Match of the Day

Rose G

Smithy grinned as his relief sitting in the Canley Arms, partly because he was hoping that one of them would offer him a drink and partly because he was weighing them up in his mind. Eventually, it was Des Taviner who got the hint, carried two pints over and sat down with him.

'Thinking about something, Sarge?'

'Yeah. You heard about Mickey's accident?'

'Some-one said that he broke his arm playing football. Is he okay?'

'Okay enough to be cocky. Him and Don Beech dragooned me into playing a five-a-side match, us versus CID. Fancy playing?'

Des snorted into his lager. 'I'm too old, Sarge.'

'Nah, you're not. Don Beech is playing; he's older than you.'

'Yes, well, he's a DS. He can afford to pay for private treatment afterwards. I can't. I'll come and watch if you want – should be hilarious seeing you lot trying to mark Mickey.'

'Whatever.' Smithy finished his drink and sent Des back to the bar. He thoroughly enjoyed the evening; flirting with some of the prettier women who tried to catch his eye, commiserating with Matt Boyden over the 'marriage' look that had recently entered Vicky Hagen's eyes, and seeing Des sink enough lager to have floated a liner.

'Here, Des, you wanna sign this?'

'Wha'?'

Smithy waved the piece of paper at Des. 'Just overtime stuff. Sign, would you?'

'Uh?'

He shoved the pen into Des's hand and guided it onto the paper. The signature didn't look much like Taviner's, but Taviner didn't look much like himself tonight. He was also, in Smithy's opinion, too drunk now to read the heading that said 'Uniform football team' or note that the other two signatures were Boyden's and Smithy's.

Mickey would have enjoyed the trick as much as Smithy did, but he'd opted to spend the evening at home, too irritated by the cast and the pain to face any company. He soon found, though, that sleeping with a cast on the arm he habitually laid on was nearly impossible and it hurt too much for even videos or CDs to be a distraction. Bored, he finally resorted to texting his mates.

Danny and Duncan both ignored him; Kerry's reply consisted of 'Goodnight, Mickey' and an inquiry about if he knew what the time was. It was only Don who wanted to talk, but his reply was a plea for Mickey to phone, rather than expect Don to waste valuable time fighting with text messaging. It took so long to arrive that Mickey was entirely in agreement.

'Tha' you, Sarge?'

'Don'll do for now, Mickey. How you doing for players?'

'Me. You, I presume. I was going to ask Meadows –someone told me that he used to play in Yorkshire – but every time I got near him, he started fussing. Gave up in the end.'

'Two ain't bad. I'm working on John Boultan, and he will play, even though he reckons he hates football. I'll shame him into it, don't worry. I know he says it's a wimp's game, but if I can't manage Boultan by now you can shoot me. And Meadows, I'll get him if you're afraid of him playing mother hen.'

'I don't mind. It's just – embarrassing.' Mickey tried to keep the self pity out of his voice and didn't succeed. 'Who else?'

'We-ll. Danny Glaze is fast, and I mean fast. Don't know if he can play, but I'd sign him up and just let him run at people. And you're gonna need a couple of subs for us old ones.'

'Rod Skase.' Mickey's voice was firm. 'He's a laugh and I'll make sure he gets to boss Boultan around at least once in the match.'

'Fair enough,' Don chuckled.

'Geoff Daly?' Mickey tossed the sergeant's name into the discussion for a joke, was rewarded with Beech spluttering incoherently about 'pen pushers' and threatening to walk out or commit murder; not necessarily in that order.

'Alright, alright, Don! Calm down. Joke.'

'Good. I don't like that bloke.'

'I gathered.'

'Yes. Hey, what are you doing about a keeper?'

'Keeper? Oh, Gawd, I dunno. You don't play in goal, I take it?'

'Nope.' Beech's smile could almost be heard. 'How about Duncan Lennox; he should fill the goal up pretty well?' He was expecting some comment about Scottish keepers, but Mickey only mumbled agreement.

'Sounds like most of a team then.'

'Yeah. But there's no hurry, is there? Not playing until you're fit, so there's plenty of time. I'll give a hand with it tomorrow, if there's anything else that needs sorting.'

Mickey yawned, fatigue rolling over him. His arm hurt, his head hurt and he felt sick and shaky regardless of the fact that the injury had occurred the day before yesterday – two days before, seeing as it was past midnight now.

'You okay, Mickey?' Don's voice was soft. 'I'll come and give you a lift tomorrow if you want.'

'No, thanks. I'll walk – might clear my head.'

'If you're sure. Call me if you want. Goodnight, Mickey.'

'Night.'

'Oh, Mickey…was you telling the truth that your manager wouldn't let you do level one?'

'Yeah. And I know that you only have to turn up to pass. Night.'

Mickey finally feel asleep, dreaming of leading his team out against Smithy's at Upton Park, the crowds screaming his name and the Match of the Day music flooding over the tannoys.

Des winced as Smithy strode in to the briefing room, crashing the door behind him. 'Ah…my head.'

Boyden grinned at him, then winked at Smithy. 'You reckon he remembers what he signed up for last night, Dale?'

''Im?' Smithy's voice dripped condescension at the thought. 'Not a chance.'

Des blinked, run one hand over his shaven head. 'I signed up for something? Oh, shit. Look, you lot, if it's kissing Reggie-babe or something, then you'll have to get him to sign as well.'

'Des?' Smithy was almost rubbing his hands together with delight.

'Yes?'

'What position do you like?'

'He likes it from behind, Sarge!' one of them yelled and the rest was drowned out by wolf – whistles and laughter.

'Tell me I didn't sign up for the five-a-side, Sarge. Bugger, I did, didn't I? That bit of paper…How could you?'

'And? What position?'

'Defence, where all the old crooks play.' Des shook his head, resigned to his fate, as Monroe walked in and clapped his hands for attention.