A Natural by Ross Raisin

Author:Ross Raisin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2017-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

15

The French windows of the clubhouse had been opened and the scent of curried chicken was wafting enticingly over the field. From the tacky plastic warmth of the stretching mats Tom watched the burly little assistant groundsman moving in and out of the ground-staff shed, his quick hands and busy energy so different to Liam, who was back at the stadium, no sign or sound of him present now to cloud the simple clear air.

The fitness coach called them over for a doggies drill and Tom sprang to his feet. By the time they broke for liquids the roots of his hair were crawling pleasingly with sweat. A bag of balls was released and a forgotten tingle of expectancy moved inside him.

They took turns at dribbling around a line of cones. The number two timed each effort. Tom’s focus was total. He guided the ball nimbly around the cones, his brain, his feet, his toes inseparable. After two attempts each he had recorded the two fastest times. Wilko walked over and, in full view of the whole squad, pointed at Tom. “That, people, is what Premier League quality looks like,” he said, giving Tom a wet pat on the kidneys that Tom could feel long into the keep-ball routine that followed.

—

Finch-Evans was struggling. Town were on top at home against Morecambe, leading 1–0 and pushing for a second, but the winger’s every contribution was a mistake—a cross shanked into the crowd, a pass to Fleming without looking up that squandered possession—and by the closing stages of the half it was obvious that he was lost. The Morecambe left back stationed himself high up the pitch to attack Town’s right and in injury time set up a chance for the tattooed number nine which was volleyed with enough power, just wide of the post, to take down an advertising hoarding.

Wilko did not substitute him at halftime. He wanted him to be a man, he said. To go back out and turn his performance around. Finch-Evans acknowledged these words with a slight dip of his head. Wilko then turned to the rest of the squad and clapped his hands. “Bloody superb. These are promotion material, and you’re matching them, better than them, man for man, almost. A second goal kills them off, lifts us above the drop. Get out there and more of the same.”

Finch-Evans lasted another eighteen minutes. A rumble of satisfaction went around the ground when his number was held up. He sloped across the pitch, only looking up from the grass to acknowledge Tom with an expression of humiliated relief on his face as they exchanged on the touchline.

The crowd cheered Tom’s introduction. He received the ball just after play restarted and passed it forward, simply, to the feet of Gundi. A neat touch a few minutes later worked him a few seconds of space; he put his head up and spotted the overlapping run of Fleming—into whose path he played an easy measured ball. Each choice was suddenly clear.

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