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(Continued)
A silence descended upon the
entirety of the pub as the game began, our own beloved team
starting with the ball. The silence was short-lived, however; with
the first of what was to be many attempted goals, we were
screaming out in anticipation and frustration.
"Look at this tosser!
You don't play with the ball like that inside the eighteen!"
Julian exclaimed, gently nudging the man beside him, who nodded at
Julian in agreement. "Shoot!"
The player took the shot,
but much too late; the other team's keeper easily caught it. As
the ball was tossed back into play, I noticed Julian's hand once
again on his shin, his fingers tracing the long scar that resided
there. It was where the doctors cut open his leg to insert a metal
rod: a souvenir of his accident and a constant reminder of what he
had lost. The rest of his body may be stationary, but his fingers
would be moving like mad, running up and down, back and forth,
caressing but at the same time assaulting his disability. He did
that whenever he was watching a game, when he was frustrated with
what he was seeing.
Julian had spent months
after the accident trying to deny it, trying to make it out like
things were better than they were, but the facts were all there.
Julian's hopes for a career in professional soccer were over.
Surgery, heavy rehabilitation and therapy had ensured him the
ability to walk, but nothing would enable him to take the field
again. Especially not professionally. There was only one thought
that could have been going through his head as he watched that
striker fumble with the ball and miss an elementary shot: That
should have been me. I could have done it. That should have been
me.
"Bloody hell!"
Pete kept shouting, no matter what was occurring. "Bloody
hell! Bloody hell!"
"Cross it!" Julian
bellowed, his hands flying up in fevered upset. "Cross the
bloody ball!"
There was a great rise and
fall of emotions within the pub as the ball was crossed and was
skillfully intercepted.
"Dear Lord, Adrienne
could have made that cross!" Julian groaned, resting his head
down on the bar.
"I don't suppose that
was in any way complimentary," I muttered.
"Well, you're a Yank,
Adrienne," Pete replied. "Everyone knows you lot can't
play football for shit."
"Well, thank you for
that, Pete."
Within the few seconds that
our brief conversation had taken place, the game had completely
switched pace. Suddenly, the ball was down on our side of the
field, the other team's striker running with a tremendous
breakaway. He was barreling down the field, straight towards our
goal, and our keeper seemed to be making no attempt at even
considering saving a potential shot.
"Keeper!" I
screamed, nearly knocking over my beer. "Where's the keeper
on that one?"
"Keeper's got it,"
Julian murmured, more to convince himself than me. "There we
go... Keeper's on that one."
And as always, it was
exactly as Julian said it would be. The keeper saved the shot with
ease and punted it back into play. The game continued with much of
the same, with players taking shots and making passes, all of us
in the pub screaming our lungs out over absolutely everything. For
an hour and a half this occurred with little interruption.
As regulation game play drew
to a close, the tension inside the pub had reached a near tangible
intensity. It was almost as if everyone began to grow nervous, as
if there was something greater at stake for every single one of us
seated in that pub. It's a peculiar phenomenon really. Just
sitting there, watching the game, my heartbeat quickened, my body
tingled and twitched without me really noticing, and sometimes I
even became a bit nauseous. But then, when the whistle blew and
the players trotted off the field and a great onslaught of
commercials commenced, there was great sigh of relief. A release
to all the tension and anxiety and stress. And that, too, is
nearly tangible.
"That's it!" Pete
cried, throwing himself down on the bar. "I can't do this
anymore! I'm going to piss myself if this match goes on much
longer. Who wants to buy me a pint?"
A man at the far end of the
bar laid down several bills, catching Pete's eye.
"Pour one for yourself,
barkeep. This is one hell of a match!"
"Bless you, sir!"
Pete exclaimed, popping up from his dejected position and swooping
over to claim his prize. "Bless you, you lovely gem of a
man!"
"Before you proceed to
kiss the man, Pete, could I have another pint as well?"
Julian asked.
Pete, suddenly all business,
nodded, turning to face me.
(Turn
the page)
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