The scene opens at a football pitch. A school football pitch at that. The pitch is absolutely sodden and lumps of turf stick up like landmines at random locations. The white paint is hardly visible. It is raining lightly, and there is a very thick fog in the air. The two teams, Hurstley Secondary School Year 11's vs Banks Grammar School Year 11's. One team in red, the other in a pale blue.
Hurstley Secondary (in red) wasn't exactly the Oxford of the schooling world. In fact, their coach was a supply maths teacher and the ball on the pitch was their third they had gone through due to them bursting. Their number one striker had been expelled a week before because he threw a brick through the Headmasters office window. The team had recorded only one win in the school year. A one-nil victory over their B-team, who were a whole school year younger than them.
Banks Grammar (in blue) was a highly rated institution that was certified with an "FA Excellence" badge. Most of the team had already played on trial for the upper echelons of football. Some successful, some not, but one thing was bloody obvious, they were a damn sight more presentable bunch than the Hurstley lot. They danced down the touchline, warming up under the watchful eye of their Italian coach.
Hurstley ran onto the pitch, most of the lads wearing either a shirt too big, or more humorously, shorts too small. One of them tripped and went face down into the mud, before angrily punching the ground and then tying his shoe lace up. The Banks lads saw this, but maintained a calm professionalism, not even smirking at the lad's downfall, (at least not on the outside).
The CV's then...
Mr Glouch. Forty-five years old. Hurstley Secondary School supply mathematics teacher, football team coach and postman. Lancashire born. Football experience: watching his beloved Wycombe Wanderers play home and away, week in, week out. Victories as manager: One. Draws: Zero. Losses: Twenty-Five.
Mr Canimi. Thirty years old. Banks Grammar School Head Football Coach and Sports Director. Sicily born. Football experience: Played a whole season with Atalanta Reserves, including three first team appearances before having his playing career ended with injury. Victories as manager: Thirty-Seven. Draws: Zero. Losses: Zero.
Kick off: 16:00. Current time: 15:50. Mr Glouch pulled up in his white ford escort, deliberately splashing some muddy water on Mr Canimi's Jaguar. He sauntered over to his team with a wide grin on his face. He didn't care about his poor record on the pitch. He didn't care that the school was failing in every department possible. He cared only about the sixteen lads he was walking towards and the words that were about to come out of his mouth. The team gathered infront of him, their lips shaking in the cold. Their pale little knees knocking.
Mr Glouch: Right lads. I'm not gonna talk about the last match, because quite frankly it doesn't matter. All that matters today is the next hour. Alright?
A few members of the team grunted
Mr Glouch: Right, Banks Grammar School are only playing us because the other teams they usually play against are competing in a tournament in bloody France and they don't leave til Sunday cos they got a bye into the next round because the bloody sun shines out their arses. We are a training match for them, flatteringly enough.
The whole team laugh. They are used to his humour now. He is by far and away their most favourite teacher in the whole school.
Mr Glouch: That doesn't mean to say they haven't got their best lads out and aren't gonna do everything they can to give us a bloody good hiding. Lads, all I ask of you today is to just enjoy yourselves. They are a lot bigger than us and will probably all be playing for Arsenal or sommat next year. Don't be scared of them, let them be scared of your lack of fear. Alright lads??
The whole team reply with "Yes Boss" and run on to the pitch. Mr Glouch proudly watches them run and then looks over at Mr Canimi addressing his team at the opposite side of the pitch. He moved his arms like a conductor, and the whole team watched and listened in awe. He had a laminated flipchart which every few minutes he flipped and explained thoroughly their tactics and strategy. Mr Glouch watched this, shook his head and laughed as he looked at his lads freezing their bollocks off waiting.
Mr Glouch: Oi!! Panini!! We playin today or what??
He shouted across the pitch. Canimi looked over and nodded, before packing his chart away and clapping his team onto the pitch. The referee was Canimi's second hand man. A proper, certified referee who in all fairness was known for his "great impartiality".
Kick off.
Banks passed it around in an almost "Total Football" way. A few parents of lads from both teams stood at either side of the pitch, either clapping in admiration or shouting in desperation.
Mr Glouch: Get stuck in come on!! It's football not ballroom dancin!! Jonesy slide in!! Slide in!!
Jones was a rather rotund lad who had a surprising amount of pace. He ran alongside a lad who was built like Atlas compared to him. Jones leapt up and with one outstretched chubby leg, took the ball completely out of Atlas's possession. Atlas fell to the ground and looked up at Jonesy's fat face smirking at him.
Mr Glouch: Good lad Jonesy! That's it!!
Banks took their throw in, a Delap special straight into Hurstley's box which was met with a volley from Atlas. Straight into the top corner. Hurstley's goalkeeper, George Duffy, didn't even seem aware of the game, let alone the goal. One-nil.
Mr Glouch: Wake up Duffy you bloody clown!!
The Banks Parents/Supporters Club snobbishly clapped their hands without a single crack of a smile. Aaron Stead, one of Hurstley's centre backs shouted at Duffy, who angrily kicked a chunk of turf at him.
Kick off.
Banks again passed it around until Hurstley's biggest lad, Rob Burn, through all his weight at a midget of a player, but by god a skillful one and almost crushed him. Yellow card. Freekick. A great lob which flew straight into Hurstley's box. Atlas volley. Goal. 2-0.
Mr Glouch: Jesus Christ. Doesn't get any easier for anyone than that.
Kick off.
The rest of the half continued at a boring, one sided tempo until...
Atlas received the ball from midget who had taken the ball past at least seven of Hurstley's lot, who then took it around Duffy, and with only five yards between him and a gaping goal...missed.
Mr Glouch: Fuck me...
Atlas shook his head in pure embarrassment and received a tirade of angry body gestures from the boss. Still 2-0. Miraculous considering half time was a shrill peep of a whistle away in about thirty seconds. Jonesy had defended like a man possessed. A rare gem of a performance from him.
Half time.
The team gathered around Mr Glouch, absolutely exhausted and covered in head to toe in mud and shame.
Mr Glouch: Right lads. The first goal, easily defendable. The second goal, easily avoidable. Apart from those two we've done bloody well. I tell you what, when blondie over there missed that open goal I realised sommat. We can bloody win this match.
The lads snickered and shook their heads at him
Mr Glouch: I'm serious!! If they can miss an open goal they can let a few in. I don't think they are used to playing against teams like us. Against teams who play the game to enjoy it. Against teams where its not life or bloody death. They'll be signing contracts all over Europe and their lives away next year and won't remember today at all. You lot will probably be signing on the dole queue, but you lot will remember today for your whole lives. Right. Jonesy, keep it up you've been bloody great. Duffy, just wake up a bit and keep in charge of your defence. Rob, do what you've been doing all half but actually win the ball. Don't hurt the player, hurt the ball. Keith, Luke, and Peter, they are passing it straight through you. Don't give them the space they need, close them down, hassle them. Then pass it amongst the three of you, in a triangle. They have come here today expecting an easy game. I bet they aren't even giving it ten percent out there. If we play at our absolute best and take everything I've said on board, we'll dick 'em.
The team looked flabbergasted and bewildered. They usually get nothing more than a few words. Spirit and determination ran through their veins like fresh spring water over a dried out, dusty riverbed.
Mr Glouch: I've always been proud of you lads for solely and purely enjoying playing the game. I see a hell of a lot more enthusiasm from you lot than them lot. You just need that drive, that determination to go out there and win. Trust me lads, if you can beat them, you can beat anyone. Go get 'em lads!!
The lads beamed and got to their feet, they took to the field with anxiety and anticipation. They had the greatest team talk they probably will ever experience ringing in their ears.
Kick off
Mr Glouch: Who needs a fuckin flipchart eh? Bloody modern crap
Hurstley kicked off. Focused. Jones immediately passed it around, with Keith and Luke. Two twins who looked and played extremely similarly and started playing in a great passing triangle, slicing through the Banks midfield like a hot knife through butter. Atlas charged in on Jones but was shrugged away by a shoulder charge that showed so much aggression and fire that it could have burned the fog away. He passed it to Luke, who was playing his first game for the team after realizing he wasn't any good at extra-curricular painting. Luke panicked for a second and then let loose a blistering shot...off the post. Jones took a run up and dived headfirst, almost flying as if fired out of a cannon and headed the ball. It shot like a bullet in to the middle of the goal. He landed square in a puddle of mud and soaked about three Banks defenders in pure filth.
Mr Glouch: GOAL!!! YES! HAHAHA!!
Glouch jumped around on the spot. Football's coming home? Jones looked up, his face a thick brown. He saw the ball nestled neatly over the goal line. With a great deal of difficulty, he got to his feet and let out a fearsome roar. This was officially the greatest moment in the history of Hurstley Secondary School. His team-mates sprinted to him and hugged and cheered. The Banks players were already in position waiting to start again and paced on the spot impatiently.
Mr Glouch: Lads come on!!
Mr Glouch laughed to himself and felt a tap on his shoulder. A Hurstley parent was by his side. A very proud Father.
Proud Father: Well I don't believe it. Ya must have worked some bloody magic at half time me laddo. Get in!!
Mr Glouch smiled smugly as Banks kicked off again. They began to pass it around like Barcelona again. Tim, the Hurstley left back, who in previous games had scarcely even TOUCHED the ball, and was only in the team because he was the only lad who liked football AND had a left foot, closed Midget down and as coolly as you like, nicked the ball from his feet and tapped it through his legs. Keith and Luke flanked him at either side. Tim took it past another player...
Mr Glouch: Go on Tim!! Don't be afraid of them!!
His heart was absolutely hammering. Atlas came back from attack to defend. As soon as Atlas went in to tackle...
Mr Glouch: Pass it Tim!! Get it to Luke!!
With his RIGHT foot, he lifted the ball over Atlas's tackling legs and over the Banks defense who stared at it like a UFO. It fell perfectly for Luke, who, with more effort he had ever put into a single second of his lessons at school, POUNDED the ball into the bottom right hand corner. Hurstley Secondary School had scored two goals for the first time in their history. The parents went mad and celebrated like fans in a stadium. The Banks parents were muttering the word offside at least twenty times in a matter of seconds.
Mr Glouch: YEESSS!! Ha take that you bloody grammar smartarses!!
He didn't care if he said anything inappropriate, this was better than anything he'd seen from his beloved Wanderers.
Kick off. This time Banks stepped it up. Focus up. They passed it around quicker, not allowing Hurstley to close them down in time. Atlas received the ball and was on his own infront of goal. Duffy was prepared, his eyes glaring at Atlas stampeding towards him. The defence were helpless, torn to shreds by a killer pass. Duffy ran out of his area and dived at his feet to claim the ball. Atlas let out a scream and jumped over him like a hurdle, which he cleared perfectly with no contact, before hitting the ground with a thud.
Five minutes to go. Penalty.
Mr Glouch: Never!! You diving little shit!!
Hurstley tried to argue their cause but to no avail. Atlas smirked and picked up the ball, before placing it on the spot. Duffy's time had come. If he saved this, it would best any trophy, any hundred thousand pound a week contract, any advertising agreement with Nike, anything. Atlas took a few steps backward.
Mr Glouch: Come on Duffy, watch his eyes. Watch his body language...
Atlas jumped on the spot and ran to the ball before booting it with great force towards the goal...
Sting. Good god did Duffy's hands sting. The ball slapped off his hands and bounced harmlessly out of play. Hero.
Mr Glouch: You little beauty!! Come on you Wander-.
Mr Glouch stopped himself and blushed a little. Two minutes to go. Banks took their corner and Duffy soared to the skies to claim the ball perfectly in his hands before quickly throwing the ball to Luke who knocked it on to Keith. The two of them passed it between them but lost it to a chunk of turf that looked almost mountainous. Midget danced through and Atlas called for the ball, however he was ignored and Midget carried on. Atlas angrily waved his arms and got into a prime position, all he needed was the ball and that would have been it. Desperation. Midget looked up and saw Atlas in position...
Duffy watched as the ball soared high and wide over the bar. Atlas screamed at Midget as he watched his shot bounce onto to the roof of the Science block. The two argued as Mr Glouch quickly gathered another ball from a net of balls of various colours and makes and punted it towards Duffy.
Mr Glouch: Get it forward!!
Less than a minute to go...
Duffy punted the ball upfield. It landed at the feet of Jones who held off resistance and knocked it to Luke, who ran down the wing and crossed the ball...the keeper reached for the ball but was impeded by an angry, disillusioned Atlas. The ball dropped in front of Tim, who created conversation topics throughout the dirty, sweaty corridors of Hurstley Secondary School, and embarrassed shame throughout the glistening, trophy-flanked, carpeted corridors of Banks Grammar School. Goal. Final whistle.
Uproar. Ecstasy.
As football goes, Hurstley lost their next game 7-0 to Treebridge Secondary School.
Memories are worth more than any amount of money and fame in the world.
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