Church and the First Goal

St. Thomas’s Church

As spring arrived and the sun blessed London with some much-needed color, our local Church, St. Thomas’s, welcomed a new vicar, Father Barnaby from Portsmouth’s Southsea parish.

One balmy Friday night Mum opened the door to a towering dark man with a Roman nose and twinkling grey eyes. 

“Hello Mavis!” He sang, before giving Mum a warm bear hug, much to Dad’s bemusement.

“You must be young Roger, Jenny, Lita? My, you have such handsome children, just like their parents! Haha! Haha!” 

Ten minutes later Dad forced a smile as Father Barnaby wolfed down a curry chicken roti that he’d dipped into Mum’s ferocious pepper sauce. 

“So, this is Guyanese food? I must say it’s delicious! Some might say that sauce is a bit hot, but I find it, oh my, words are failing me…it’s extraordinary.” 

I giggled as Mum handed him a glass of water. His flushed face pleased Dad but mortified Mum, “I told you it’s very hot!” she wailed, holding her cheeks.

Father Barnaby continued to knock on the doors of locals in and around Finsbury Park, recruiting loners, pensioners, newlyweds in fixer uppers and widows who plied him with tea and scones. His charm, enthusiasm, and energy increased the low number of churchgoers to upwards of sixty in a matter of weeks. He invited them all to the presbytery at the top of Gillespie Road, a warm place to drop in for a cozy chat. Church was transformed. It became cleaner, warmer, brighter, and found a much lacking sense of optimism. 

Mum was so thrilled that she deemed mass compulsory. On the weekend, despite my severe protests, I was forced to don my Sunday best and worship at the Church of England. I guessed every country had its own Church and ours was English; people in France would attend the Church of France and the Germans would worship at the Church of Germany.

Father Barnaby settled in the pulpit to begin his first sermon. There was a pregnant pause as I waited to be entertained. But no matter how hard I focused, as soon as he began speaking his words lost form and meaning and blended into a parp, parp parp, parp parp…that sent me daft from boredom. 

The words CHURCH YOUTH CLUB jolted me from my stupor. Those words meant fun, games and escape from home to a place holy enough that Mum might approve. 

“Can anyone come to the Youth Club?” I asked our new vicar after the service.

I couldn’t bring myself to say, Father. Calling someone Father who wasn’t my dad just felt odd. Father Barnaby smiled, 

“Yes, the Youth Club is open to everyone. If you become an Akkalite...or a Torch Bearer.”

His smile turned devilish. Knowing I was on the hook, he invited me to the presbytery to meet the other kids and offered to have a word with Mum so I could attend. I looked back as the incense settled and recognized one of the boys. A pudgy kid with spiked brown hair pushed his mum’s affections away as she explained the Youth Club’s conditions. It was Pudgy Paul who I knew from the flats at the end of the street. Like me, he hadn’t a clue what an Akkalite was. 

Later that afternoon I asked Mum if I could go to the presbytery and to my surprise she approved with some sharp words:

“You make sure you rass go and come back by eight to help you bruda turn some cushion, you hear me?” 

“Ok, I’ll go come back by eight, I promise.”

You had to say you were coming back in our house. If Mum went to Sainsbury's she’d say, “I’m just going Sainsbury’s come back.” Even though coming back was a formality. I disappeared before she changed her mind.

As I approached Gillespie Road, I recognized the man I knew as Reggie from the church. He was a handsome man with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back hair who dressed in immaculate 1950s clothing. His intense dark eyes, rippling muscles and perfect ink-black skin likened him to a scary Little Richard. As I approached, I heard his sweet soprano voice gently singing the hymn, The Lord is My Shepherd, as he polished his burgundy Chevrolet. 

Reggie’s voice faded as I reached Gillespie road. On my left, three girls examined their popsicles while swinging their legs on the wall of the Arsenal Supporters Club. I heard the thud of a ball hitting concrete then an excited cheer. A game of footy was being played in the flats behind me. A light in the odd sweet shop across the street from the flats went out. The Northbank entrance lay peaceful and silent. I slipped by Arsenal tube station where a warm gust of wind from a passing Piccadilly line train sent a ripple across the posters.   

The presbytery was the first house on Drayton Park. Father Barnaby opened the door dressed in a neat black cassock with even neater hair. 

“Roger, you came! Welcome,” he beamed, taking my arm and guiding me into a spacious hallway.

This was a warm inviting house. High ceilings and stained-glass windows above the doors sang holiness. Soft cream shagpile underfoot and a lack of ornaments or family pictures, so present in my home, made the rooms feel vast. The walls were painted magnolia over woodchip paper. Two crosses and four prints depicting Christ’s various stages of crucifixion hung above the mahogany furniture. 

Lounging on the sofas were plenty of Father’s Barnaby's Portsmouth crowd and among them slouched Pudgy Paul, deeply engrossed in a game of Scrabble. I recognized a few of the other local kids as Father Barnaby appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. I accepted a cuppa, and chose a scrumptious vanilla paste biscuit sandwich stamped with the words Custard Cream. I dunked and took a bite. It was bliss compared to the Rich Teas at home. Pudgy Paul smiled.

“Nice ain’t they? You better grab em now, Fat Maffew’s been scoffing the lot!”

Custard Creams

He said, nodding at a porky blonde kid leaning against the wall shoving two Custard Creams into his cakehole while cradling four Jammy Dodgers to his chest. Fat Matthew looked back, guilty, and as Paul and I smirked, a soft peal of bells turned our heads. A buck-toothed boy shook a small silver bell with some authority. He paused and looked to Father Barnaby who raised a godly hand and cleared his throat.

“Hello everyone, awfully sorry to interrupt just as you’re just getting acquainted, but I wanted to have a quick word. First, I wanted to welcome you all here tonight. I know it’s a first for many, but I’m hoping that you have a chance to meet your fellow parishioners and some of my Portsmouth team who are assisting with the transition. I’d like nothing more than for you to spread the word, as we spread the love for our Lord and savior, Jesus Christ, about the wonderful tea, biscuits and company we have right here!” he said with a heavenly smile. “I would really encourage you to think of this as your second home.”

“Fat Maffew already does!” I whispered to Pudgy Paul.

Father Barnaby continued.

“Now before it’s too late, I know some of the younger ones have to make it home, so I’ll get on to the topic of the Youth Club.” 

There was a light murmur as Pudgy Paul raised an eyebrow. 

“The Youth Club will be held in the church hall, and it will be open three days a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, through the summer holidays from 4pm to 8pm, is that right?” he said, looking at the buck-toothed boy, who nodded. 

“Everyone is welcome of course.”

“Cor blimey, he coulda told us that at the church today! Why ain’t it five days a week? What we gonna do Tuesday and Thursday?” I asked.

“They have some kind of evening mass on them days. Evening song or sumfink.” 

“Wow, they got you at it already with the holy lingo! I’m off before he starts handing out Bibles!”

I grabbed another Custard Cream, nodded at Pudgy Paul and ran home to help Ron turn the cushions to stay in Mum’s good books. 

On Monday afternoon, I entered the church hall to the swish of rackets as two kids played badminton. The court was delineated by crooked lines of white masking tape and cut in half by a drooping net. Other lads played pool and table tennis, watched with interest by an assortment of nervous and fascinated onlookers. The whole place felt like a fairy tale. I’d never belonged to a club. Badminton in the local church hall felt provincial and civilized compared to cricket in the backyard with Dad. The buck-toothed boy who rang the bell at the presbytery approached, holding a clipboard. When he spoke, I realized he was a she.

“I’m Jackie. You gotta sign in,” she said and sized me up, while playing with the collar of her faded Arsenal jersey as I wrote my name.

Her voice was the refreshing working-class patter of a Victorian chimney sweeper.

“Alright, everyone, listen up, this is Roger. That’s Nisar and Zain on badminton, Nick and Phil on the pool table, Maffew and Rob playing table tennis and Paul over there…” 

As she said their names, the boys looked over for a brief second. There was no formal handshake or pleased to meet you. 

I watched the game of badminton until Jackie announced that it was time for rotation. Nisar, the younger of the brothers, handed me his racket, “Winner stays on, best of fifteen,” he muttered with a shy smile. An hour later I’d met everyone and realized Pudgy Paul and I were in a minority–most of the other kids were related. Nisar and Zain were brothers from a Pakistan Iranian background. Nisar was a wiry kid with black National Health glasses. His light brown face was blemished by a prominent mole on his left cheek. Zain was tall, chubby and wore white Levi jeans and Adidas Samoa trainers. His thick black hair kinked wildly above his doleful green eyes.  

Phil and Nick were Greek Cypriots who lived in the last house on my street before the flats. Nick was pigeon-chested with two missing front teeth and had a habit of running around with girlish flapping arms that caused his handsome older brother Phil to scream: Vilo (cock) or Putana (whore) at his younger brother in a prodigious baritone. 

“Gis a Rolo,” Zain casually demanded. 

Nisar handed him the packet and Zain took two of the delightful toffees and chewed away.

“I luvvvv Rolos! Want one?”

He said, offering me the whole pack. I looked to Nisar who nodded. Their generosity was surprising to me as one who stole pennies from Mum’s purse for my sweets. 

“Thanks!” I said, relishing the delicious chewy toffee as it sank between my teeth.

“Aww, gis a Rolo Nis,” Phil asked, extending his palm. 

Nisar handed over the pack and got it back with one left. He tossed it in the air and let it drop into his mouth with nonchalance. We grinned at each other, chomping on the sticky toffee glue. 

“Mmm, these are delicious!” Moaned Phil.

So, we gonna get a footy team or not?”  Nisar asked, using his finger to extricate the toffee from his back teeth. 

Jackie had somehow become the official hand of Father Barnaby, so Zain, the eldest, made enquiries. Jackie held a packet of cheese and onion crisps above her head and shook the final contents into her mouth. She chewed like a self-important camel, lapping the morsels from her lips before responding.

“You ave ta become a Akkalite or Torch ’older and come to church on Sundays, except if you is religious of some uvver kind, like a Muslim or sumfink. I fink Fava Barnaby said the first game is in Portsmouth, against his old parish. I can play if you need an extra player?” 

There were dubious murmurs at her suggestion. Nick turned to us and whispered.

“We can’t ave Jackie playing for us! It’ll be embarrassing, not just coz she’s a girl, but her teeth could injure someone. I’m serious!”

“At least she’s got teeth Nick,” Zain added, re-joining us to howls of laughter. 

Nick grinned and covered his missing front teeth with both hands. 

“Listen, it’s gonna be great, a blinding footy bonanza!” Zain continued.

“What is?” 

“I just spoke with Father and we get a coach all the way to the south coast, new footy kits, a proper match against a bunch of Portsmouth ponces, packed lunches, the seaside and bumper cars at the fun-fair!”

“Yeah, but how much does it cost?” Phil asked with a frown.

“Nothing! It’s free!”

“Wot a larf we’re gonna have!” Phil yelled, breaking into a happy jig. 

I beamed at my new pals and we set about discussing our footy positions.  

*****

The weekend arrived and with it the reality of taking part in an actual church service. On Sunday morning, I stood in the church vestibule wearing a weighty black cassock that danced across my shoes and, as I pulled the white cotta over my head, I realized I was in a frock. Pudgy Paul grinned at my discomfort. Church bells rang announcing the start of the service and I panicked at the thought of people seeing me in this ridiculous holy garb. The notes of a church hymn leaked from the congregation before the voice of Ossie Thompson, our own Barbadian Pavarotti, soared as he flexed his sublime lungs and lit up the altar with his booming baritone. Father Barnaby and Jackie lead our procession, followed by Phil, Nick, me and Pudgy Paul. Jackie’s chalice rattled as she swung the incense, creating fragrant plumes of smoke for us to glide through like vestal virgins.   

I blushed as my family looked on. Taking a manly grip on the candle, I tried to ignore them, but Mum beamed at me so proudly I could see cherubs in her eyes, so I smiled back. We continued along the pews as the congregation turned and made the sign of the cross, which made me feel almost holy. But as we approached the altar, a scarecrow of a man in a shabby tweed suit with bleached straw hair and a pointed bloodshot nose, reached into his mouth to insert his dentures. Flashes of slippery pink gums, white pearly teeth and a loud clunk resounded as they snapped into place. Nick and Phil turned as I snorted, trying to suppress a laugh and blew out the candle! I looked wide-eyed at Pudgy Paul. Nick cupped his mouth in horror. 

Father Barnaby turned to the congregation. I turned my back to him and offered my candle to Pudgy Paul. 

“Gis a light!” I whispered.

He froze. I booted him in the shin. He snapped from his shock, with a wince, to light my candle. We smirked as Father Barnaby shot us a concerned glance before continuing: 

“Lettt ussss praaaayyyyy.” 

Nick and Phil giggled through the entire service mouthing Putana and Vilo. During the hour, my sides ached from suppressing laughter and coping with holy nerves while holding a four-foot candle during cues to stand up, place the candle, genuflect, grab the candle, stand or kneel. The only chance to recover from the side-splitting pain was during the hymns and, when I snorted again, the giggling hurt so bad I wanted to die. 

At the end of the service, we shucked our cassocks like they were contaminated waste, still grinning at the hilarious ordeal.

“I thought I was going to die from the pain in my side, I swear!” Pudgy Paul snorted.

“Oh man, that was horrible. That old geezer’s teeth killed me!” I said as Jackie arrived by my side. 

“You avta ang em up over ere in this wardrobe!” She said pointing at our cassocks.

I rolled my eyes and was about to reply when Mum skipped into the church hall beaming with pride, followed by my bemused siblings. 

“Aww babe, you look so handsome in you church tings dem.” She announced, hugging and kissing me on the cheeks.”

“Mum! Get off, I’m in public...God!”

“Don’t tek de lord’s name in vain boy.” She said teasing with an arm around me.

Phil and Nick arrived with tea and biscuits. 

“Thanks Nick!” I said grabbing a Rich Tea and escaping Mum’s reach. 

“Ello Roger’s Mum,” Phil and Nick chorused. 

“Hello boys, it’s so nice to see you becoming interested in de church.”

“Yeah, it’s very interesting isn’t it, Roger?” He said, and mouthed Vilo one more time to me.

I spat my tea over Nick’s chest then ran from the church hall as he chased me, giggling, while Mum and Jackie looked on.

“I fink they enjoyed the service,” Jackie said after a slurp of tea.

It was the most fun I’d ever had in church.

*****

The next day I lay on the sofa, deeply engrossed in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. Just as Watson headed off into the ghostly moors with Sir Henry Baskerville, Mum tapped me on the shoulder and shoved 50p into my hand: 

“Here, tek dis and go buy de cat food! Quick before you dad see you!” She said and ushered me out the door as Watson’s foray into the unknown began. 

Dad wasn’t a fan of our family cat, Kitty, because she always pissed and pooped behind the sofa. We had no idea about house training a cat and as a result whenever Kitty did one behind the sofa Dad would grab her off my lap and mutter into her ear through clenched teeth:

“Come, you stinking little rass!”

Then he’d rub her face into the stained carpet, stomp to the back of the house and throw her high into the air above the garden. 

I watched in horror and eventual admiration, because Kitty, no matter how high Dad launched her, always landed on her feet. He once threw her into next door’s oak tree but even then, she managed to land gracefully despite the trauma. I had to climb the tree to coax her back down.  

Blackstock Road Pet Shop offered thick slabs of beef, liver or chicken, cut to size with a slimy knife and wrapped in damp newspaper by a man called Andy. 

“Ello little matey. Chicken or beef or one of each...I made a rhyme,” chortled Andy, while taking a bite of a delicious smelling sausage roll. 

I always bought one of each so Kitty had some variety. It was the least I could do for her in her hostile environment. I walked back thinking about how she’d meet me at the door, rub herself against my leg and miaow like crazy for her food. My reverie was interrupted by a man in a smart grey suit who tumbled into my path, bashing his face against the pavement. I ran over to him.

“Oh! Are you ok mister?”

“Ahhh, I, I haha, ugh buggar! Sorry son. Gis a hand?” He said, with a chuckle. 

After a little wrestling match, I got the man up and walked him home as he breathed warm alcohol into my face. We arrived at a house opposite the church on Gillespie Road. He took a half-hearted moment to check his pockets for a key before ringing the bell. A boy my age opened the front door wearing an Arsenal shirt and accepted the delivery of his dad with a similar chuckle. There was something thoughtful and soft about the shy skinny lad with flushed cheeks and dirty blonde hair. He wore cheap trainers and faded shorts but his Arsenal shirt was brand new. He barely spoke, preferring to gaze at my feet. When he finally glanced up, I asked:

“You play footy?” He looked at me for the first time and rubbed his prominent chin.

“I play for Ambler School team and with me dad in Finsbury Park.”

“We’re getting a team together at St. Thomas’s, they got a Youth Club,” I said, pointing over my shoulder, “got a game in Portsmouth coming up. Kits, coach to the seaside and everything! Wanna come with? Training tomorrow in the church hall at six? Sounds naff but could be fun?”

“Maybe, I’ll see if my dad lets me.”

“Nice one. What’s your name?”

“Dickie.”

“I’m Roger. Hopefully seeya then, mate.”

*****

“It’s not fair! They can’t make it just a football club! That’s a bloody liberty!” Jackie screeched in her best Alf Garnett impression.  

“Er Jackie, I understand your concern, but let’s hear what they have to say.” replied Father Barnaby, as Zain, our footy representative, made his way over.

Dickie arrived and I beckoned him over. He wore the same outfit as before but his knees were scabbed over, and his left thigh marked with a nasty bruise.

“What happened to your legs?”

“Oh, me, me dad and me bruvva went down the park yesterday and played with the locals. They’re always drunk on Special Brew so they miss the bleeding ball most of the time.”

“Ouch,” I said, grinning. 

“Well, Father,” Zain began, “seeing as we have an important game coming up, we thought we needed a bit of practice. I know it might not seem fair Jackie,” Zain was a great diplomat, “but all we need is the hall set up as a five-a-side pitch because the game’s on Sunday. After that I promise we’ll be happy to go back to having the table-tennis and pool table set-up, no problem. I think it’s fair and everyone’s on board, almost.” 

Zain looked to the pool table. We followed his gaze to see Fat Matthew lying face down on the table, prodding a ball with his nose. 

“Wot about Maffew!” Jackie demanded, with more chimney sweep angst.

“Maffew needs some exercise, the fat git, he won’t miss one week of pool!” Blurted Phil.

There was a loud guffaw and Nick projected orange squash from his nose, which set everyone off in giggles. 

“Phil! That’s very unkind. Now go and apologize,” demanded Father Barnaby in his least dulcet tone.

“He didn’t even hear me Fav!”

We all looked over his shoulder at Fat Matthew who nudged another pool ball, this time with his chin. Our new vicar rolled his eyes and turned to us. 

“Ok, we’ll set the hall up as a five-a-side pitch only for this week, next week it’s back to normal.” 

Yesssss!” we yelled as Jackie threw her head back in frustration.

*****

On the morning of the Portsmouth game I prepared my favorite packed lunch of a Bird’s Eye beef burger sandwich with ketchup on white Mother’s Pride bread. Our beef burgers were frozen in stacks of four, so I slid a knife in between one to separate it, like shucking an oyster, but it slipped through too easily and stabbed me in the palm. I screamed as a crimson river filled my open hand. Once I overcame the fear that I might die, I tried to stick a plaster over the wound, but my rampant blood flowed freely over the counter turning the kitchen into a lurid crime scene. I stumbled to the sink with a wad of paper towels and a roll of masking tape and finally managed to stem the flow. 

I arrived at the coach sporting a bloodstained bandage that awed my new pals. I told the story and relived my brush with death multiple times, like a back street prizefighter who’d whipped the favorite, even though the favorite was a Bird’s Eye Beefburger! 

As we pulled into the parish car park we searched for signs of a footy pitch. Father Barnaby stood and turned to face us as the coach ground to a halt.

“May I have your attention please? As you can see, we’ve now arrived. The football match will not be taking place here so do not bring your bags with you. We’ll be attending a small church service followed by a lovely buffet lunch that Southsea have generously provided for us, then we’ll re-board the coach to the bluffs, which is only ten minutes away, for the football game.” 

“I can’t believe it. He’s managed to trick us into another bloody church service! Zain, you didn’t say anything about this,” I grumbled.

“To be honest, he did mention it, but I don’t have to go coz we’re Muslims, so I forgot to tell you. Sorry lads!”

“So, we have to go to church again!” Pudgy Paul screamed in frustration. 

“No way! I’m becoming Muslim!” I ranted. 

“Me too, gimme some pork!” Phil giggled. 

“You idiot. They don’t eat pork, do you?” Asked Pudgy Paul, suddenly unsure. 

“I eat everything, so does Nisar,” Zain said.

“Okay, everyone off, into the church please, service is just about to start,” Jackie chirped gaily. 

There was a communal groan as we shuffled off and, as the St. Thomas’s team filed through the heavy oak doors like lambs to the slaughter, Zain and Nisar waited by the side of the coach. As Father Barnaby disappeared into the arms of his old flock, I became so revolted by the smell of incense and the idea of another church service that I ran back to the coach and slid behind Zain. 

“Where you going?” I whispered with a mischievous grin. 

“Penny arcade, fairground, then seaside,” he said, keeping an eye out to see if anyone had noticed my dash to freedom. 

“You coming?” Nisar asked.

“I’m a bloody Muslim now, of course I’m coming.”

We raced to the seafront, turned onto the promenade, and jogged parallel to the heaving grey waves until we reached an arcade with a blue neon sign that read Amusements. Its fantastic canopy was rammed with multi-colored flashing lights that danced along with the electronic tones, warps and pings from the games inside. Zain and Nisar exchanged pound notes for pocketfuls of change, as I realized that I didn’t have any spending money. 

“You not playing?” Nis asked, slipping a penny into the Penny Pusher slot. 

“Naw.” 

Penny Pusher

I watched his technique and timing, then got restless and bounced around the arcade. I watched people pull one-armed bandits, toss hoops around teddy bears and shoot air rifles. After ten minutes I went outside to perch on a gate overlooking the sea, wondering why Father Barnaby needed us to go to church every five minutes.  

*****

An hour later we pulled up to an unkempt green expanse that fell away to a tumultuous frothy sea. The landscape was rustic. Wild moss and ferns covered much of this silly, hilly land. Grey skies guarded the coast as we changed into our new kits that, sadly, weren't numbered, but they were red and white. 

Another coach pulled alongside, with the Southsea team aboard. The doors hissed open and twelve fit looking lads hopped off, already clad in bright blue numbered jerseys with Southsea Parish printed boldly on their chests. Phil and Pudgy Paul both moaned, “Awww,” as their team jogged off toward the pitch. Zain whispered, “Doesn’t mean anything, anyone can have a nice kit.” 

But then another coach arrived and around fifty people unloaded, all supporters of the local parish. Droves of cars and minivans with even more supporters pulled in. In our dimly lit coach, we looked at each other and smiled...there would be a crowd watching! 

The path to the pitch was downhill through a sea of tall emerald ferns that danced to the wind, making it impossible to see anything until we emerged on the other side. Backs of heads, blurred faces and picnic baskets wiped by as I tried to catch a glimpse of the pitch. As the foot traffic dwindled, I realized I was standing on the edge of a painted touch line. The center circle was perfect, with grass so smooth you could play bowls on it. A collective moan came from the lads and Dickie murmured, “They ain’t got any goals.” 

Horrified, I looked to the ends of the pitch and there, where the goal posts should have stood, were a blue Adidas bag and a couple of jumpers. Two duffel bags were at the other end.

“What the rass!” I trod angrily over to Father Barnaby, “How come there’s no goals?”

“This pitch is permitted and we received permission to play here for free, but we had to supply our own goals.”

“Then, where are they?”

“We can’t afford them, so we’ll use the bags.”

 “But how will we know if we’ve scored?”

“The referee will judge,” he sang gaily, as he greeted an old friend and wandered off.                  

I wanted to punch his stupid Roman vicar nose in. This was the most ridiculous thing in the world. How a person couldn’t understand that in an official game you had to have proper goals was beyond me. I huffed away and scowled at the utter nonsense, feeling cheated that I’d worn a frock, traveled all this way, stabbed myself in the hand, didn’t have a number on my back, was almost tricked into attending two church services and was going to have to play this beautiful game without bloody nets! The lads huddled around and after everyone voiced their mutual disappointment, Pudgy Paul spoke:

“I say we should just play and beat the crap out of them. If we beat em, they’ll look like the mugs who paid for their fancy shirts, goalposts or not.”

For one of the youngest kids, Pudgy Paul had great insight. We merged into our starting positions and waited for the whistle, determined to thrash Southsea Parish. As soon as we kicked off, I charged up the field in a determined romp, Zain flowed alongside and called for a one-two. It came off perfectly just outside the penalty box. Nisar’s eager face nodded.  He timed his run to my pass, and I slid the ball inside their central defenders. He leapt on the chance, turned and fired the ball toward their goal. Their cat of a keeper parried the ball away but it went straight into the path of a galloping Dickie. All red cheeks, high knees and elbows, Dickie balanced himself as the goal gaped. With great composure, he slotted the ball in between the Adidas bag and jumper then clenched his fist tightly, relishing the moment as we launched ourselves upon him. 

1-0 quickly became 4-0 as we harried, hustled and outwitted their team. Dickie came to life during the match. His shy withdrawn character disappeared like he’d swallowed a magic potion and transformed into our own Alan Sunderland. By half-time we were 7-0 up.

I was yet to score a goal and felt a little envious by half-time after their keeper had saved several of my shots. Midway through the second half, a badly timed jump by Phil allowed their forward in and his scuffed finish made it 8-1. From the restart, I tracked the play up the wing and waited on the edge of the box for a cross. Nisar put in a great ball that came bouncing high toward me from a defensive header. After controlling the awkward ball, I dummied to shoot, pushed closer and let fly with my right boot. It was a good connection, and the ball flew toward the bottom corner. But their dogged goalie managed to get a hand to it and somehow spoil the aesthetic. The ball stopped momentarily before trickling over the line to make it 9-1. Zain patted me on the shoulder, Pudgy Paul shouted, “Great goal,” but it felt empty. There was none of the excitement or magic attached to Dickie’s first goal.

It was just another goal on the way to a thrashing.

Jackie made an appearance in the 75th minute to replace her tearful brother who sulked off the pitch, distraught at being subbed for a girl. We beat Southsea 12-1. It was the first ever official game in which I scored. But a 12-1 victory was no fun. After ten minutes we realized how bad they were, and the enjoyment waned. Southsea Parish were demoralized by half-time and to our amusement, one of their players, a pale urchin wearing specs, burst into tears when the tenth goal went in and wailed, “It’s not fair!” before stumbling into the arms of his bemused parents. 

The coach trip home felt endless. As dusk fell and cobalt skies chilled the air, I looked around. Dickie rubbed his chin as Pudgy Paul snored. Zain’s kinky locks appeared as I glanced over my shoulder and he raised an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“Just thinking.”

“About my amazing chest and volley?” 

“That was a pretty good goal.”

Phil’s head popped up. 

“Aww, look at Jackie.” Jackie dozed against Father Barnaby’s shoulder, while he skipped through his bible. “Don’t her and Father Barnaby make a lovely couple?”

“What’s the matter?” Zain asked.  

“Too easy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, they were crap, but it was still a laugh.” 

 “Aww, wot a larf we had that time when we went all the way to the seaside to play against a bunch of Portsmouth church boy wankers,” Phil said, smiling.    

On TV there were stands, fans, officials dressed in black, corner flags, nets, goalposts and breathtaking drama. The reality of jumpers for goalposts and a vicar for a manager, despite offering glimmers of magic, was far from the spectacle and occasion I’d imagined. 

I stepped from the coach to join the lads waiting patiently outside St. Thomas’s Church gates. Father Barnaby embarked last, after offering an uncertain tip of two pounds to the driver. He checked his watch before turning to us. 

“Ooh 9.15. Later than I expected. I hope your parents understand this London traffic,” he said with a nervous glance along the street, “I think you all did very well, especially Jackie,” he said, placing a hand on Jackie’s shoulder. 

She smiled showing off her spectacular teeth that defied science. 

“I hope to see you all on Sunday for mass and on Monday for the youth club, which Zain, as you promised, will go back to the normal set up.” 

Zain nodded humbly and there were echoes of g’nite fav until he strolled into the darkness with Jackie in tow. 

“I ain’t ever wearing a bloody frock again!” I muttered. 

“You really hate that outfit!” Pudgy Paul laughed.

“It’s one thing going to church with Mum in the congregation and another holding a candle while wearing a bloody frock.”

“Aww come on Rog, just remember wot a larf we all had.”

I couldn’t help but smile. He was right. It was a larf, despite having to wear a frock.