Mickey woke up suddenly on that Sunday, trying to work out in his sleep filled mind exactly what it was that he was meant to be doing today. The match, bloody hell, the match!
He swung out of bed and dressed quickly, remembering the cast well enough that the freedom of movement pleased him. He dialled Don's number, was beginning to think that the old Sargent had already left before he picked the phone up.
'Don?'
'Mmmph.'
'Its Mickey. Are you ready for the match?'
'Ah-ah.' Don mumbled something that Mickey took as assent.
'What about John? Could you make sure that he's still on?'
'JOHN!' Beech's bellow made Mickey's ears ring. 'Right, he's getting up now. He stayed over for the night.'
'Did he? Uh - see you later, Don. And John. Bye.' Mickey dropped the phone as quickly as possible, trying not to follow that train of thought any further.
The doorbell rang then, sending him flying downstairs fast enough to have broken another bone, to answer it.
'Kerry!'
She looked radiant in jeans and a t-shirt, blonde hair scraped back into a pony-tail. 'Morning, Mickey. I thought I'd come and help organise you, see if there's any more forms you need signing, that sort of thing.'
Mickey smiled at her.'Well - could you carry some bags for me?'
'Bags?'
'Come in.' He stepped back and allowed her in. 'There, look. Kit an' a couple of balls, and first aid. And my kit bag. You know my car, don't you? Its just outside. Cheers.'
Kerry raised an eyebrow at him. 'And what're you doing?'
'Shaving, having something to eat and drinking some tea. I overslept. So'd Don - and John.'
'How'd you know about those two?'
'Phoned Don; he's been helping me. John was staying with him.'
Kerry, like Mickey earlier, abondoned that idea, and gathered some of the gear together, leaving Mickey to start shaving. And once the boot of the car was loaded, she made him tea and found some edible looking fruit for his breakfast. Mickey didn't know whether to hug her in gratitude, or wolf the food down.
Smithy was also flying around, even though he only had to organise himself and his team, not all the kit. A 1AM prank call from Des Taviner, who, judging by the noise had been in a nightclub of some kind had done nothing to calm his temper down. He'd lost one of his astro boots, and he was runnning late.
Burnside was lost. The Sun Hill streets had been extensivly rebuilt and changed to one way systems since he'd last been here on his own. Eventually, he gave up and phoned Jim.
'Kid, where am I?'
Patiently, Carver reeled off the directions to Canley College Sports Hall, and did the same again a few minutes later, after Burnside had believed that he'd found a shortcut and got lost again.
Glad that he'd been able to persaude Dave to cover for him, he headed off to the match.
Kerry drove Mickey to the match, pleased to find that only Jack Meadows was waiting to play,
and Jim Carver was on the phone to Burnside for the third time that morning. Yelling at
Kerry and Meadows to bring the bags, he jogged up the steps and signed them in. Today was
his day; he was in charge and part of that was very definatly going to be bossing his DCI
around.
Kerry gave him a quick kiss on the cheek for luck, then wandered over to the viewing gallery.
'Jack, take the kit bag and go get changed. Red shirts and socks for us. Not the number 3 shirt; that's mine.'
Meadows gaped at being bossed around by his DC, but Mickey just grinned and waved the mocked up manager's pass that John had made up, under his nose. 'I'm in charge, Jack. Chop, chop.'
He walked back over to the car park, greeting the others as they arrived.
'Mickey?' Burnside hollered over. 'Am I in the right place?'
'Yes!' Mickey and Carver answered in concert.
Burnside got out and walked over to Jim. 'Hiya, kid. Want to tell me what's going on? I couldn't get any sense out of Mickey, not that that's new or anything.'
Jim fell into step with the old DCI as they walked over towards the hall. 'Mickey and Smithy are what's been going on. Both of them convinced that they're the best at football, and they annoyed Beech so much that he got them to play a challenge match to sort it out. You'd best speak to them though.'
Burnside nodded and walked over to join Mickey and Smithy. 'Alright, lads what rules we playing under?'
Smithy jumped in before Mickey could even open his mouth. 'Standard five-a-side. No heading,
no offside. Rollings subs and keeper. Twenty minutes each way. No-one to be sent off for
swearing else I won't have anyone left.'
'I thought we were playing 45 each way,' Mickey protested.
'What, and kill Des and Meadows off? Be sensible.'
'Okay, shut up!' Burnside thundered at them. 'I know the rules anyway, so you two can run along and inform your mobs. Mickey, is anyone doing first aid?'
'Kerry. She's in the hall already.'
Burnside swung his kitbag over his shoulder and headed off to get changed.
'Mickey?'
'Yes, Smithy?'
'Don't go and get injured just so that Kerry has to run on and nurse you. Especially don't go and get a groin strain.'
'Oh, shut it.'
Smithy hurried over to the changing rooms, relieved to see all his players there already and their share of kit dumped on the floor, presumably by Mickey. 'C'mon lads. Everyone get changed, please.'
It was Boyden who challenged him. 'What about Vicky?' His arm snaked across her shoulder, but she stepped smartly away.
'She can get changed after us, in a minute.'
'Why should I? It's not like anyone's stripping off completely, is it? And if you did, I've seen bigger.' She tossed her head back, and picked a set of kit off the pile.
'Fine,' Smithy sighed in resignation.
'Eyes off, you lot! She's mine!' Boyden grated and turned to Vicky for approval.
'We'll discuss that later, Mathew. Look all you want, you fellows.'
'Just get changed.' Smithy sunk onto the bench and obeyed his own words, trying not to look at Vicky.
Mickey was thoroughly enjoying himself. His lot were changed and warming up already, although there had been a few problems. Rod had wanted a number 4 shirt, and had sulked when there wasn't one, Boultan had been whinging about everything, really, and Meadows had kept forgetting that rank was important today, but it was going well.
He smiled and broke into a jog alongside Don, the pair of them counting their strides as they led the first jog. Boultan was loping rather than running, a peculiar gait caused by his height, and to Mickey's everlasting suprise, Meadows appeared to know the drill as well as he himself did. Run, stretch, run, passing, the DCI could have led the warm up. Burnside, in full refereing kit, was kicking in with Duncan and Smithy, who were taking it in turns to block his shots. Smithy was taking a long while to regain his feet after each effort.
Boyden eventually chivved the uniform team out and tried to dragoon them into warming up, an idea that failed when Vicky got hold of the ball and started juggling it. Flick-flick, foot to foot, onto her thigh, flick, up to her chest, down to her feet again, with a smile on her face. He smiled, so entranced with her performance that he didn't even notice the others standing still, and wouldn't have cared if he'd done so.
'Rod, tell John to come and sit on the bench!' Mickey stepped away hastily as Rod went up to the ginger-haired nutcase, but still heard his outburst at Rod's request.
'Who put you in charge, you - you over-rated hairdresser?'
'Mickey did, actually, Sarge. Now come and sit down.' The smug joy on Rod's face was something Mickey would always remember.
Grinding his teeth, Boultan did as he was told. Meadows, aware of the age difference, made no complaints about keeping him company.
Swaggering, Mickey and Smithy led their teams out. Neither of them had been managers before; they'd not had time for a team talk and it was only five-a-side, but it was a football match and they were in charge, and that was enough. The two teams lined up, Burnside calling Mickey and Boyden up to take the toss as Smithy was in goal. They had to wait then for Don to find a rubber band to tie his hair back.
Jim, Kerry and the subs shouted 'good luck' to them. Mickey lost the toss, was pleased when Boyden left it as it was. Burnside blew for kick-off.