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Making Allowances
Chapter 12 Part 1
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Several years passed. Nothing happened in all this time to
change Dad’s mind, or at least that was how it seemed. Oddly, though, I
discovered that he kept renewing his jockey’s licence; Mum divulged this to me
one New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t understand why he was doing this. All that I
could think was that this was a defence mechanism. Perhaps it was his way of
saying to the Racing Game that he was still able to do it, but chose not to,
like an attitude of “I can take it or leave it. I’m still good enough and
fit enough, but I don’t need it” rather like the ex-smoker who keeps an
unopened packet of twenty in the house, as testimony to their resolve at kicking
the habit. Things for me, however, had changed
greatly. Through work, I had met Ellie, and fallen in love with her. We bought a
house together after about eighteen months and then married the following year. Ellie had only had a brief
flirtation with ponies and horses as a girl. She grew out of it and had never
once been to a race meeting until we started to go out. Quite early in our
relationship, I had been invited by one of our firm’s suppliers to a race
meeting at which they were sponsoring a number of races. Ellie loved it; she
really entered into the spirit of the day, placing her own bets with some small
success. She enthused about the horses, the roar of the crowd, the romance of
winning. She was hooked! Of course, corporate hospitality is
all very well. It’s very nice to have food and drink laid on, free bets, the
best views and so on. As I explained to Ellie on the way home, though, it was a
stark departure from the racing game with which I grew up. As I began to relay large parts of
my life story to Ellie, I hoped that this would give her a better perspective of
the Racing Game. Perhaps it did, but I did not reckon upon the way that it would
fuel her curiosity about Dad. The next time we were all together
as a family was to celebrate Jenny’s eighteenth birthday, for which we all
went out for a meal at a pretty little restaurant in the countryside. Ellie
began to ask Dad lots of questions about his days as an apprentice and then an
amateur jockey. Clare’s boyfriend Mark started to pick up on it also, and
soon, it was like the “open season”, as the two “newcomers” took turns
at asking Dad questions. I began to feel very uncomfortable and concerned that
Dad would run out of patience with Ellie and Mark’s questions. I glanced
furtively at Mum who responded with a glance to the heavens, as if to say please
God, don’t spoil this meal. I looked at Clare. She pulled a nervous face too. Surprisingly though, Dad warmed to
the questions, and endeavoured to give as entertaining, humorous and informative
answers as he could. We were all mightily relieved when the subject finally
changed. Before it did, however, Dad gave the
one and only clue about how he really felt. Ellie had asked him if he was still
able to ride. Dad gave an unequivocally affirmative reply, and said that he
still dreamed of riding in a big race and would continue to do so probably until
he died. Over the next few years, I would
often broach the subject of our conversation in the car on our way back from
Wolverhampton, after Vendredi’s first run. I would ask Dad if he would still
choose a ride in the National, over the other two choices. He would be fairly
non-committal in his replies. He’d say that a chance to have done any of them
would have been nice, although every time I asked it, his opinion, increasingly,
seemed to be that we should stop wishing about things and get on with the rest
of our lives. I still followed National Hunt
Racing. Ellie and I came from quite different backgrounds and did not have many
shared interests, but we found that we could share the experience of watching
racing, having a bet, soaking up the atmosphere and so on. It was always a good
day out, and we even enjoyed watching meetings on TV. The more we watched and
observed, the better informed we became, and in this way, Racing became a hobby,
or sorts. On Sundays, I would play local
football. The League was of a reasonable standard; was not brilliant; I had no
great speed, strength or skill, but could do all the basics well; I could tackle
and pass, and for a fairly short guy I was very good in the air. The ability
that I seemed to possess above everything else was timing, judging when to
deliver the pass, leap for the header, or slide in to tackle. Our team was moderately successful,
but I always harboured a desire to play a better standard. For once, I was lucky
enough to be in the right place at the right time. I happened to have one of my
best games in the final of one of the local Cup competitions. Despite losing 1-0
on the day, I had played exceptionally well. As I was leaving the ground, a guy
with whom I had been at school came up to me and asked me if I would like to
join his team, with whom he was playing senior standard football. He was even
getting paid to play. I had never had the ability, nor the desire, to attempt to
make a living out of playing football, so this, realistically, was my best
chance of playing the best football I could expect. It wasn’t Wembley, but
they were in the first round of the FA Vase, so who was to say where it could
lead? When the new season started, I began
training with the new club, and managed to get a place on the substitutes’
bench for their first league match of the season. This was a very different
world to the football I had played with my old club. We now were expected to
wear blazers and the club tie to all games. The ground was completely enclosed,
with two stands, one seated, one standing, flanking the pitch, and open
terracing at either end. There were advertisement hoardings around the perimeter
of the pitch, even floodlighting. People paid to get in!! I smiled to myself as I walked
through the Players and Officials’ Entrance, through the club house, which was
filling steadily with members, and into the dressing rooms where a few of the
early arrivals greeted me and invited me out to look at the pitch. Outside again, the August sun shone
brightly, and the carefully tended pitch shimmered, lush and verdant, the
goalposts glistening with new white paint, sheathed with taut new white nets.
For the first time, I began to understand that boyish “big wheel” glint in
Dad’s eyes, from his racing days. Here I was, just a few steps away from
professional football. This was, in truth, the nearest I would probably ever get
to my dream, the nearest I would get to Wembley. I smiled in recollection of our
dreams and the “matches” we had played on the lawn as a little boy. I never
thought I would get this far. I returned to the dressing rooms,
where the kit had been laid out immaculately on hooks and benches. I spotted my
Number 12 shirt, dazzling white numbers on the navy blue, new white shorts and
socks, brilliant white. The Manager offered some final words of encouragement,
the yells of the team rose to a crescendo as we stood up and filed out of the
tunnel, bursting onto the pitch to the applause of almost a thousand spectators. I sat quietly in the dugout,
swigging from a water bottle as play got under way in the summer heat. The game
started untidily, it took a while for both teams to settle down into any type of
rhythm or pattern. In fact, it was a glaring error by the opposing keeper which
presented us with the first chance of the game on ten minutes, scuffing his
goal-kick directly into the path of our centre forward. Our striker charged
goalwards, holding off a strong challenge, before sliding the ball under the
advancing keeper and into the far corner of the net, one-nil. It was a dream start, but within a
few minutes came a setback. Our captain, who had been struggling with a
hamstring injury earlier that week, pulled up near the bench and made a
ravelling gesture with his hands, to suggest that he could not continue. The
Manager pushed my shoulder, “Get yourself loose, then.” Tight in the stomach, I did a few
sprints before pulling off my tracksuit and standing by the linesman. At the
next break in play, I ran on for my first taste of football at this level. I was surprised by two things early
on, firstly, the speed at which the game was played. Fortunately though, this
was balanced somewhat by the fact that it seemed that players were allowed a
little more space and time on the ball. I tried to keep it simple, to do the
simple thing. It seemed to be working well; I heard the odd encouraging shout
from the Manager, and then, nipping in to intercept a pass and set up our own
counter attack, more audible praise from the crowd. “Well done lad!” I heard one say “Good work son”, called another. I began to settle, and enjoy myself,
I even managed a speculative shot just before half time, but I didn’t get my
weight over the ball, and although I hit it cleanly, about 25 yards out, the
ball did not come down and sailed harmlessly onto the terracing. The crowd still
clapped, and the centre forward gave me an encouraging pat as I retreated. At half time, we were still a goal
up. I was happy with the way that things were going, and only wished that Ellie,
or better still, Dad, were here to see it. Perhaps there are football Gods.
Perhaps these Gods can see our footballing destiny. This is the only way that I
can explain what happened in the first five minutes of the second half. I got a few nice early touches,
before we put together our first decisive move of the half. I started it,
winning a ball just inside our own half and moving it quickly wide to one of the
full backs. There was a smattering of applause. The full back jinked past one,
then two defenders, before trapping the ball and running on, leaving it to a
midfielder; more applause, now a few roars. The midfielder chipped the ball over
another defender into the path of the fullback who had continued his run. I
headed for the box at speed, running in at an angle from the back of the box as
the cross was delivered. The cross was rather low and I sensed that it was going
to pass just behind me, in a spilt-second I managed to launch myself into the
air and manoeuvre into a position where I could connect with my kicking foot
above my head, in a scissors kick. The ball caught my foot just right, I heard
the thus of boot on ball, then a soft flick before a resounding ping and groan
from the crowd as the ball crashed onto the bar and over for a corner. A great
wave of sound echoed around the ground. I retreated back toward halfway as
the central defenders ventured up field for the corner, the applause was still
ringing in my ears. “Bad luck mate” they
commiserated as they passed. But from the corner, the keepers
flailing punch was collected by an opposing midfielder, who easily evaded our
closest player, who had tripped. The midfielder was away, charging into our
half. He was big and powerful, more like a centre half, but light on his feet.
Our fullback tried to force him wide but he used his pace and power to bend
inside and beyond him. I was sprinting towards him from the side, he was only
thirty yards from goal. I grit my teeth and sprinted closer, now just twenty
yards, he was right on the edge of the box and shaping to shoot. It was now or
never, as he swung his leg back I slid in and just managed to get something on
the ball before he unloaded.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
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