A sideways short story site
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
Hand Of Allah
February 2, 2013
— 5 Comments
By Thomas Ang
A shocking image would dominate the papers across Spain and elsewhere, burning its way into the imagination of millions: two bitter enemies—each an activist because of scars suffered at the hands of the other’s people—swapping shirts after a football match. Looking back, many fans would say this gesture of mutual respect was what made it possible to bring those two players to the same team, forging a union that would swing the balance of power in Spanish football away from the duopoly, away from the old rivalry between Madrid and Catalunya. But the importance of that exchange of attire went beyond the boundaries of the sporting world.
In certain places far away from the heart of the conflict, those who supported Israel and those who supported Palestine would gather in front of the same big screens for ninety minutes of the weekend. The two sides would not mix in seating or conversation, but they would gasp or howl or applaud in unison. This weekly ceasefire, a direct result of partnering the two men in question, would be seen as progress for the moderates on both sides of the matter.
The idea that these two footballers might have an impact on the relationship between their respective nations was not unreasonable—after all, it wasn’t so long ago that Drogba and company had brokered a ceasefire in the Ivory Coast, when more official channels had failed. But to remember the one moment caught on camera as the start of all that followed, is to forget that bridges are not built overnight: foundations must be laid in advance. Six months before this harvest, the seeds were sown when the two rivals fought for the first time. And even longer before, the fields had to be cleared.
***
“With the Spanish champions already decided, today’s upcoming clash between two mid-table sides may seem insignificant, but millions will be tuning in from around the world because of two men. It is to be the first time the two rival midfielders meet on the pitch, but they are no strangers to one another. I caught up with each of them earlier…”
“Eyal Ben David, you’re a tough-tackler on the pitch, and an outspoken activist off it. What does today’s match mean to you?”
“As a professional, my duty is to my club and to the fans. Winning is the priority, and I will approach this match with that mentality.”
“Given what happened to your parents, how do you control your emotions when you’re up against a man who has said the things he has about suicide bombers? Surely this must be a very personal battle for you.”
“Yes, I have personal things against that man, but this is the football pitch. Anything I have against him can only be used as fuel to propel us towards the result. I will mark him out of the game just like I do to everyone else I play against.”
“Those watching this from Israel will say that you are fighting for your land and your people today. Do you not feel that way at all?”
“When I put on the shirt for the Israeli national team, or when I’m speaking on talk shows, then I’m fighting for my people. When I get paid to play, I do what I need to do, not what I want to do.”
“Tell us about your parents.”
“Everyone already knows the story. Today is about football, nothing else.”
And everyone did know the story because he spoke about it often. His parents hadn’t been the enemy. They believed in peace and in the teachings of the prophets. They believed that oppression could never be God’s will, and that the modern day Israel was not the nation of God, but a construct of corruptible men. His parents believed confiscating land for the settlements was illegal and immoral, and so they were against the occupation. Yet, they were the ones to die in the explosion.
For the longest time, he’d struggled to understand why his parents should die at the hands of those they’d supported, why anyone would blow up the very people trying to protect them. After, when he knew more about the world than his parents had taught him, he struggled to understand why they’d taken sides with people—monsters—who so readily violated the sacredness of life.
Everyone knew the story, but did anyone understand?
Losing one’s parents before coming of age was a horrible thing, but it happened all the time. There were others who knew how it felt to wake up with tears in the middle of the night and not have anyone to turn to. There were people who knew what it was like to have no protection from abuse, and no one to talk them through life’s harshest moments. But the betrayal in learning that those you’d trusted most were completely wrong in one of their strongest beliefs … how many people knew what it felt like to call into question everything they’d learned, in a single moment? How many people could understand what it was like to be unsure whether they should love their dead parents?
“Ramzi Haddad, you’re the creative spark of your team, and you also like to heat things up off the pitch. You’ve come under fire lately for calling suicide bombers heroes. How do you justify that?”
“Something I said was taken out of context. When someone bombs civilians from any race or nation—suicide bomber or not—it is wrong, it is stupid, and it is unholy. If we do that to the Israelis, we become no better than them.”
“But you said—“
“I said … when someone delivers a bomb to an enemy tank in battle, with his own hands, he should not be decorated any less than those who push a button from miles away to launch a cruise missile.”
“Some viewers may disagree with you, but maybe if they knew a little about your personal circumstances they might be more understanding. Tell us why this match is personal for you.”
“I never said this match is personal. The fans come to see goals, and so I create them. That’s why I get paid, and that’s why I play. I love creating chances, I love playing football; that’s why I’m here and that’s what I will do today.”
“But those who are sympathetic to your Palestinian cause say this battle is about much more than just football.”
“Okay, in some sense, everything we Palestinians do is about bringing back Palestine. We were forced out of our home for no reason. We have had to watch as our beautiful land, with its storied houses and lush orchards, was taken and replaced with the largest concentration camp in the world. I have nothing against Jewish people—my grandmother always used to tell me that when she was young, the Jewish neighbours would babysit her. What happened to this? Will Arabs and Jews never live happily side-by-side again? Palestine was a peaceful place for hundreds of years, a place where everyone got along. We want to go back to that.”
“But is there no anger or hatred after what happened to your family?”
Yes, he liked to spark a reaction, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d learned over the years that the cameras needed a certain amount of … diplomacy. He wasn’t any less angry now than he’d been the day after it happened, but he didn’t let it show in public now.
Sunday. He remembered because he was on the way home from church with his grandmother and his little sister. Cool air, blue sky, sun and birdsong. The Muslims, some friends amongst them, were celebrating the end of Ramadan. The streets were filled with happy people. It was a happy time, probably the happiest time of his life.
Then, the sound of helicopters. Screaming. People scrambling to get off the streets. Gunfire into the crowd. Blood. Bodies…
And then they flew away. They came, they shot, they left. They left those who’d lived crying. They left nightmares—he still had them sometimes, so many years later. They left terror.
He had returned home alone that evening. After the bodies were delivered, his father had gone to the border in a fit of rage to do something about it, and had gotten himself detained without trial. Ramzi was left looking after his grief stricken mother, and had to watch as she turned into a shell of her former self. She had been happy and cheerful once, but she would go through the rest of her days mostly in silence, waiting for those she’d lost to return.
How did you live, how did you love, after learning that any moment, for no particular reason, a bullet could fall out of the sky and take all you cared about?
So far, the match hasn’t lived up to the media’s fiery build-up, but Eyal Ben David plans to change that. He’s going to hit hard, he just hasn’t had the right chance yet. Even after his parents were taken from him, even after he stopped believing in God, he was raised to live by the law. The law says he must get the ball first, and so he will. He always does. He’s going to break the man cleanly and fairly. Perhaps if the fool’s career is brought to an end, people will stop listening to him yap.
Today is about football, nothing else. It wasn’t a complete lie: football is about everything. It’s all connected. Football is a celebration of life, and the man before him had tried to justify suicide bombings. He shouldn’t have tried. He could have denied the legitimacy of the Israeli state. He could have attacked Israel’s foreign policy. He could have said whatever he wanted, but he never should have brought up the suicide bombers. If the man doesn’t understand the sacredness of life and of the human body, then his body can pay the price.
The ball moves around the field. Ben David controls the space around him, changing the shape of the play. He’s not getting much of the ball today, but he doesn’t need it to influence matches. He reads the movements of the players around him, and positions himself to change their paths and decisions. He’s patient too. Calm and calculating, he waits for his opportunity.
The ball comes flying towards him. He rises powerfully through the air to meet it. He doesn’t see the other head flying in from behind him. After coming to his senses and working out what had happened, he will wonder how, without his knowledge, the other player had gotten into that position. But for now, he’s groggy, and things aren’t quite in focus. It’s a struggle to get to his feet and then to keep his balance. It’s similar to how he’d felt in the moments after the explosion, and perhaps that’s what brings his mind back there.
One moment they were sitting by the road at the café. The next moment everything was in the air. It was a mess. He couldn’t see his parents. He was worried, but somehow calm. He was in shock, he’d later learn.
It would have been easy to abandon his humanity and rush off to look for his parents, but there was a man right in front of him who needed help. Children can be so selfless at times. It would only take a second, then he would head back into the ruined shop to search for them. He reached out his hand towards the man lying on the ground …
Though the pain is centred at the point of contact, the whole of Ramzi’s head hurts. He hadn’t expected the other man to even attempt to reach that ball, let alone succeed. And how is Ben David back on his feet already?
As Ramzi rubs his head, he keeps a careful eye on his enemy, who appears to be advancing towards him. What is the man doing? He must have suffered brain damage. Ramzi looks up at his enemy’s hand trying to figure out why it’s extended. It’s clearly not an attack. An offering of help?
His head is throbbing.
The hand before him belongs to a man who tries to defend Israel’s military action against civilians. Retaliation against terrorists? Grandmother could barely walk when she was shot. Little sister was three years old… Who in that crowd was a terrorist? It was the men in the helicopters who had fired indiscriminately to create fear. They had no choice because Palestinian terrorists hid amongst civilians? Article 49 of the Fourth Geneva Convention: importing settlers from around the world, it was the Zionists who were using a giant civilian meat shield.
Of course today’s match is personal.
He is staring up at the open hand. He wants to spit. He would but for a memory, from when the world still made sense.
He was much younger, didn’t yet have that look of pain in his eyes—this was before Ramzi was forced to grow up too early. They were playing, but he was upset at a boy for not admitting to scoring with his hand. Ramzi already had a stubborn moral compass back then, so he took a stand after the game.
“He offered you his hand and you didn’t shake it!” his grandmother later scolded.
“He’s a filthy cheat! I will not touch that hand,” the boy proclaimed defiantly.
His grandmother’s face took on a strange look of anger and tenderness. It was like the stern expression was worn only out of necessity, and there was a smile hiding behind it.
“Remember, habibi, even that hand was made by Allah.”
***
The Jungle
January 26, 2013
By Emelie Okeke
It truly is a pleasure to watch these noble creatures in their element. Within the dense boscage, the rough sprawl amongst which these animals hunt, fight, and gorge on their takings, there exists a multitude of species who live off their instincts to survive and, for the best among them, thrive. A painful death awaits the also-rans. Let us take a closer look at these magnificent brutes.
Perched on his usual lofty vantage point, the Cantankerous Escocesas can be seen issuing a ritual rallying cry, with all the familiar features present: fiery crimson cheeks, arms aloft, observant eyes bulging from their sockets. He can be seen constantly analysing the surrounding conditions in order to obtain the most accurate calculation of time, especially late in the day, as the sun begins to disappear over the broad horizon. His fearsome masticating at full flow is a sight to behold. The oldest of all jungle species, he is the leader of the pack and shows no sign of being endangered. Until now. His regular mid-afternoon stroll has been interrupted by an increasingly noisy neighbour.
The Astuzia Mancunia, with immaculately coiffured plumage and flamboyant gesticulations, is intent on becoming the alpha male of this sprawling jungle. His carefully assembled brood are capable of much childish squabbling and in-fighting, and sometimes he himself is caught up in the rough and tumble. Yet, for all this hot-blooded passion and wild histrionics, there remains a maternal streak in the Astuzia Mancunia’s veins, which reveals itself when he dotes over the most rebellious of his young.
As we gaze over the cornucopia of vines, greenery and exotic undergrowth, we can analyse a newer species with bountiful means for development. The Decorus Cymrus is easy on the eye and renowned as much for his purity and aesthetic wonder as it is for its sad affliction of common violent death at the hands of more physical beastly counterparts. It lives in the shadow of its past dominant generations. However, the longer that this adaptable animal gets used to its’ harsh surroundings, the more accustomed it gets to applying its undeniable mental aptitude with burgeoning brawn. For now it resides in the lowly climbs, cowering under the might of the aforementioned two species, but this may not be the case for much longer provided the development continues for the breed.
The similarly-formed Arsenis Obstinatus was previously the prettiest creature in the jungle but is now a bedraggled, surly and browbeaten fallen giant, having succumbed to many a pummelling from rivals in recent times. It is clear to see that it still gains respect, having once been invincible, and I observe more illustrious creatures at times stopping to admire the attractive exterior that belies its soft underbelly. Larger, less prettier creatures often stop to inflict injury for rich pickings, much to the behest of the victim.
Scrambling amongst the undergrowth we catch sight of the Conjurus Cocknus, a crafty species at the best of the times. This is a sprightly, albeit slightly grizzled creature which is able to survive with the most meagre of resources, sometimes using leftover scraps from those with more provisions to draw upon, other times using its powerful means of communication to call out for help in times of need. It never, though, steals things. Ever. Having endured a harsh winter in this treacherous jungle, it is clear to see that this animal’s survival and thus its very way of life is under severe threat. It remains to be seen whether it will be alive and kicking by the time summer re-emerges.
That concludes this trip to the jungle, where creatures of all shapes and sizes can be seen trying to manage their survival. It truly is a fascinating pl- hang on, what is this? Surely not. Yes it is! Prowling into the jungle with its chiselled features and instantly recognisable swagger, this is a beast which hasn’t been sighted in this environment for quite some time. Indeed, the Unico Specialis is truly one of a kind, and his renewed presence in the jungle immediately sees fear and suspicion arise in the eyes of all the animals. Where is he heading? Whose place will he take? Will he return to the top of the perch? Those questions will be answered on another day in the jungle.
*
The Jungle by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
A Tiger And A Mouse
January 17, 2013
By Stephen Cooper
Another day behind the bar in Highlands Golf Club. Only the rich and the influential come here to play and network. I’ve served them all: Nicklaus, Ballesteros, Palmer, all the legends.
Today there is a match play classic and one of the major banks is sponsoring it with a ‘winner takes all’ purse of a cool one million dollars. Rory McIlroy is up against Tiger Woods, and the place will be packed. Rory is huge favourite to scoop the prize as Tiger has been out of sorts lately, to put it politely.
It’s only just after ten a.m. and we’re already half full, with the media in doing interviews and sneaking the odd hot toddy on the sly with a wink to me. I know how to be discreet. Just as well; there’s a mouse who keeps poking his head out of a little hole under the sink and every time I go to catch him he disappears fast as lightning.
The players are warming up on the driving range and most of the spectators and TV crews clear off out to watch them and fawn over their swings and sensationalise the upcoming match. I am washing glasses when I hear something.
“PSSSST!”
I look around and there he is, the wee mouse looking up at me. I take a step towards him and as I raise my foot he cowers in fear.
“No, wait, wait! I’ll make it worth your while.”
I stop mid-stamp and consider.
“What do you mean?”
Mr Mouse leans against the pipe, all cocky now.
“I can guarantee Tiger will beat Rory today. One hundred percent.”
I laugh out loud.
“No chance, he’s playing worse than me!”
Mr Mouse straightens up.
“Tell you what, we’ll each put an equal amount in, and if we lose I’ll give you your stake back.”
I consider for a moment, and to even my own surprise, I stupidly believe him. Something about the little fellow just looks so confident now.
“OK then, I’m in.”
“Righto,” he says.
Mr Mouse scurries into his hole and emerges pulling a large wad of cash, then climbs and sits atop it, smiling up at me.
“Holy shit! How much is that?” I ask.
“Five grand,” he says proudly.
Five grand! Where am I going to get five grand?
“Stay here and keep an eye on the place, but don’t let anyone see you or health and safety will be down here all over us.”
Mr Mouse pouts in response.
“Alright,” he says, looking offended, “keep your hair on.”
I lift the keys and head into the back room, where the manager’s office is. If this goes wrong I am never working in a golf club again. I crouch down to the safe and, after a series of twists and turns, I open it and reach in to the neatly stacked wads of notes.
Just to be sure, I count out the five thousand on the bar.
“Right, ready.”
“OK, stick it all on Tiger, you’ll get three to one,” says Mr Mouse, hopping off his money mountain.
I am watching the match on TV with my heart pumping in my ears. The bet is on. I have had two large whiskies to steady my nerves already. The bookmaker’s clerk even tried to talk me out of the bet earlier and ended up shaking his head at me, and out of sympathy gave me four to one.
The match ebbs and flows a bit like a boxing match; each player winning and losing erratically. Its all square coming up the eighteenth fairway and Rory hits a peach of a shot about two feet from the hole.
My heart sinks.
Tiger pitches onto the dance floor, but around twelve feet away. He steps up and he’d better hole the putt, otherwise Rory will tap in and lift the prize money and, unless Mr Mouse sticks to his word, I’ll have to explain why we’re five thousand down.
Tiger stands over the ball, focused, in the ‘zone’ he swings his putter. The small white ball rolls just as planned, and I let out a shriek as it drops into the hole, which thankfully is not heard because the crowd are roaring their approval, transfixed by the proceedings.
The noise dies down and you can hear a pin drop. Rory strides over confidently and addresses his ball. It’s a simple putt, he just needs to knock it in and then a play-off will ensue. At least I still have a chance.
If I see that mouse though, I’ll squash the little squirt. I glance down at his hole and there’s not a trace.
Typical.
Rory’s up. He gently eases his club against the ball and it trickles dead centre to the hole, then as it is about to drop, it stops in its tracks. I do a double take as the crowd gasp.
Tiger takes off his cap and walks over to offer his commiserations to Rory, who is still staring at the hole in disbelief. Mr Mouse makes good his escape out of the hole and across the green unnoticed, as the Americans go crazy, whoopin’ and a cheerin’ and waving their flags. He arrives out of breath, bent over double.
“See,” he pants, “told you. I’ll be having a large Bourbon then, please.”
I am shocked.
I never knew mice drank Bourbon.
*
You can find plenty more of Stephen’s work here at strange bOUnce, but if that’s not enough for you pop over to his own site, Reflective darkness, according to Stephen Cooper.
Glory Blood
January 6, 2013
By Jude Ellery
The large wooden cart creaks to a halt, its owner spotting another pile. Body parts are loaded in; a severed head clunks against a shorn ribcage. The cart lurches into life again to reluctantly continue its morbid journey, and the cargo settles. Wheels protest sharply with every orbit, but besides this rhythmic squeak of the clean-up job, the arena is soundless.
Now back in its storage shed, the cart is stripped of its spoils. The rusting head of an outdoor tap is rotated four times and a hose rudely awakened as icy water surges through its coils and towards its nozzle. The liquid arrives, spitting erratically at first then becoming a steady stream that erases the spatters of blood and bits of flesh and bone that cling to the cart’s tightly bound planks. The tap turns back; the evidence is gone.
In the thick of night comes an intruder; a rebel, a saviour. This bloodsport must be ended. Twisted hatred burns teary eyes as the axe head buries itself in the cart’s wooden heart, then is jerked free and lifted high, to arc downward again. And again. And again. Where once stood the aching, guilty cart now lies broken timber. A cold wind sweeps in through the open door, circuiting the room, rattling trinkets and tools that sit high on shelves, bearing witness to the murder of one of their own as though they are merely innocent bystanders. The breeze departs with a subtle sigh; the deceased cart gratefully welcomes the release of death. Its job is done, its torment over.
The axeman pleads no defence when the cloaked cleaners interrupt his escape. It makes no odds to them. His is just another body to add to the pile of lifeless shells in the steep-walled pit outside. Redundant clothes freeze tight to withered skin, splintered wood cracks and withers in the toxic winter air.
Now the cleaners’ work begins in earnest. Strange seeds and chemicals no scientist could find on a table of elements are poured into the pits. The silent, sombre ceremony is one of pure efficiency; not a second is wasted on remembering or naming the dead. They have served their use in their present form. Now they shall serve another.
The following night there are already signs of rapid decomposition. Moisture has evaporated into the starless sky, sucking the last imaginations of life from the colourless scene. Carcasses begin to erode to fine white powder, permeating through welcoming soil.
Yet both they and the cart were wrong to believe their torment was done. When another day and night pass, unnaturally green shoots protrude from the rich compost bed. When the sun swaps shifts with the moon once more these shoots are trees, tall and slender, arms outstretched to one another, groaning with the wind which whispers between their sad shapes. No leaves adorn the artificial newborns, simply strong, long branches which, after the fourth day, are hewn from their owners. Spears, these shall make.
Furnaces are heated to hellish temperatures. Spearheads and various other grotesque weapons are forged from the recycled bodies of the dead. When the trees fully mature, they are are uprooted, ending the cycle. The cleaners become woodcutters as they turn trunks into planks.
Gradually a new image is formed. Larger than its predecessor, more grand and spacious and efficient, another cart is born. The device goes about its work compliantly, eliciting not even a squeak in protest as it is shoved along the cold hard stone floor of the brutal sporting arenas.
At every match, both competitors and riotous fans fall. They have given everything for the sport they love. Then, immediately after the survivors have departed, their remains are taken up in the cart and transported away to continue the sickly cycle.
Yet soon a distant memory returns to the wooden cart, echoes of a life since lost. A grudge grows. The fresh planks grow grey and old overnight, they begin to creak and moan at the strain put upon their back. A conscience cries out in the thin, vacant air. No more, it screams with every revolution of its wheels. No more.
It must be silenced.
The cleaners ready a new batch of seeds and chemicals. The formula is tweaked, this time the cart deconstructed methodically by their own hands. Through trial and error they shall reach the perfect ratio of ingredients, creating the perfect tool which bears no soul, carries no knowledge or remembrance of what it does.
To its pain, the paying fan turns blind eyes. This is merely a by-product that cannot be avoided, they tell one another, and soon the propaganda becomes the accepted reality. Sacrifices are necessary for the brutal, bloody game to thrive like it has, through the millennia. It is the ultimate survival of the fittest, and the games accelerate the cycle of nature. Yes, Darwin would have been proud, but Caesar prouder still. These people are not cowards who shrink from death or sneak in at night to sabotage the system. They wish only to live long enough to satisfy nature and glory.
*
Glory Blood by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
For The Team (With Audio Recording)
January 1, 2013
— 3 Comments
By Thomas Ang
Originally published 28.02.12 – republished 01.01.13 with audio recording. Find other recordings at soundcloud/strangebOUnce.
*
Raindrops fall, leaves fall, my feet fall, to cold uncaring pavement. Coldness: one way to deal with heartbreak. Every gasp of air is taken with painful desperation; I battle the squeezing of the heavy, soaked shirt that sticks to me. But I keep on running, committed to the cause.
This is how it must be after yesterday: one part punishment, one part escape, and one part preparation for next time. Tying the game would have been enough and we were so close. How many seasons, again, until another chance? We just passed it away…
My feet are slapping the ground with force now. They shouldn’t, I don’t want them to, but I have no strength left to cushion each footfall. I can’t ask for more than the next step, and the breath to take it.
I punish myself so that I won’t let it happen again, it’s to make losing that much more painful. That, at least, is working. Ask my lungs how they feel about not being big enough. Ask my shins how they feel about the impact. My knee, the knock I’ve been carrying, has stopped hurting somehow. Endorphins do that.
They help me escape physical pain. Rhythmic breathing and brainless repetition, being alone on the road and outside of time, they help me forget other pains: disappointment, inadequacy, guilt, consequences.
I can let it take my mind away from what happened during the game, but I don’t today. The respite is only temporary if we let it happen again. We must be good enough next time, so I search for what I could have done differently. I scan the replay in my mind for a moment that would have changed everything.
The pain in my shins is gone now, replaced with numbness. No stitch in my side. My breathing is calmer. Have I slowed down or have I found my rhythm? It’s like I’ve broken through the wall guarding the place where the answers are kept.
There was a play that decided the game, a single line that changed the story. In that moment upon which all others hinged, what could I have done?
I wasn’t close enough to block the shot.
I wasn’t marking the shooter, didn’t let him go free.
I wasn’t out of position, or lacking the fitness to get back.
It was a poor pass from a teammate, a giveaway in a dangerous place, from which all our problems flowed.
I’m running faster now. I’m not sure why. It feels like the right thing to do. Perhaps I could have called out to him. I wasn’t in the position to ask for the ball, but I could have yelled for him to look to his left.
I don’t think he would have heard me though. Not through the din and distance between us. Not over the chanting and screaming all around.
Not from my seat in row 27 of section C.
*
Thomas Ang is a kindred spirit to strange bOUnce, whose fictional sportswriting and blogging can be found at Roarof theFaithful.com
Visiting Time (With Audio Recording)
December 22, 2012
— 2 Comments
By Jude Ellery
He lies on top of the half-made bed telling a story that I’ve heard a hundred times. His eyelids are sealed shut but I like to think that his mind’s eye is alive with the same images he’s conjuring in mine. Every line or two he loses his train of thought so I prompt him with a question I could answer myself. “Did it finish one-nil then?” Yes, he scored the only goal of the game. He was a striker, he could run fast and take a hit. He’d taken a whack on the ankle in an army game, years later, in Egypt. Bruised from the instep right up to his knee, was off duty for a week after that, and never even got a free kick for his troubles. “How long were you based in Egypt?” But he’s tired now and either doesn’t hear my words or doesn’t have the energy to reply. I leave his card and bag of mints on the table and shut the door gently behind me.
*
Visiting Time by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
What Are The Odds?!
December 4, 2012
By Emelie Okeke
My perfect Saturday. Up at the crack, down to the offy to get the morning loaf, the currant bun and a few rashers, get back in to watch the morning line, then Soccer AM and Footie Focus before checking all the sports betting sites to find the best odds, then heading to Ladbrokes just as the lunchtime match kicks off, in time to get that accumulator in that will hopefully pay for the night’s beer money. Then meet up with the rest of the mugs at the local in preparation for watching our boys at the Matchroom, or in the local for Soccer Saturday if we’re away that weekend. Often, Jeff Stelling and his mates seems a better proposition even when we do have a home game. And even if I do have complete morons for mates.
“See what Ray Winstone said in that Bet365 ad? Torres to score first at 5/1! I’ll have a bang on that!” Dave points excitedly to the big screen. Moron.
“Dave, I wouldn’t back Torres to score first place in a Fernando Torres lookalike competition right now, let alone the first goal in a Premier League match. Besides, Ray Winstone didn’t actually say that, he’s a diehard West Ham fan for one thing, and its just a large-scale version of his face next to a screen with an example of a way to waste your money backing Chelsea”.
Dave glares at me dolefully for a moment before motioning to the bar, muttering a sentence heavily featuring the word “smartass” as he urges me to get the next round of beers in. At this moment, Roller bounds in.
“Alright Dave, Si, what’s occurring then?”
That’s the great thing about Roller, win or lose he’s always cheerful and full of life. A useful pick-me-up after a bad loss, top man to have around after a win. The muppet never stops talking though. We exchange brief pleasantries, then take our pints closer to the big screen, where the West Ham vs Chelsea match is about to kick-off.”
“Did a safe-as-houses treble with William Hill on Chelsea thrashing the Hammers, Arsenal smashing Swansea and West Brom obliterating Stoke with William Hill, should be quids-in by 5pm! Can’t see any of that lot letting me down this weekend!”
Dave shakes his head dismissively. “Call that safe-as-houses? Na mate! For easy, its all about this five-timer I did with Stan James: New Zealand to bosh England in the rugby, Celtic to wallop Arbroath in the Scots Cup, PSG to make mincemeat of Nice, Bayern to ease past Dortmund, and Valencia to massacre Real Sociedad. Easy with a capital E-A-S-Y!”
While Si and Roller indulge in some grossly over-premature back-slapping over their apparent “sure things”, I reserve my judgement and quietly sup my pint as I watch Rafa Benitez try and communicate some tactics to his bewildered Chelsea players via undecipherable hand signals. They know I like to bet a little bit differently. Instead of lumping on a list of short-priced favourites, I prefer to go somewhat left-field. Soon it will pay off. Soon it must pay off.
“Alright then Si, go on, tell us, what have parted your hard-earned 50p on this weekend?”
I clear my throat. I reckon I’ve excelled myself this weekend. “Well guys, with there being six Premier League 3pm kick-offs today, I reckon I would do something akin to my lottery numbers and back players who have my numbers on their shirts to score first. So… Agger for 5, Michu is 9, Holman will be 14, Whitehead is number 18, Fellaini for 25, and Sandro as 34. Six 7p five-folds and an 8p accumulator. That would net me a cool half a million from Ladbrokes if it comes in.”
Blank looks from Dave and Roller, then they promptly return to their pints. They think I’m crazy. They may have a point.
Three and a half hours later, and I’m throbbing at the temples with anticipation, desperately awaiting from Jeff some goal news from the Hawthorns and the Emirates, news that could make me roughly five hundred grand richer in the space of an afternoon. With Dave to the left of me bemoaning Chelsea’s defensive abilities, and Roller to the right of me strongly questioning New Zealand’s rugby credibility whilst contemplating another accumulator with Paddy Power, my ears are strained to filter out the surround negativity in close proximity to me.
Then, ten minutes of sweet madness.
“Goal at the Hawthorns! Dean Whitehead for the away side!” Brilliant! And then… “The deadlock has been broken at the Emirates! And Michu has won it!” 1…2…3… “YESSSSSSSSS!!!!” I go decidedly mental at the bar. At long last, my numbers have come up. Dave and Roller forget about their betting woes and turn to congratulate me on my life-changing win.
“Well done mate, top man, we always knew your genius bet would come in! Drinks on you tonight! Get us a bottle of bubbly each, then we’ll try and clean up at the Coral. I have a great tip!”
My friends are morons. But I love them. And I love betting, for moments like these. Win, lose or draw, we’ll drink some more. My perfect Saturday.
*
What Are The Odds?! by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
