many chances are there going to be?

The lass stands up. Her shirt falls loose over her jeans.

My heart thumps in my chest.

Her blue eyes lock onto mine.

I blink, and swear, and turn away.

‘Where’d you live, son?’

‘Kingston Street,’ he tells me, dabbing the last crumbs off the silver paper. ‘In Roker.’

‘Roker?’ Jesus Christ.

‘Alright. Aye, I’ll drop you home. Your mam’ll be frantic.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘She’s just there.’

The lass is standing above us with the sun in the window behind, lighting up the shape of her through that red and white shirt.

‘Thanks for looking after Jimmy,’ she says. 'He gets a bit upset when they’re losing.’

And she must see the penny drop, because they both give me that same silly grin.

‘He’s coming back to ours,’ Jimmy says, and we laugh together at the daft things kids say, except this time, I don’t look away.

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