Que Sera Sera, Part 2 of 3

A continuation from Part 1

4.00 exactly. Almost time for the players to re-emerge for the second half. He felt a sudden chill, and rubbed his gloved hands together as quickly as he possibly could. He blew on his hands.

Why do I do that? Does it really make my hands warmer? Surely the air gets colder from mouth to hand anyway. I am really overthinking this.

His son was happy. He’d finally got his own hands warm, thanks to an over-expensive, over-cooked steak pasty. And, he had seen a few goals for the home team during the interval - even if that was at under-twelve level.

The man thought of how he had really fancied a nice cup of tea whilst queuing for half-time snacks, but declined at the final furlong - somehow he felt inadequate doing so whilst among the hoards of (extremely unhappy) people in search of beer - lager, bitter, cider - it didn't really matter.

"Nice pasty?"

"Yeah, really nice. Really tasty." He didn't mean it, but at least he was starting to feel as close to normal as he could, given the circumstances.

"Good half-time match?"

"Yeah, really good. It ended three-two. I think".

"Wish you were down there?"

The boy looked up at him in apparent disbelief. He pointed towards the pitch. "Dad, I could be down there playing for the proper team." He sighed, "I couldn't do much worse".

A man sat in front almost spat out the coffee that he'd taken on board at the moment the boy spoke. He almost choked. When he regained his composure, he chuckled, and turned round to address the boy. "You're not wrong there, lad!"

The boy looked back at him quizzically, but at least smiled and nodded in return. His dad looked down at the boy.

"Do you think we'll get any goals back this half?"

"I've more chance of getting another pasty." The man in front gulped once more.

The man panned around the ground. Empty seats. A lot of empty seats. Must've been at least thirty percent less than fifteen minutes before. Some people would come back, but it would not be as many as had disappeared through the exits at half-time.

Why do I even bother? He's not bothered. Twenty-thousand other people aren't bothered. I pay how much a year to come and watch this?

The stadium speaker system boomed back into life, breaking his train of thought. The teams re-appeared. Barely a shout from the fans, now sparsely scattered around the ground.

"At least one goal, eh?"

"Yeah. Whatever, dad".

The second half couldn't have started in more comical style if it tried. It took the match officials approximately two minutes to realise that the home team had started a man down. The sharp-eyed fans (that were left) had noticed this ten seconds in and were desperately trying to make the bench aware of this. They tried shouting and booing. Finally a rendition of We've only got ten men got the message across.

This cataclysmic error was greeted with a further three-thousand odd people upping-seat and turning their back on the team as they tread towards the brightly lit exit signs.

They certainly know where the exit signs are. If you're going to go home now, why did you come in the first place? At least the toilets won't be as busy!

A further five-thousand disciples vacated once goal number five hit the net. Actually, this was a true candidate for goal of the season. Well worth the entrance fee. Bizarrely, for the sixth and seventh efforts, nobody left. Maybe everybody had died due to the torment.

He looked around and nodded.

This is what is left. The true core support. The "'til I die" fans.

But it certainly wasn't a cheerful atmosphere. Every pass by the home team was met with resounding boos. His son joined in. He motioned for the boy to hush.

"Booing the team doesn't help anyone, mate". His son stopped.

Another man on the row in front turned round to address the man. His face was red. Furiously so.

"What do you mean?"

The man didn't want to get into an argument, certainly not in the company of his son. He tried to calm the situation.

"I was just talking to the boy". This didn't matter. The man's face looked increasingly more red, not helped by the fact that he was wearing a bright blue jacket. He wanted an argument. It didn't matter who, but he wanted to vent.

"Look, mate. I've been coming here for nearly sixty years. Nearly sixty years and I have never, ever seen a team as bloody rubbish as this! They are an embarrassment. If I want to bloody boo, I'll bloody boo!"

The man looked down at his son, who was starting to look slightly disturbed by this change in events. He wasn't going to get into a "who has been watching the team for longer" contest. He wondered how many away games this person had actually been to.

"That's fine. But all I'm saying is that shouting at them is only going to make them play worse. Who does that help?"

"It helps me."

Helps you raise your blood pressure higher than your probably already high blood pressure. Over a game of football? Really?

"Well, if it helps.."

The man in front snorted, looked at the boy and promptly turned round. He wasn't getting the bite that he wanted. So he decided to turn his anger to anybody else that wouldn't listen. The players. The manager and coaching staff. The referee and his assistants. The ball boys. The seats. The goal posts. The corner flag. The advertisting hording stretched around the ground, playing on a ten-minute loop.

Anything. Everything was to blame in his eyes. And the rest of the crowd, for that matter. The air was becoming slowly more toxic.

4.30. Almost something to cheer. The home side had a chance. Thundered against the post. It must've shook for ten seconds afterwards. It was amazing that through this endless torrent of abuse, that the players could manage to still carve out an opportunity of note.

After a further thirty seconds, the boy looked up at the man, and uttered those five words that, in his dad's eyes, were totally unutterable.

"Can we go now, Dad?"

He thought back to the days when he would ask the same of his father, on similar occasions. The mantra he always followed.

"Son. Look around you. This is my club. This is your club. This is the club of everyone here. If we walk away from them, where does that leave everything? I'll tell you. It leaves us with nothing to share with those guys down there. We can't share their joy when things are going great, or their sorrow when things are bad. We can't shout at them, when they are not putting in the effort. This is the lifeline of this place. The thing that keeps us all together. Through thick or thin. Good or bad. We never give up on them. Never.

So the answer is no, we cannot go now. We will leave when the game is finished, and every last player has left the pitch".

He looked down at the boy.

"Yes," he sighed, "let's go home".

To be concluded...