Stepping on the Cracks by Carter Chris L

Author:Carter, Chris L.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 9781780888811, Chris L. Carter, Stepping on the Cracks, Matador
ISBN: 9781780888811
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

August 1978

The journey up to Birmingham that following Saturday was about as tedious as travelling to away games could get. The thing was, usually I would find the whole experience pretty exciting, it would remind me of the times as a kid when Mum would take me on a coach trip down to Swanage for a couple of days, the nearest thing that we ever had to a holiday.

But I couldn’t seem to find that sense of comfort, that excitement that would usually bubble away as I watched the world from the security of a coach seat. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fire up my imagination enough to explore the towns and the oceans of countryside that passed my window, to see it all through different eyes, instead just watched it roll wearily by, like the credits at the end of a film.

A few of the older lads had busied themselves with a game of cards while the younger lads lounged about chatting about birds and stuff, taking the piss mostly. And a few of them had even managed to grab some sleep, feet up across the seats, heads pressed against the window as their bodies swayed unconsciously along with the rhythm of the coach; floating in the motions of car sleep. I tried to focus my thoughts on the match and the thrill of playing at Birmingham’s famous St. Andrews ground.

Reserve team football can be a peculiar experience, the team can seem constantly in limbo with some players on the up, and others, usually first team squad members, on their way down. It was very rare, well at Southfields at least, that a regular first team player would find himself running out with the reserves. His presence would usually be the result of an injury or suspension.

As an apprentice or semi-pro in the “stiffs” you always found yourself hoping that your opposition would be fielding one or two full-time ones. Well known names, familiar faces instantly recognisable from the back pages of newspapers and sticker albums. And who knows, if you were really lucky the odd international among them. Some of the lads had started to discuss the idea, the thought of facing the likes of Tony Towers, Tony Want, Jimmy Calderwood, Joe Gallacher and, of course, Francis. It was beginning to pump them up already, could sense the enthusiasm rise in their voices, and we were only just on the outskirts of Birmingham, leaving the countryside behind as the buildings and housing estates of the suburbs grew denser, like slipping through the depths of a forest.

But I couldn’t seem to concentrate on any of it, couldn’t sustain my train of thought long enough to get excited. Instead my mind kept leaping back to Billy and all the people who could easily be marked down for retribution.

His words had stuck with me ever since, all the way home that night they had jabbed away like needles in my head. Each time I had passed beneath

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