Aldy smiled and said, “He can roll the balls out well enough. That’ll do for today.” He put his arm around Danny and said, “Now come with us, lad.”
Aldy guided Danny into the bowels of the Auld Moors Football and Sometime Rugby Ground. The euphemism “Auld” hardly did the thing justice: it was bloody old. It smelled of liniments and dirt, of tea and the drastic chemicals the women of East Southwich used to launder the club’s grubby apparel; it smelled of all of it, and of leather and boot polish and cologne, and of alcohol and the middling jumble of the Third Division. The old man and the young man shuffled past the changing room, the boot room, the tea room, and the boardroom to the end of a hallway Danny had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times—but in all these years since first joining the club as a schoolboy, Danny had never once made it all the way to the room at the end of the hallway. Aldy and Danny were now so deep in the stadium’s interior that Danny had no idea where they were relative to the main stand, to the pitch.
The chairman of the board of East Southwich Albion AFC rose as Danny and Aldy entered his office. But he didn’t come around from behind his desk, a monstrous dark slab of wood that very clearly separated His Eminence from the men—including Aldy—who muddied themselves on his behalf every Saturday and the occasional midweek. Danny had been in the club for over a decade and had never met the chairman face-to-face. Now he said, “Sit, men, sit.” The man did not smile. Aldy sat, slowly and with a light, regretful grunt, as an old footballer might, and Danny sat too.
The chairman said, “Danny, you’ve been a loyal servant to this football club for a long time, and I would like to believe that we have been of some service to you, helped raise you, to some small degree, hmm?” Danny nodded. The man went on: “We take great pride in the formation of strong young Englishmen here, as I believe you are aware. We aren’t a famous club or a rich club. We don’t win many trophies. We aren’t fancy or posh, but we do take care of our own, don’t we, Aldy? And you are one of ours, Danny. I know your father. He’s a good man. I knew your mum, may she rest.” He paused and looked down, a great show of sincerity. “You’re a good lad, Danny.”
The chairman leaned back in his giant leather chair and breathed a long breath through his long nose. Then he lit a cigarette and breathed it in as if he needed it, as if he really needed it. The smoke rose through the dark room and caught the beams of white winter morning light slicing in through the narrow windows near the ceiling. The smoke swirled, dipped, and rose again and for a moment captivated Danny’s attention before he remembered that he was in the chairman’s office with Aldershot Taylor, and no one was smiling.
“Aldy,” the chairman said, “would you please rise and face away from us?”
Aldy rose amid the mmms and ahhs of an aged and aggrieved body managing a terrific effort. He faced the wall like a resigned schoolboy accustomed to this sort of punishment.
The chairman sucked in a bit more smoke and gestured toward the back of Aldershot Taylor and said, “Danny, do you see what I see?”
Danny had a feeling that he did not see what the chairman saw. He didn’t want to say so, however, so he looked back at the chairman in the silent big and strong stupor that big and strong young men learn to get away with as soon as they come to the full realization of what big and strong gets you in the world, and did not say anything.
“Well?” said the chairman.
Danny said, “Sir, I, um, I’m looking at the back of, um... Mr. Taylor?”
The chairman stubbed his cigarette into a well-populated ashtray, leaned over his desk, and eased a stream of smoke in Danny’s direction before saying, “Ah, close, son. You’re warrrrm, bloody warm, my boy, but I am quite afraid you are not warm enough. Take a closer look. In the general area of Mr. Taylor’s arse, if you please.”
Aldy began to speak but the chairman cut him off. “Quiet, Aldy. Let the lad have a look. Look, Danny. What do you notice that’s... different about Mr. Taylor’s arse? Different to... last week, let’s say.”
Danny had no idea where the chairman was taking this. None. “I—”
“Don’t know? Then I will bloody tell you what’s different between the arse you are looking at right now to the last time you laid eyes upon it. It’s gone. It’s bloody gone, Danny, your manager’s arse, which last you saw it thought it might one day see the Sixth Round of the bloody FA Cup, did that arse. But it has been chewed down to nothing by this town’s miserable press, such as it is, by the despicable, dastardly, petty, and small people who run Dire Vale United Football Club, may they rot in hell, and by the fat bastards in bloody London who run the bloody Football Association itself who want a pound of flesh from little East Southwich Albion Association Football Club for what you’ve done, Danny. They’ve all chewed the arse right off of Aldershot Taylor, who fought in the goddamn war—you fought in the war, didn’t you, Aldy?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking—”
“Who fought in the war in a manner of speaking, whatever that means, and there must be a good story to that, and who got this club promoted from the inky depths of non-League football to the Leeside Conference and through the savagery of the bloody Fourth Division and to within one reasonably well-played match of the Sixth Round of the greatest tournament football has ever known—and now this man... has... no... arse. It was there, but now it is gone, as you and I can plainly see. Or plainly not see. It. Is. Gone.” He paused. “All right then, Aldy. Sit. On that bum you no longer bloody have.”
The chairman lit another cigarette, though he was so exercised he could hardly breathe. Danny, in his entire life, had seen few men as angry as the chairman was right now, and that included the Dire Vale men from Saturday.
Aldershot Taylor sat down on his former buttocks.
The chairman said, “Tell him, Aldy.”
Aldy looked at Danny, and Danny thought, well, Danny didn’t really think anything. After the chairman’s outburst, he could scarcely imagine—
“Danny, it’s been terrible. The press, the FA. The Dire Vale people. Even the poor lad’s family. They’ve been merciless. Just merciless. And our supporters—they wanted this so badly, son. They were so sure we were through to the next round. They’re furious. And the lads... they’re gutted, Danny. Gutted. They just can’t understand why you threw it all away like that. Why you lost your head.” He put his hand on his brow and paused to collect himself. “There’ve been rumors of charging you with a crime. Grievous assault. They’ve asked for your head, Danny. Everyone has.” He looked as if he might cry, if men who had fought in the war in a manner of speaking did that kind of thing.
The chairman said, “Aldy, tell the boy about the money.”
Aldy closed his eyes and breathed a long, resigned nasal breath.
“Danny,” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t