Only a Game (16 page)

Then, five minutes before the half time interval, disaster struck the home side. The star French winger, for whom Liverpool had paid a transfer fee greater than the cost of all eleven Brunton players, got clear for the first time after a dazzling piece of footwork. He moved swiftly down the Rovers right flank, leaving his full back floundering well behind him. The Rovers centre half moved swiftly to cover him, as his manager had warned him he would have to do at some time in the game. He was outpaced and he knew he was, labouring behind his fleet-footed opponent as he moved into the penalty area. The Frenchman looked up, saw his two strikers free and waiting for a pass twelve yards from goal, and prepared to make an accurate cross. Panting behind him, the Rovers' defender made a desperate sliding tackle, searching desperately for a touch of the ball, any sort of touch, with his outstretched foot.

The Gallic boots were too quick for him. The defender failed in his desperate, heroic, futile tackle, missed the ball, and caught the foot of his opponent, who fell theatrically to the turf and rolled over three times with balletic energy. ‘PENALTY!' roared the visiting horde behind the goal, and they were right, despite the Oscar-worthy exaggerations of the central figure. The outstretched arm of the referee, stark and black as that of the Grim Reaper himself, pointed inexorably to the penalty spot. The Rovers hung their heads; the Liverpool players hauled their man to his feet and hugged him for his efforts.

Steven Gerrard, the Liverpool icon, as native to the city as Scouse itself or the Liver Building by the Mersey, lined up the penalty, exchanging grim smiles with the Rovers' keeper: the two had known each other and been friends for ten years and more. No place for friendship, this.

Stevie G. wouldn't miss, the men behind the goal told each other, though some of them shut their eyes as he moved to the ball. The roar told those who could not bear to watch that all was well. An unstoppable shot, high and to the goalkeeper's right, hitting the stanchion which supported the post. Red and white scarves waved in triumphant unison behind the disconsolate goalkeeper; gloomy resignation on the other three sides of the ground where the blue and white favours of Brunton floundered disconsolately.

A few minutes later, the shaken Brunton team were shut in the dressing room for the half-time interval with Robbie Black, whilst the manager wondered how he was to raise the spirits and the effort of these sweating men who had heard it all before. He did not yell at them: that would risk communicating his own dismay at events thus far. They had been outplayed, but they had given maximum effort, and he would not berate them for that.

‘Man for man, you're as good as they are, for all their fancy prices and their fancy wages. So far, you haven't combined as well as a team as they have, but you're going to put that right in the second half. Get it, keep it, pass it! The basics still apply and they always will. But you need to move the ball more quickly. That's in the hands of those of you who haven't got the ball. Front men, you must give your midfield men options. The runs you make are important, even when you never get the ball, and you know it. Every time you draw defenders after you, you're making space for someone else. David will make the passes, if you give him the options.'

Robbie glanced at his constructive midfield player, the most imaginative passer in his team, who forced a strained smile from his anxious white face. Men were reduced to boys in the extreme tensions of a match like this. Robbie turned back to the rest. ‘Their defence is solid, but there's room on the wings – there always is. If you can get towards the line and pull crosses back, no defence likes that. You don't like it. And neither will they. And remember, you're as good as they are, on your own pitch. You just need to operate as a team and work like hell for each other. Once you've pulled them back, they'll be rattled.'

He forced conviction into his words, trying to excite himself as well as his players. He had no idea how much effect his words would have. It was a simple game really, and you had to keep your message simple. But that meant that there was always a danger of repeating yourself and losing effect. It was always easier to convince youngsters than the hardened pros who felt they had heard and seen it all before. He had a mixture of the two in this game. He kept his captain and central defender behind as the others trooped out of the dressing room and down the passage to the pitch for the second half. ‘Don't let the lads over-stretch themselves as we attack, Colin. They'll punish us if we do.'

The veteran nodded his assent, grimaced wryly to himself as he followed his team into the tunnel. Attack, but don't take risks: there was nothing like having your cake and eating it. But the boss was right, of course. The younger lads would get carried away with the prospect of beating Liverpool, if they got a goal.

The Rovers were better, certainly, as the second forty-five minutes began. They soon had the internationals who composed the Liverpool defence looking anxious for the first time, shouting instructions to each other and beckoning their attacking colleagues to come back and help. Their goalie made his first good save, then the tall Brunton centre forward headed narrowly over the bar. The home crowd, sensing a revival, roared their team on, but for twenty minutes Liverpool kept their lead. It looked as though they had weathered the storm and were ready to reassert themselves as the Rovers tired.

Then, just when it was needed, the goal came. The ball bounced free in midfield after a stern home tackle. David Greaves pounced and slid a pass along the turf between the Liverpool central defenders. Ashley Greenhalgh was on to it in a flash, moving swiftly towards goal, flicking the ball forward as his marker slid despairingly after him. He steadied himself as the goalkeeper advanced towards him, then slid the ball low and accurately past him into the corner of the net. A massive roar greeted his effort as he wheeled away towards the corner flag and the home support, his right arm raised in triumph towards his followers.

Now the home team pressed forward, riding on the continuous encouragement of their fans like surfers on an incoming tide, feeling the heady sense of destiny which a win would bring. They had three corners in quick succession, then hit the crossbar with a snap shot from the inspired David Greaves, who was urging them forward with a series of subtle passes.

Then Robbie Black's warning to his captain was abruptly justified. Liverpool needed the win rather than the draw to sustain their run for the title, and the Rovers' assault gave them the room they needed. They broke away swiftly after the third of the Rovers' corners, and had for a vital moment three attackers against two defenders. The pass from the right wing was well timed. Their leading scorer, cutting in from the left to receive it, met the ball beautifully, so that the visiting fans were up out of their seats to applaud the goal. But the Rovers goalkeeper, moving even as his opponent shot, stretched miraculously to get his flying left hand to the ball when it seemed past him.

He had the luck which his anticipation and agility deserved. The ball was diverted just enough to hit the goalpost and rebound back into play, whence it was booted out of play with massive relief by the Rovers' toiling captain. Anguish among the visiting supporters as they sank back into their seats. Cheers for their heroic goalkeeper, then laughter with a strong element of hysteria in it from the Rovers' faithful at their reprieve.

The play was more even now, with both sides going for the win. A feeling spread that the tremendous physical efforts which the Rovers' players had made would tell against them in the closing section of the match. There were fouls on both sides by tiring players, a booking and a severe lecture from the referee to the nineteen-year-old Brunton midfield player whose enthusiasm had strayed into rashness and a desperate tackle on Steven Gerrard.

Then, with five minutes to play, the unthinkable happened. Ashley Greenhalgh was suddenly free on the right wing, his clever run seen and rewarded by a subtle pass from the man behind him. He cut in towards goal, then veered away again as two men moved to cover his run. He feinted to move back inside just enough to get the full back on the wrong foot, then dipped his shoulder and moved outside him. As the ball threatened to run away from him over the goal line, he pulled it back along the ground to around the penalty spot, where his centre forward was moving in with the speed and impetus of an express train. With the crescendo of the crowd's roar in his ears, he smashed the ball unstoppably past the despairing goalkeeper, raised both arms in brief triumph to the exulting crowd, and was then submerged under the frantic congratulations of his team-mates.

Bobble hats were flung into the air, some of them never to be retrieved. Boys danced the crazy dance of unthinking joy which would never be possible for them again, young men embraced each other in the breathy male camaraderie which would have been impossible anywhere else. Old men with rheumy eyes found that for some reason they could not stop laughing. Robbie Black leapt in manic celebration on the touchline for thirty seconds, then remembered himself, and made frantic gestures of caution towards his excited players as he pointed at his watch. Edward Lanchester, on his feet and cheering in the directors' box, lost thirty years and clasped first Helen Capstick and then Debbie Black in happy embraces, effortlessly lifting them off their feet in his happiness.

The referee's urgent whistling eventually made the Brunton team regroup for the final stages of the drama. Liverpool threw their whole team forward in frantic attack as the minutes ticked away. The crowd groaned when four minutes of stoppage time were announced, the longest and most agonising four minutes that many of them could remember. At the very end, even the Liverpool goalkeeper came up for the final corner kick, but to no avail. This like the other pressure was repulsed. And as the ball arched high away from the home goal, the three long blasts of the whistle announced that the greatest Brunton result of the season was finally secure.

Robbie Black hugged each of his players in turn as they came off the field: they were all heroes today. He gave his after-match interviews to Sky television and the BBC, taking several deep breaths before he did so to enable him to seem sober and balanced rather than happily triumphalist. He genially turned aside the inevitable probings about the future of Ashley Greenhalgh, saying reasonably enough that he wanted just to savour this moment – victories over Liverpool did not come too often to the smaller teams, and this was his first one as manager.

Robbie stayed with his players to enjoy the victory with them. The dressing room was a noisy, exultant place, filled with laughter and the clumsy male teasing which normally accompanies notable team triumphs. It was an hour and more after the conclusion of the game when Black donned his suit and climbed the stairs to the hospitality suite.

Entertaining visiting dignitaries is a strange business after a game like this. The home team's representatives are trying not to exult too publicly in their victory. The visitors are trying desperately hard to be good losers. Both sides pretend that this is after all only a sporting occasion, which should be kept in its proper perspective. Neither group is normally very successful at adopting the role required of it. There is an air of strained politeness, with brittle laughter trying to soften the raw edges of triumph and disaster. Kipling's advice to treat these twin impostors with equal contempt was an admirable admonition, but he never attended a Premiership soccer match.

The Liverpool group were sensibly looking to leave as soon as they reasonably could, to drive the short distance back to their great city and nurse their wounds in private. Edward Lanchester wrung the hand of his old friend Joe Nolan heartily enough as he took his leave, but the rest of the Brunton Rovers party were no more than decently polite. They wished their visitors well in their quest for the title, though by now they knew that Liverpool's rivals had won and today's defeat would almost certainly be crucial for them.

When the Brunton party were finally left alone, Darren Pearson made sure they all had full glasses in their hands to toast the victory. The tensions of politeness dropped away, the exultation of today's result and the manner in which it had been achieved broke out anew. The noise level rose, the laughter now was uninhibited and genuine.

Jim Capstick watched and waited. On this night of euphoria, there wasn't going to be a right moment for him to drop his bombshell, but it had to be done. He couldn't leave it any longer without rumour running rife. The Sunday papers were already on to the story. The football correspondents of the
News of the World
and the
People
had phoned him during the morning, asking for comments on what they had picked up from sources they refused to name.

He rapped his glass upon the table, waited until the startled, apprehensive silence was complete and said, ‘I am sorry to interrupt our celebrations of one of the most notable victories since I took over here. This is not the right time to tell you this, but I have no choice. I had much rather that you heard this from me than from anyone else. I need to tell you that I am engaged in discussions about selling my majority interest in Brunton Rovers Football Club.'

There was a shocked silence. Then, as the excited reactions began, Edward Lanchester called over the heads of the others in the room, ‘You mean a take-over.'

‘I do, yes. I should stress that we are at an early stage of negotiation, but at the moment it seems that a change of ownership and direction will be in my own and the club's best interests.'

Lanchester said sourly, ‘Your own interests I can appreciate. We shall need convincing that this will be in the club's best interests.'

Capstick had expected this view from this source. He had also determined to point out the facts of life before anyone in this room got ideas above their station. ‘The decision to sell or not to sell is entirely in my hands, Edward. You need to realize that times have changed. I will put this as clearly as I possibly can. As far as I am concerned, Brunton Rovers is one of several business assets I possess. I need to review constantly the portfolio of those assets. We are in the midst of a recession which has considerably reduced the value of many of the businesses I control. One of the few assets which I can still sell for almost the same price as at this time last year appears to be the football club. I am therefore investigating the possibilities of doing so.'