Match of the Day 3

Rose G

This chapter includes a special reference for those who visited on the old TB forums that no-one else will understand, I'm sure. If Fluffster reads this, I'm sorry.

Mickey was in a temper when he finally arrived at Sun Hill the next morning. The rain had got down the back of his neck, the cast was making his arm itch and he'd had a lousy night's sleep. Only stubbornness had prevented him from accepting Don's offer of a lift. Again, it was Kerry who took pity on him, found somewhere for his jacket to go, and got him a coffee. It was only when he'd finished it that he noticed the sign on the side of his desk.

'"DC Alf Ramsey." Sarge, was that you?'

Beech gave him such an innocent look that it was tantamount to a signed confession. 'Me, Michael? No.'

Boultan walked over to Mickey's desk. 'You got that form there, Mickey? Should I sign?'

'Yes, Sarge. Long as you remember that this is football football, not rugby football.'

'It's kick the ball into the net. It's not difficult. And by the way, don't worry about the sign. We bribed Jim Carver to put one up on Smithy's locker as well.'

'Oh? What'd that one say?'

'Sergeant Graham Taylor.'

Mickey and those nearby laughed, earning a suspicious glance off of DI Deakin, who had been talking quietly to Geoff Daly. Gritting his teeth, he seized his chance.

'Hey, guv, you going to play?'

Deakin looked at him. 'Some-one has to stay here and run the station, DC Webb. And I don't like football, anyway.'

'Okay. Sarge?'

Raising his voice to be heard over Beech's gagging noises, Daly declined. 'I play cricket, constable. Much more pleasant, less barbaric sort of game. And like the DI said, we've got to have some men here.'

'Moo-oo!' Deakin and Daly looked oddly at Beech, while the others, who were in the joke and always thought it apt, convulsed with laughter. Pretending not to know that they were laughing at him, Daly swept out of the room.

Similar scenes were repeated around the station for the next few days, and weeks, growing increasingly more desperate as the match got nearer.

'I am not having Jim Carver in the team, Dale.'

'Why not?'

'He's a boozer. And I for one intend to go and get smashed after the match.'

'So?'

'And he's overweight.'

'And?'

'He used to be in CID. He can go and play for them.'

'I'm the manager, Matt. My decision.'

'And my decision, Smithy, is that if he plays, I won't. Deal?'

They locked eyes for a minute, and Smithy backed down. 'Alright, have it your way. Just go and find me a replacement for him, would you?'

'Hey, Danny, you wanna play for me? When I'm out this cast, o' course.'

The black DC blinked slowly and looked at Mickey. 'Why?'

'Because that bloody hairstyle of yours means that you can head anything, I bet. And you're fast. And I need a couple of subs. And you're here, and you haven't signed, and I've signed everyone else who's here at the moment.'

'Mickey, how many cups of coffee have you had this morning – so far?'

'Uh – a few.'

'Well, lay off them. When you've stopped bouncing around like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, then I'll sign.'

'Hey, thanks!'

'Sod off and let me do this in peace.'

'Sarge?'

'Mmm?' Boyden couldn't find anything more coherent to say; Vicky Hagen was nestling alongside him, running her fingers through his hair. The drinks they'd had had left them both smiling sloppily at each other. 'I think Matt'll do for now.'

She moved slightly, so she was gazing into his eyes. 'What's this about the five-a-side, Matt?'

Boyden grunted; that was not the question he'd been expecting. 'We're playing CID when Mickey Webb's fit again. Smithy's in charge.'

'I know that. Is he going to be ever so modern and let women play?'

'Why?'

'Because, with respect, I could outplay any of you lot. And I'm a cracking striker.'

'You?'

'Mister Charming.' She tugged, not too gently, at a lock of his hair. 'Can I play?'

'I don't know.'

'Can I?' There was a sharp edge to her voice.

'Can you play, or what?'

'I play, or, or, you can go to bed by yourself tonight.' Her voice was full of amusement as she reached up to kiss him.

Mickey spent a long while trying to summon up the courage to ask Meadows. The big DCI was never less than kind, considerate, yet he was the only one of the superiors that Mickey felt he had to impress. But it was the non-stop fussing that Mickey couldn't stand. He eventually got his chance when he bumped into the DCI just going into the office. Hey, guv!'

'Mickey?'

'You want to play in the five-a-side?'

'Don's already got me to sign. Didn't he tell you?'

'No. When?'

'A week or so ago. I play midfield, if he hasn't told you. I hope you've got a sub?'

'Yeah. Two, if Rod plays.'

'Rod Skase? Him and Boultan, in the same team? I hope you know what you're doing of, Mickey.' Shaking his head, Meadows walked off.

Mickey stormed over to Beech, who was having hysterics in the corner of the room.

'Watch out, Mickey – big, bad, DCI about!'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because it was so funny watching you psyche yourself up to face him.'

'Oh, shut up. I'll start you on the bench.'

Des laughed madly as he threw the patrol car around a corner so hard that the tyres screeched and a trail of rubber plastered the road. 'Way – hey!' He set the sirens blazing, jumped a red light.

'Uh, Des?'

'Yes, Reggiebabe?'

'Being late isn't enough – arrgh, slow down – to justify this.'

'Course it is.' Des leant forward into the car's movement. When they arrived back at the station and Reg was still staggering, he began to try and recruit him as a player.

'No, Des. Football is rather a rough sport, and with my back, it would be very difficult for me to play.'

'I'm older than you – I can play.'

'And I don't understand the rules for football. It's very complicated.'

'Reggiebabe?'

'Yes?'

'Come here.' He walked along to Smithy's office, knocked and went in. 'Reg would like to play for us, Sarge. Sign the paper, Reg.'

Smithy's mouth opened and shut. He'd only just recovered from a blazing row with Matt Boyden over Vicky, and loosing quite heavily. 'I asked him Des, and he said that he didn't know the rules.'

'Perfect. He can be our referee. Sign, Reg.'