Floodlights

Chapter 10

Black.

The storm clouds gather in the sky as the sun dips beneath the river. Before the moon can impress itself in the night's sky, the clunk and flickering of floodlights come on. As they warm the crisp misty night air, they gently highlight a green piece of heaven. The football pitch looks bright and mounted as it is surrounded by a dirty old running track. Banks rise from the track's sides creating the ultimate mini crater of semi professional football. Two split old chicken shed quality seating stands stare at two small wooden dugouts on either side of the pitch. Behind the stands, led to by a fenced pathway, are the changing rooms and Clubhouse.

The Clubhouse is small and twin headed by a small bar and food window. The smell is distinguishable and individual with its musky old smell. It is a blend of tea, hot dogs, onions, beer, cigarette smoke and low-level semi professional football. The room is rammed with a high level of nonsensical chat and older gentlemen. However there is more than just stale nicotine in the air. There is a buzz of anticipation and expectancy.

"So I hear there are a few people to watch the boy tonight" mumbles a regular and club fan.

"Yeah apparently they've been watching him since he turned seventeen" replies the Club Secretary.

"Yeah yeah the lot are here tonight, one good game tonight and he'll go pro for sure."

"The Orient, Southend, Gillingham, Wimbledon are down again but the Chairman was telling me that Arsenal are interested too" excitedly claims the Secretary.

"Good luck to the lad, nice boy, very poetic with the ball" the Secretary positively pronounces.

"Poetic?" Chuckles the regular, "is there something in your hot dog? Well I'll have it if so! Poetic!"

The smell of horse oils, deep heat and early sweat bleeds through the corridor from the changing rooms and dampen the conversation, where each team prepare for battle.

The teen looks like a young Chris Waddle with shirt out and sloppiness in his appearance. He ties his aluminous Diadora boots and is a man deeply in focus. The team's chat is loud and on the game. He sleeks around to the toilets and gels his hair up before the game becomes completely detached from society. He prepares for battle by pulling on his treasured number six jersey and readies himself. As they line up in the corridor ready to leave the changing rooms, his small slight frame speaks loudly like a Prince Philip gaffe or President Bush Junior threat. The team's noise and shouts of "come on boys!" and, "let's 'ave it" bellows up and down the tiny corridor. He looks through the lit up door and turns. He feels tight in the stomach and loose in his muscles as he prepares to fully extend his body to extremes never before imagined. He says the same phrases over and over in his mind.

"You are a winner, you are a winner, every ball, every ball, win the tackle, be hard, relax in front of goal, do not think, do not think, stop thinking, go with your gut, go with your instincts, instincts"

They have a trancing effect and sound like someone else hypnotising him into a machine. He turns round and stares at the light. The two chicken-shed stands look like black bookends encasing the bright channel of light and pitch. The platform is set, the performance: act one will begin...

Intense echoes of male voices blur into one another and shudder through space off each other like a stressed out Doctor in the ER. The intense shouting streamlines into single screams and directions.

"Come on eh boys!"

"Concentrate yellows!"

"Get the bits!"

"Get it fucked."

"Liam, Ian let's do it today. Get 'old of this midfield and fucking dick 'em." The teen's voice sounds out in a true out of body experience.