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The Yorkshire Moors. November. Raw. Hooped in red and black, we steam from the pavilion, fifteen local heroes wreathed in embrocation, whooped on to the field with whistles, catcalls, stamping feet. The touchlines heave with teachers, parents, mates— plus two full coach-loads up from Leeds. Today it's Us and Them; the Toffs against the Grammar; the Papists v. the Prods. Our end-of-season showdown, no love lost. They (shaven-headed, big as bouncers, backstreet bruisers) lounge and snigger while we stretch. Beside them, it's a fact, we look like lightweights, kids v. men, a bunch of losers but from the off we're into them like terriers, our pack's there first to every ball, recycling to the backs who scissor in the centre, spin wide to the wings, launch towering kicks that drop with ice on. Long before the break they're five tries down, open-mouthed and steaming, thirty points adrift. The half-time talk's redundant, we've got them by the throat: drop goals, force penalties at leisure, try out all our riffs— it's almost too predictable when, just off the pitch, their coach is spotted racing past the line-out, squaring up to Fr. Abbot, half-a-dozen monks, maniacal in wind-blown black, who've hopped and flapped like rooks throughout, like zealots crazed with self-belief: Go on!—BH...BH! Great stuff! Crackerjack! or CF, boys!...CF!—diplomatic shorthand that's finally provoked a claim of cheating, coaching, calling codes. It's mayhem as the whistle blows, we all pile in, and now the bloke's accusing them of language unbecoming of a priest. Translation hasn't seemed to help—to know their cries were only Bury Him! and Catholic Fury! But maybe he was wondering, as we did, if these wayward mascots—these worldly men of God— if their presence, prayers or wild-eyed invocations are the reason why, for three whole seasons now, we're still unbeaten.
We'd fooled them, turned the odds on their head— pushing out of the final exam, that's how it felt
two-thousand days, now those sacrosanct hours of madness and mayhem were ours—
that long moonless night like a blessing, taking us under its wing
as we stole up the clocktower, hoisted the effigy, dismantled the gamesmaster's Mini
reassembled it inside the chapel, strung tampons from rafters like miniature candles
3am, made that final planned charge down the valley— past classrooms, goalposts, throwing off clothes all the way—
scaling the fence to the pool, you ahead, rushing straight for the springboard, kicking off shoes—
twenty years on I can see it, that treacherous glisten as I'm jolted awake, still lost for a reason
as you call back we made it! as I catch the pale flash of your feet
why they drained out the water that same afternoon, our last day of school.
It was all I saw her drink—the only one she wanted, as she wanted him. Through the din, the ringing tills, working there beside him you could sense his focus on the door. Each time she floated in
(a year back, give or take) he'd have the speedrail and the sweet-talk primed, catch her eye and draw her to the bar. She'd lean in close and laugh— then watch him work that shaker for his very life.
Maya. And who could argue? Picasso-curved, a mane of pitch, anthropology at LSE. A babe. He had her number that first night—and she had his. Ah, my Ben, she'd coo, mi toro cariñoso—in such a way
I shivered even then. Recalled the only bullfight I have seen: Majorca, long ago, a cheap and grisly thrill— the fooling and the toying, the ribboned darts, the sword secreted in the swirl of cape and cheers before the kill
while he, of course, just strutted, centre-stage, his grin a counter wide. Wouldn't hear a word against, even had I guts to try. She's ... I can't tell you, man (by now he'd clock in hazy, late, a shadow) and I thought that's fine—
I'd heard already what her tongue could do, how Toledo was the place, why she worshipped Hemingway. Bit my lip as he grew pale, lost touch and weight, left the rest of us to field each slip of change, forgotten order, half-arsed shift.
One night she simply wasn't there. Smile and swagger gone, from then he never spoke of her. I couldn't leave it any more: our free day, Monday, grabbed some beer and takeaway— drove over to his flat, walked in the open door
and there he was, man of action—slumped out in a chair, book upon his chest, ringed by empties. Like a cape just whipped aside, the poster of the matador had gone— its outline left in dust, ripped plaster, Sellotape—
the bookshelves, too, were bare, the failing light outside leaching each last drop of colour from the room. I went through to the kitchen, set to on the dishes. Let him sleep, that paper shield across his chest. Death in the Afternoon.
We head up to the park—start winging it out there. The arm's a little rusty, the legs
aren't so hot, and after two or three sprints to the treeline my lungs wheeze and steam
like out-of-shape kettles, our backs are glowing and slicked in the twilight. The curve, the hang
of that thing when you nail it—it's beautiful, spinning off through the dusk, hurtling in
thwack to my palm as I'm running on memories and sadness and something
like love—love of you, you one crazy mother, whooping on, silhouette-sharp in the fireball.
You were there when not many were; pulled me through. Now, five blocks to the bar,
we take them real slow, loping and groaning, back to the neon. Ease to the counter, watch a guy
pull the beer. Man! you say beaming and reach for your glass. Man, did we burn it!
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