This guy Maxwell is the tournament favourite, and he’s brought a few supporters from Corstorphine with him. They wear maroon Hearts football tops with ‘Maxwell No 1’ in white letters on the back. However, some of the Fife boys from the Goth pub are over, and Jason’s dad is down with some friends. One of them is the old down-and-out minister, who seems to have got himself together a bit. I catch his dad looking at the confident, swaggering Maxwell, and saying to Jason, — Niggah don’ fool nobody. I can see the pussy in his eyes.
Jason doesn’t respond, just clenches his jaw.
The crowd is fired up. They’ve obviously been drinking, especially the Fife contingent. I change my mind about the disgraced minister as he slurs something I can’t understand at me. At least he doesn’t smell too bad, though. Jason is obviously nervous. — Okay? I ask.
— Ya hoor, ah dinnae want tae lit every cunt doon, he says to me, holding out trembling hands.
— It’s okay, Jay. Just do your best, I urge.
He nods tersely and heads to the table.
It’s a very tight game but Maxwell seems to be at the table more and Jason is finding it hard to keep possession. His jaw is tight in concentration, but he gives out the odd exasperated ‘shite’ or ‘fuck’. It’s just a hiss, really, and it’s at himself rather than his opponent, but the referee gives him some disapproving glances. Then Maxwell opens the scoring and there’s gloom and doom in the air from the Fife camp, as several overweight, bespectacled guys in maroon tops jump around.
Then suddenly, Jason is awarded a penalty, which Maxwell hotly disputes. Jason converts it and we all go crazy, setting up a chant of ‘Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil…’, which we’re told to cease by the officials. For the first time, I realise, I really feel like I’m part of my town, like I belong. And that’s not something to be celebrated; in fact, it’s the saddest thing I can think of: enjoying myself with a bunch of strange permanently pre-adolescent misfits at a table-football tournament. And worse: I feel anything but sad at the moment.
— Eh’s takin a pummellin, but, his friend Colin Watson, or ‘Neebour’ as they call him, whispers in my ear. But Jason’s goalkeeping is inspired and he makes several brilliant saves as Maxwell’s shots rain in on his goal. They go into extra time and still can’t be separated. It comes down to the penalty shootout.
At first I thought I was imagining things, but now I’m sure that Maxwell’s been staring at my tits before and during the game. It has to be the case; I’m the only female here. Inspired, I take off my jumper. Underneath it I have the sleeveless T-shirt and the Wonderbra, showing the rack off at its best.
I’m standing behind Jason, who’s positioning his keeper for Maxwell’s penalty. I can see Maxwell looking from me to the goal and back to me. I look straight at him and slowly lick my lips. He shoots, and Jason saves! I make sure I stay behind Jason as he converts to Fife cheers at the other end. Already, the poor Corstorphine lad is almost in tears at what he perceives as the injustice of it all. — This is nae wey tae decide a place in the final ay a major tourney, he bleats. — It’s a joke!
He scores his next one, but he’s still disconsolate, as Jason converts to go two-one up. Maxwell seems to sink into a seething depression and the referee urges him to take his third kick. He thrashes it and it rebounds straight off Jason’s keeper and bounces right down the table. After a cheer, there’s a ghostly silence, then a roar as Jason coolly converts, punching the air, and it’s three-one. Chants of ‘so fucking easy’ come up from the Beath mob, only to be silenced by officials making disqualification threats. We all shut up.
The referee gets the broken Maxwell to take his fourth. He needs to score his last two and hope that Jason misses his last pair, just in order to force more penalties. Maxwell scores, and it seems to energise him as he forces his face into a twist of defiance. It’s now in Jason’s hands. This for the game. Our hearts sink as he blasts high and wide.
Maxwell goes up to the table. I’m right over the defending Jason’s shoulder, looking at Maxwell. He won’t look at me. I wait till he goes to take the flick and I quickly pop out my breast, hoping that the umpire doesn’t see. As my cleavage is hastily secured the ball flies wide and the Fife crowd celebrates, with chants of ‘Blue Brazil’ filling the air, and Jason is in the final of the Scottish Cup!
He gets up and shakes the hand of the referee, then the disconsolate Maxwell, who reluctantly proffers his mitt, but can’t look at him.—A wee announcement, Jason says suddenly, raising his voice, as shushing is urged by the Beath boys, and the crowd falls silent. — Ah’m no gaunny take part in the final ay the Scottish Cup. He shakes his head to incredulous gasps. — It’s up tae youse what ye dae, he says, turning to the officials. — Ah hereby forfeit this game in favour ay ma very gifted opponent, Murray Maxwell. And ah take the opportunity tae wish Murray all the best fir the final.
Maxwell is walking away, shaking his head. A fat guy tries to lift his arm, but he brushes it off.
An official comes up to Jason, obviously panicky. — But this is most irregular, Mr King! We at the East of Scotland Table Football Association—
Jason cuts him off. — Youse at the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association need tae git laid. It’s a bairn’s game fir retards. Grow up, ya fuckin tubes!
— Mr King — the official briefly blusters, before walking away, shaking his head in disgust.
Jason’s dad grins and looks at his son in admiration. — Ain’t cutting no deal with that muthafuckin DA, he shouts. Neebour and the Duke are looking at each other, nodding in agreement. Everybody in the Fife squad laugh, as the Corstorphine lads hang their heads and start to sneak out.
I see Maxwell turning away, shaking off the overtures of another official. — I’m no taking part in this disorganised crap, he spits. — You let people into this tournament who bring it into disrepute! I lost under the association rules! It’s over, do you hear?! Over!
In the pub across the road, Jason’s dad approaches with some drinks he’s got up. — Well done, son.
— Aye, ah held ma bottle in the shoot-oot, Faither.
— Naw, son, thon speech, he says, all misty-eyed, and the disgraced minister nods in approval. — Pure James Connolly or John McLean. A sort ay ‘I stand here as the accuser, not as the accused’ speech fae the dock, pittin authoritarian structures oan trial in thir ain fuckin coort, he turns to me, raising an eyebrow, — if yis’ll pardon my French. Aye, he says to Jason, — ah saw the spirit ay Auld Bob Selkirk and Willie Gallagher thaire, son. The very spirit we need tae turn yon so-cried Kingdom intae the fully-fledged Soviet Socialist People’s Republic it wis destined tae become!
Jason looks at the dirty reverend. — It wis Jack here that wis the inspiration, he says, and the drunk ex-man of the cloth beams.
We slam our pint glasses together and toast the forthcoming communist revolution. If my father could see me now!
29.
OLD FOUR-LEGS IS BACK
SO AH’M BACK in the morn and it’s a nippy heid wi aw last night’s champers n lager: the tipples ay the workin man n wummin. But even though ah’m ridin ehs lassie, thir’s nae escaping merkit forces: Tam Cahill still wants a fill shift in the stables. Ah’m graftin like a hoor servicing a trainload ay tweakers, only the odd glad eye fae Jen brightenin up the day.
But we couldnae believe it whin the RSPCA boys showed up at the Cahill hoose n opened the back ay the van. There wis auld Ambrose in a cage, but still wi thon bit ay driftwid in ehs mooth! Eh widnae lit it go!