Match of the Day 4

Rose G

Mickey felt sure that he was going to go insane from the restrictions of the cast, even though he'd managed four weeks and had only a fortnight left to go. It itched, the break hurt and he couldn't reliably use his right hand. He'd also tried to put his arm around Kerry but had only succeeded in severely bruising the back of her neck. He felt that he really couldn't cope with Smithy bouncing around in the canteen.

'Got a team list for me yet, Mister Wengar?'

'Oh, very clever, Mister Hoddle. Very amusing. Do I sound French to you?'

Smithy sat down. 'No, but you do look like a weirdo. Who've you got?'

'Me. Beech and Boultan, Meadows. Danny Glaze. Rod Skase and Duncan as subs, I think. What about you?'

'Me. Des and – don't laugh – Reg. Tony as sub. Matt Boyden. Oh, and Vicky Hagen.'

'A woman? You're not allowed to do that, Sarge!'

'She forced Matt to force me into it. I have no idea what the rest of the deal was but he was insistent, I'm afraid.'

'Really no idea what she bartered?' Both men were sniggering.

'Lots of ideas, Mickey, none of which should enter the mind of some-one as young and as innocent as you!'

The brief conversation restored Mickey's temper to the extent that he was able to manage a smile for Rod and Duncan as they walked by him in the corridor and a civil greeting for Beech who fell into step with him as he walked into the main office.

'Hey, Mickey, you got everything else sorted yet?'

'What like?'

'Pitch, kit, ref, first aid, goalkeeping, food after the match, sorting out a date, anything else I may have missed even in my superiority.'

'Balls. What sort of an organiser do you think I am? We're going down the pub after the match – they can sort the food out. My mob said that I could use their five-a-side pitch that we use for training or the collage's got a nice indoor pitch all marked out. Either'd do.'

Beech nodded thoughtfully. 'Indoors'll be best. Not everyone's got a decent pair of boots.'

Mickey thought of something else. 'Oh, bugger.'

Concern flicked over Don's face. 'What?'

'Where the hell do you suggest that I get a pair of keepers gloves to fit Dunc?'

'Try a pair of those foam hand things that you see getting waved at rugby matches.'

Smithy was in a panic and trying not to be. He looked down at the signing on sheet again, trying to convince himself that Andrew Munroe would think that he was studying patrol sheets or something. The list still stubbornly read:

Uniform Football Team

- Me

- Matt Boyden (Anywhere but goal – too stiff)

- Des Tavener (Defence)

- Reg Hollis (Out the bloody way)

- Vicky (Up front)

-Tony Stamp (Not up front)

'I am not a goalkeeper. I am not a goalkeeper. I am not a flaming poxy keeper!'

Boyden stuck his head round the door then, looking for something. 'Anything wrong, Smithy?' He smiled at the other sergeant, then wandered in and started to search for the reports he wanted.

'No keeper. Would you do it?'

'I would but' – he stood up from his crouched position in front of the filing cabinet and his knees cracked – 'it'd kill me. Really would.'

'Vicky?'

'She wants to play up front. Let her – I need my peace and quiet these days.'

'Yeah, right. Send Des in when you see him.'

'See him? I'll get him now.' Boyden walked over to the door and yelled the constable's name as loud as he could.

Des sauntered up a few minutes later and looked at them both. 'All due respect – I ain't playing in goal.' Then he turned smartly and walked, almost marched off, grinning because he'd had the sense to listen to what they were discussing before he went in.

Smithy shrugged, then slammed his hand down on the desk. 'Alright…I'll do it.'

'That's the spirit.' Boyden clapped Smithy on the shoulder and walked off, limping slightly.

'Mickey, are those football notes you're looking at?'

'Please, Ker, don't tell Daly that I'm sitting here trying to get a referee. Please.'

'Better than you sitting there sulking. Anything I can do to help?'

'Don't think so. Unless you could sign these forms for me?'

'Why?'

'Meadows wanted them yesterday, and it'll take me forever to do them.'

She walked over to his desk, picked up the forms and sat next to him. 'Anything here got your signature on it?'

He rifled through his desk, found something that he'd signed before he'd broke his arm. 'Like that, Kerry.'

Grinning, she copied the signature onto the first of the forms. He could write – well enough to manage his teamsheets – but for the past five weeks, he'd had everyone dancing attention on him. She wondered whether he'd even noticed her assistance alongside Don's solicitous care and Rod's silent help. She stopped what she was doing for a while, looking at Mickey as he stared at his list of names.

Deakin won't do it. I need everyone else. Really, really need everyone else. Unless…Smirking, he called Jim Carver, and then another number. Kerry listened to his side of both conversations, saw the grin break over his face as he announced to the room at large 'We've got a referee! Frank Burnside's the referee!'

Mutters of approval drifted over, almost drowned out by Daly demanding to know how that was related to work. Mickey managed to ignore all that, just concentrated on Kerry's smile.

Smithy met Mickey and Don, who was still shadowing him, in the pub a week later. 'Plaster comes off tomorrow, right?'

'Yeah, thank God.'

'What you gonna do first?'

'Hit someone with it, I think. Maybe Geoff Daly or Deakin. Or sign my own forms.'

'When do you want to play the match?'

'Got it sorted already. Sunday week, over at the college, in their hall. Burnside's doing the reffing and the pubs' doing lunch.'

Smithy was taken aback by evidence that Mickey could actually organise something. 'What about kit?'

'I've managed to borrow the under 18's away kit, and the second team's home one, so we can use them, long as they get washed and back before next weekend. You just need to get your lot to bring trainers and shinpads. All organised.'

Smithy surrendered and brought the next round in.