Que Sera Sera Part 3 of 3

As the man trudged out of the stadium, son walking briskly at his side, he started to feel guilt. Guilt that he'd never felt before. Guilt over what in all honesty was simply twenty-two men kicking a ball about on grass. Guilt over those tens of thousands baying for blood, metaphorically speaking.

Guilt that he was letting down his late father. Giving up, just because times were tough. Giving up because it was all just getting monotonous. He remembered his words. Over and over in his head.

"Without us, they are nothing. Without them, we are nothing. We need each other."

The boy, sensing a change of mood, turned his head upward. "We did the right thing Dad. It's just no fun anymore," he said. Before the man could smile in consolation, they both turned back towards the stadium. An almighty groan emanated from the gladiators' cauldron, followed by a cacophony of boos. He quickly checked his phone to confirm what was already obvious.

"Another one?"

"Yes."

The guilt had now turned to sadness. He wanted to weep, loudly. Although not mathematically certain, relegation to the fourth tier of the footballing pyramid was certain. A three-year complete fall from grace. From the very top, to the absolute stinking bottom.

What about the fans of all the clubs down there, that have always been down there? Why should I feel so self-righteous? Everything finds its true place eventually. The cream rises. And what isn't the cream, certainly sinks. 

After five minutes walk across a sodden field, they found themselves at the queue of buses, ready to take them back to the out of town car park. Unsurprisingly, there was a reasonably populated line of the disgruntled, the bitter and the "I just couldn't care anymore".

"I'm feeling really cold, Dad. When can we get on the bus?"

"Won't be long. Just jump up and down and count to ten thousand."

So the boy did. A count for each and every one of those left inside the stadium behind them. The "die-hards". Those that, like automatons, hand over money they probably didn't have to spend in the first place to attend that arena. Their place of worship.

Luckily, they reached the front of the bus queue before the boy reached fifteen hundred. They decided to take the twenty minute trip on the top level.

“Can I have your phone, Dad?”

The man nodded. He already had his journey planned - listening to the football phone-in show on his portable radio. As he dropped his earphones in place, he prepared himself for a journey of a different kind. Torture.

He looked down towards the boy. He was emersed in a world of trying to make three colours match one another as many times as possible in order to score as many points as possible. As he sneered, he desperately tried to ignore the overwhelming feeling of hypocrisy starting to cover him like a huge, warm blanket.

Of course, when he was younger, he would spend many an hour in his bedroom trying to complete a plethora of challenging titles on his ZX Spectrum. Of course, he was all grown-up now, and he found the use of these mobile devices for such purile activities a savage annoyance.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“We’ve got Jim on the line now..”

“Oh, hello, thanks for taking my call. I want to talk about the match today.”

What a surprise!

“I just want to say that since they changed the manager, they are just not playing the style of football our fans are accustomed to.”

Wonder why that might be? Oh yeah, it’s a different manager.

“We’re used to fast, attacking and flowing football. This stuff is rubbish.”

So. Since he arrived, he has managed to win three trophies. In fifteen months. Where did the fast, flowing attacking football get them. Answer. Nowhere. Not a single honour. But as long as the crowd are entertained, that’s alright then. This is not the X-Factor. Entertainment is nice. But. BUT. Winning stuff is what this is about. It’s sport, not TV.

And so, on it went. The boy still sat, playing his game. Zombie-like. The man was amazed just how his son had managed to navigate the short trip from bus to car - across a couple of busy roads - without dying, both in the game and in real life.

“We need to get rid of our manager now, otherwise we are down.”

And get who exactly. Is there anybody any good available? Wouldn’t you just be picking from a pool of failure anyway? Your manager has never taken a team down. Oh, it’s the style of play thing again! Rather be playing in the lower division, but with this magical flowing, attacking, entertaining football again. Well fine. But what if the team never comes back again? Would you be thankful for that? No, I didn’t think so. Be careful what you wish for.

“I couldn’t make the game today, but I just wanted to say that the referee was disgraceful. How he didn’t give a stonewall penalty, I do not know... the TV replays back me up..”

I would not like to be a referee. I’d bet if it was a decision in favour of the other team, you’d be lauding the bloke. Hang on a minute... you weren’t at the game? TV replays? So, not only are you happy to have a go at the ref, you (a) didn’t even turn out to see the game and (b) in all probability watched it illegally! 

“I was at the game, and I couldn’t care less about TV replays. There was no way that was a penalty..”

Here we go.

“We need to sack the manager. Two months ago, we were in the play-off positions. Now we’ve got no chance of going up. The team is poor. It’s the same every year. We always tail off towards the end of the season.”

So, this is the same manager everybody was raving about at the start of the year. The breath of fresh air. And besides, your team is one point off the play-offs with two, YES two games in hand on everyone else! 

“It’s the manager’s fault. We’re down.”

“It’s the players’ fault.”

“It’s the owner.”

“It’s the board.”

“It’s the fans.”

“Aaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhh!”

This did at least manage to distract the boy’s attention.

“What you listening to, dad?”

”Nothing,” The man replied, turning off the radio. They were nearly home anyway. He turned off the radio just as a rather articulate lady called in the berate all those who had called before her. Pointing out that it was only a game, and that sometimes it goes wrong. That those wanting a change should be careful what they wish for. Better the devil you know is sometimes best. That those calling in and complaining about how poorly they are doing when they are mid-table in the top division should think about those teams that genuinely are struggling to cope, that have no TV money coming it, etc.. etc...

Click! The rest of her point was lost, forever. Whether it would’ve changed his mind anyway would be a debate for many a historian in years to come.

The car ground to a stop on the driveway. The man pulled the handbrake and disembarked. The boy did the same.

“What you doing?” Asked the boy, noticing his father walking towards the side of the house.

"Best ring the doorbell, eh?”

The boy turned away, doing as he was told. He failed to hear the sound of the dustbin lid opening, followed by two dull thuds, and his father slowly closing the top again. He did hear the the two beeps of the car remote-locking mechanism, just as the front door opened. He turned and felt a waft of warm air.

His mother was stood at the door. She smiled a welcoming smile.

”Hi”, said the boy, “that game was rubbish.” He rushed past her and into the living room, in search of food.

The man sighed a deep sigh before he stepped in front of his wife. He thought of all that had gone before him. The triumph. The glory. The disaster. Almost forty years. Every second Saturday (or Friday, Sunday or Monday night, depending on the whim of the pay-TV channels). He fondly thought of his father.

She smiled.

“Bad game, again?”

He laughed, but didn’t reply. She looked at him quizzically. He stepped forward and kissed her gently on the left cheek. She felt a chill as his cold face brush against hers. His right-hand held onto her side, and squeezed her. She fell back a single step.

"You know that lodge you fancied going to?”

She nodded.

"Well I think it’s a great idea. I think we should go. Weekend after next.”

She was delighted, but then she realised something. Surely he knew they couldn’t?

"But, you’ve...”

Before she could finish the sentence, he put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her again. He pulled back.

"I’ve made a big decision.”

And with that he made his way past his wife, hung up his coat, and followed in the footsteps of his son.

Sorry dad.

Realising the magnitude of his previous comment, she paused. Then she smiled to herself. She closed the front door, and made her way into the front room.

THE END

Thanks for reading. You can find my other efforts at the Amazon Kindle store. Your faith will be rewarded, The girl on the park bench and My ZX Spectrum and Other Stories are also available to borrow via Kindle Lending Library.