We’ve all been there. As usual you’re supporting your team from your favourite plastic seat in the stand. But today, things are not going to plan. It’s the 89th minute and your team are 1-0 down to a local rival. On the plus side, they have the ball. Your players are streaming forward; there’s noticeable panic in the opposition defenders. Your captain slides the ball, wet from the damp pitch, out to the 19-year-old rookie your manager has thrown on as a substitute. This is a real chance. Maybe the last one. And then the youngster loses concentration and lets the ball slide under his foot and out for a throw-in.
‘For fuck’s sake!’”, you scream at the poor lad, barely out of school. Tears briefly prick his eyes, although you’re too far away to notice and too FURIOUS to care. You’re 1-0 down with one minute to play and this USELESS IDIOT has put paid to a promising attack. “It’s easy! For fuck’s sake!”, you repeat, gesticulating both wildly and unhelpfully.
And then, it happens. While the other supporters continue to bellow their disapproval at a teenager’s momentary lapse, you suddenly have an out of body experience.
For a moment – and only a moment – you’re disconnected from your football-self. You see yourself for what you are in that moment: a grown man with pie grease all over his hands, a scarf around his neck in mid-August, standing up to shout at a kid who probably has difficulty getting served for booze at Tesco.
‘What the hell am I doing?’ you think. ‘I work in a respectable job, with responsibilities. And staff. I actually manage people.’
A scenario briefly flickers in your mind.
It’s 4.55pm on a Friday. You need the print-outs collected from the printer and sent to the store room in the next five minutes or there will be hell to pay. You’ve charged Gary, the young intern, with collecting the last of the copies from the chuntering machine and taking them to the sullen-faced Terrahawks in the basement.
Gary, a compellingly awkward lad, places the final warm copies on top of the stack he’s already collected and picks the whole pile up. He lets out a little ‘oof!’, highlighting to those in the immediate vicinity that this is no light stack of A4 paper. No sir.
He walks at a pace befitting the task in hand (slightly below Olympic level) but, as he comes within viewing distance of the elevators, he thinks he hears someone shout his name: “Gary!” He turns his head, trying to ascertain the caller. Too late, he realises someone’s addressing Barry in Accounts and, before he knows it, he’s walked – at full speed – into a metal storage cabinet. There’s a BANG! and Gary stumbles back.
Gary’s first reaction, like a politician who’s just been caught cooking the party books, is to protect himself. He lets go of the paper, which wafts to the floor in all directions, and throws his hands back to cushion his fall.
As he drops to the carpeted ground he realises what he’s done and that his odds of permanent employment at the company are now as long as him finding all the sheets of paper before 5pm. He’s fucked it.
You sit watching the whole thing. The situation has been tense. You’ve been on the edge of your seat. ‘It’s tight,’ you think, ‘but I’ve got confidence in this lad. He’s maybe blown hot and cold this last week but all my hopes rest on him now. We’ve got one more chance and that’s it. Come on, Gary, son.’
As you see Gary turn towards the person shouting ‘Barry!’ at 4.59pm, your stomach suddenly lurches. This is going tits up. The faith was misplaced. You bloody IDIOT, Gary.
Gary’s fall happens in slow motion. It’s like if The Matrix had been populated with incredibly clumsy men.
As Gary falls you rise. Right off your seat, practically standing on tiptoes.
“For f**k’s sake!” you scream. It’s the last straw.
“It’s easy! For f*k’s sake!” you repeat. He’s an idiot and he deserves to know it. And he deserves to know it in front of absolutely everybody. You’re also gesticulating wildly. It might not help the situation but, by God, does it help you. The release of pent-up energy; the cooling breeze it’s generating.
There’s a look of shock on the face of your colleague, Helen. Some of the other guys in the office are smirking; obviously enjoying it. It’ll give them something to talk about in the pub later that’s not their own soul-crushing work.
Gary’s crestfallen. It’s hard to tell from where you’re standing but there’s a hint of moisture in his eyes. He’s not going to cry, though. He might be a young lad with the physical attributes of a dying flamingo but he’s not going to cry. Not here, at least.
And then the image fades. As quickly as it had come.
‘No, of course I wouldn’t do that in the office, even if Gary is the human equivalent of Mr Tickle,’ you admit. So why do it now, in this situation? A warm-ish August day which has, other than the football, been quite pleasant. You had a surprisingly nice pub lunch with friends beforehand and agreed to meet up after; you found a nice jacket in the summer sales which you’ve put in the car and will use on tomorrow’s walk; and you even managed to have sex with your wife for more than 3 minutes this morning. There should be no need for the invective you’re currently aiming at someone young enough to know how Snapchat works.
You resolve to be more measured from now on. You’ve seen what you actually look like at a football match and you don’t particularly enjoy what you’ve seen. Just calm down; it’s just a game of football.
On the pitch, your team have won the ball back. One last push but, you know, who cares? What will be will be. You. Are. Zen.
The 19-year-old has the ball back. He’s controlled it this time.
‘Well done, son.’
He looks up to see who’s in the box. There are a couple of centre forwards in there in promising positions.
‘Just swing it in,’ you think, ‘but, of course, absolutely no problems if it goes wrong. C’est la vie.’
He has one final glance and swings the ball in. For a moment it looks like it’s perfect – the striker’s going to nod it in and you’ll draw.
‘That’ll be nice.’
But then, you realise it was just the angle you were watching it from. It’s going straight to the goalkeeper. The last chance, gone.
“NOT A-FUCKING-GAIN! HOW CAN YOU NOT DO ANYTHING FUCKING RIGHT!!”
Some things never change.
By Andy Harrow