The dressing-room was hot and sunny under the stand as we sat around waiting. The boys chewed gum and McGlinchy played “wee heidies” against the wall—nodding a ball against the partition like a boxer hitting a punch-ball. (“Close-mooth, tanner-ba’ merchant,” muttered the corporal.) Outside we could hear the growing rumble of the crowd, and then there was the peep of a whistle and the referee’s step in the passage, and the boys shifted and said, “Way-ull, way-ull,” and boots stamped and shorts were hitched, and outside a brass band was thumping out “Heart of Oak” and a great thunder of voices was rolling up as the Fleet came out, and the corporal sniffed and said:
“Awright, fellas, let’s get stuck intae these matlows,” and I was left alone in the dressing-room.
I went out by the street door and was walking along to the grandstand entrance when I came face to face with Samuels in the crowd that was still pouring into the ground. It was a shock: I hadn’t given him a thought since last night. Before I could say anything, he slapped me on the back, addressed me as Old Jocko, and said I was luv-ley.
“Goin’ up to watch the slaughter?” he shouted. He was well ginned up. “The massacre of the innocents, hey?”
“I like that,” I said. “You’ve won enough off them; you could at least show some sympathy.”
“Who for?” he guffawed. “The other lot?”
A horrible cold hand suddenly laid itself on the base of my spine.
“The other lot,” I said. “You know who we’re playing?” “Been on the ship all mornin’, checkin’ stores,” he said, shaking his head. “Who’s the unfortunate party?”
“Tell me,” I said carefully. “Have you put a bet on?”
“Have I, boyo? The lot, you bet. The sub-cheese. The bundle.”
I looked at my watch. It was two minutes to kick-off.
“Phone the bookie,” I said. “Get it off. No matter what, cancel that bet.”
He didn’t seem to be receiving me. “The whole lot,” he said. “Boyo, I cleaned out the safe. I shot the works. I’m tellin’ …”
“Shut up, you Welsh oaf,” I shouted. “Don’t you understand? We’re playing the Fleet, the Navy, all the great horrible battleships and aircraft carriers, millions of talented sailors. They will eat us alive. Your bet, if you let it ride, will go down the nick. Get it off.”
In all the world there is no sight so poignant as that of the confident mug when he feels the first sharp bite of the hook and realises it is going to sink inexorably home. His face went from sweating red to dry grey, and he seemed to crumple.
“You’re drunk, boyo,” he croaked.
“I’m drunk? Look who’s talking. Look, Taffy, you’ll have to cancel …” And just then what he had said came home to me. “You say you cleaned out the safe? The ship’s safe? But you’ve got two weeks of my Jocks’ pay in there … Oh, brother.” I just stared at him. This was death, court-martial, ruin, and disaster. He was cooked. Unless the bet was scrubbed.
“It’s no use,” he said. “I cannot do it.” Odd, I thought, he says cannot, not can’t. “I didn’t place it myself, see? The clerk did. Peterson. I gave him half a dozen addresses. I dunno where he is, now.”
The crowd was moving in, the last of it. There was nothing to be done. The band had stopped. I left him standing there, like a busted flush, and climbed the stairs to the stand. Poor Samuels, I thought. Idiot, mad Samuels. Of all the …
The roar hit me in the face as I came out into the stand. I sat at the back of the main box; down front the Governor was starting work on his first handkerchief of the game, and beside him was a massive, grizzled hero in blue, with gold lace up to his armpits. That would be the Admiral. Their henchmen were about them, full of well-bred enthusiasm; the stadium was jammed, and every second man seemed to be a sailor. Our support was confined to a handful of khaki down below the box: our own reserves and a few associates.
“Flee-eet!” rolled across the brown, iron-hard pitch, and I saw the concentration of yellow shirts down near one goal: the Navy were attacking, powerful dark-blue figures with red stockings. They smacked the ball about with that tough assurance that is the mark of the professional; I saw. the corporal slide in to tackle, and red stockings deftly side-stepped and swept the ball past him. The roar mounted, there was a surge in our goal-mouth, and then the ball was trickling past into the crowd. I felt slightly sick.
“Get tore intae these people!” came from in front of the box, to be drowned in the Navy roar. Yes, I thought, get tore in. It’s your pay and Samuels’ reputation you’re playing for. Then I thought, no, the heck with that, it’s just for yourselves, that’s all.
And they played. The hard ground and the light ball were on our side, for we were ball-players first and last; on grass the Navy would have been just too strong. They didn’t rush things; they passed with deliberation and looked for their men, unlike our team, who were used to fast, short passing controlled by some sort of telepathy. If we played at their pace we were done for, so we didn’t. The doll-like yellow figures moved and ran as though they were at practice, easy and confident.
We scored in the sixth minute, a zig-zag of passes down the middle that left Campbell, the centre, clear of the defence, and he lofted the ball over the Navy goal-keeper’s head as he came out. There was a shocked roar from the crowd, a neigh of triumph from the Governor, a perceptible empurpling of the Admiral’s neck, and an exulting “Aw-haw-hey!” from below the box.
Two minutes later Campbell had the ball in the net again, but was ruled offside. Then he headed against the cross-bar, and we forced three corners in a row. But you could feel it slackening; the Fleet were as steady as ever, and presently they came away, swinging long passes through the open spaces, using their extra length of leg, keeping the ball up where their height counted. They were good; in their way they were a better team. In their way. And for a moment, as they broke through on the left and centred and their inside right chose his spot in the net and banged in the equaliser, they were imposing that way.
There was worse to come. The Fleet went ahead with a penalty, when the corporal, in a momentary lapse into close-mouth warfare, obeyed our supporters’ behest to “Ca’ the feet fae ’im,” and brought down a Navy forward close to goal. It was a critical point: when we kicked off again the Navy, one goal up, came storming through. Their centre got away and side-footed the ball past the advancing goalkeeper. It was rolling home, but the corporal came from nowhere and stopped it on the line. And then he did the ridiculous, unspeakable thing. I can still see him, the stocky yellow figure with his foot on top of the ball, watching three blue jerseys tearing down on him; alone, in his own goal. Bobby Moore himself would have belted it away for touch and been thankful. But not our boy. He shifted his hips, beat the first Navy forward on a sixpence, showed the ball to the other two, feinted amidst agonised yells of “Get rid of it!” stepped over a scything foot, looked about him, and patted the ball into the hands of the goalkeeper, who was so stricken with anxiety that he nearly dropped it.
It was perhaps the cheekiest piece of ball-juggling that I’ve ever seen; it shook the Fleet momentarily for it seemed to indicate a careless contempt. It said, more clearly than words could have done, that there was no sense of panic in this defence. The Admiral roared with laughter, and I hoped again.
We scored again, just before the interval, a goal against the run of play headed in from a long, free kick, and the teams came off and the Marine band marched up and down playing “Iolanthe”. I stayed where I was, listening to the Governor chattering Good game, good game, my goodness, and the Admiral’s bass rumble, and staring out at the sunlight on the great crowd lining the saucer of the arena. There was no point in my going down to the dressing-room; we were doing well, and nothing I could say could make it better.
The second half began disastrously. A high ball went into our goal-mouth, the centre-half and the Fleet centre went up for it; the sailor came down on his feet and our