It was a hot August Monday, and the sun blazed overhead like a Cristiano Ronaldo free kick. As ever the Ascalon boys roared in the pub, huddled round a table, keenly quenching after a morning’s pre-season kickabout.
In truth, they weren’t looking forward to the season ahead. The Wiltshire Western league held little glory for them now. Once upon a time there were great deeds to be done in the Western leagues. It was only a few seasons ago that the Green Knights had been beaten for the first time, going down one triumphant Tuesday night to a sharp header from Graham Ormond. Then there had been the signing of erratic Cornish winger Tristan Lyons, and his wonder-goal to put away a travelling Irish side for the league title. But there were no deeds left to be done in the league this season. Football is, after all, a game with twenty-two men kicking a round thing on some grass. Heroism doesn’t really count when the other team get to go again next year. And more, their mentor Merv had just wandered off one day the season before last, leaving them without tactics or purpose. It just wasn’t the same without wily old Merv.
As usual the conversation wasn’t too bright. Young Percy maintained that, no, it was Manchester United who were going to win the League this season, and grizzled Lawrence Lake reckoned that Chelsea had their eyes on the prize. Every year they argued this one, and every year at least one of them would be wrong. Never seemed to stop them being just as sure the next season though. Some of the lads found such topics would see them through these dark days, but most knew that there was no hope. The glories, the triumphs, the desperate longing of youth, somehow it was gone in ardent loves and foolish quests. But there were, it seemed, no joys left to long for, thought the towering captain.
Alfie Penders, he was, the towering captain, the pub landlord, and he watched the others bicker over their pre-season predictions, just as he had every other season, never saying a word, never voicing an opinion. All Alfie did was stare, long and hard, into eternity.
Little did they know, our team, that the glory days were upon them. This was to be their year, the final challenge before the fall. There was a greater goal to shoot for.
At that moment, just when young Percy was waxing lyrical about the Manchester team’s central midfield, the big-screen telly flickered on. Everyone jumped in surprise. That TV hadn’t worked since the early days of the pub, when Merv had accidentally lost the remote in the pinball machine. It wasn’t supposed to work now, especially when the pre-season friendlies weren’t even due to start for a week.
But something even more impressive happened. The lights went out. Not that they made much difference, what with the sun firing over the bar, but they went out, all the same. And only one thing came on the screen.
“It’s the FA Cup, lads!” Kevin Kay, Alfie’s cousin, always did like to bellow out the obvious. “It’s the FA Cup!” Just in case no-on had heard the first time.
And so it was. The FA Cup, just hanging there on the screen, shining bright over the pub, rotating slowly, giving its bewitched onlookers visions of every lovely angle. The FA Cup.
And, as quickly as it had come, it went. With a hum and a zip the telly flickered back off, leaving the weary drinkers sipping only in natural light.
There were gasps from around the pub. Kevin was still pointing at the screen, telling anyone who would listen that the FA Cup had been there, just there, right on the screen. Young Percy was kicking imaginary penalties in the corner, while Graham Ormond broke his glass on the barstool just to prove a point.
“The FA Cup!” someone shouted.
“The Cup!”
“It must be a sign!”
“An omen. A bonnie omen,” Graham answered, “but aye, what of?”
No-once could answer him. No-one knew much about omens, not since old Merv had run off all those years ago. Everyone looked at Alfie.
Alfie stood up grandly, slowly, making the rest look like flimsy trees in a wind. He said nothing.
The pub continued to look at him. He said nothing.
The pub stared at him. Kevin Kay started nervously, as if deciding whether to speak. Alfie still said nothing.
Kay had definitely decided to speak. He began to open his mouth, but Alfie finally took charge.
“This season, Ascalon Rovers will enter the FA Cup.”
Roars. Cheers. Hurrahs. Ascalon Rovers! This was their year! Percy scored his air penalty and ran round the pub, shirt over his head. Little Tristan Lyons joined in, jumping on his back in sheer delight. Graham Ormond broke a few more glasses. He took the old Stoic approach of treating victory and defeat the same, and this was mainly by smashing glass on an industrial scale. Lawrence nodded at his old friend, Alfie.
“The FA Cup, eh? Reckon we’ve got a chance?”
But Lawrence knew his old friend too well. The Giant Of The Hills would never reply, Lawrence understood. He had said his piece.
Soon September arrived, and the hot sun had been substituted for midfield cloud cover. The fixtures had been declared, the first balls of the new season had been hoofed, and Ascalon Rovers were once again top of the Wiltshire Western League, having opened the floodgates on the Dragons earlier that week. But their minds were on bigger things, those players: the FA Cup. The great cup, the glorious trophy. The one prize they treasured above all others. And they there were, in the tournament table, ready for a tough home match: Bolton Wanderers were coming to town.
Bolton Wanderers. Once upon a time old Merv would have watched the opposition first and come up with a plan, but since his unexplained departure two years ago the rest of the team had to make do. Kevin Kay, being the only with a satellite telly subscription, was put in charge of scouting. He’d taped a couple of their games, watched a few old re-runs of past classics, made a few notes. An expert note-taker, he’d had made the following observations:
Bolton Wanderers
From: The North-West
Play: Football
Shirts: White
Shorts: Not white
Players: 11
Tactic: Hoof the ball up the pitch and hope it goes in
He was pretty pleased with his observations. They couldn’t fail to win, not with his keen eye for detail. Bolton played in a similar way to Ascalon, he reckoned, except that Ascalon had tricky little Tristan to jink his way through when the old hoof-it-and-see didn’t work. A good chance, they had. He took his notes through to the dressing room, where the rest of the team were panting from their last training session.
Lawrence Lake took the notes from him. “So, thanks Kevin. Listen up, lads!”
They listened up.
“Tactical report from Mister Kay here. These lot are a sock-and-see side. No problem there.”
“Aren’t we a sock-it-and-see side?”
“Nah, we’ve got Tristan,” said the goalie, Boris. He pointed at the winger, who was bouncing hopelessly up towards his shirt peg. “And Percy’s can keep it on the ground.” They looked out the window at their young striking prodigy, who continued to dribble balls round the goalposts with frantic energy.
“Too many sherbet lemons again,” one of the full backs sighed sadly.
“But yeah, we’re mainly a sock-it-and-see side. Which is why we need to change.” Lawrence nodded at Alfie, who nodded back, motionlessly.
“Need to change?” Kay was gobsmacked. “I’ve worked this out, Lawrence. They like the long ball, we like the long ball. We play the same way, so we know what they’re bad at. That’s how we beat them.”
Lawrence smiled kindly, well-worn good looks undimmed by cloudy September. “With all respect, Mister Kay, they’re a professional long-ball team. We, like it or not, are a bunch of rank amateurs who take a chance. So I’ve enlisted some help. I would like to introduce someone to you. Our newest signing. My son, Galahad Lake.”
In the doorway stood a shimmering man. At least, he looked like he shimmered. His all-white kit was spotless, as if it had never so much as squinted at a muddy autumn pitch. His pristine golden boots trapped the ceiling lights and volleyed them into rainbows, scattering yellows and blues and greens across the room. The young man beamed bright, and in that smile was the advertising potential of every galactico who ever walked life’s graceful touchline.
The team stared in awe at their new recruit. A half-smile formed on Boris’s lips, one side of the mouth turning up a little. Graham roared in approval. Alfie sat, as always, granite-chiselled.
“Twenty-one Western Counties Under-23 caps,” Lawrence continued, “Twice played for England Under-21s, a trial with Celtic. He’s here instead though, to help us win the FA Cup.”
“Aye, good lad!” Graham approved. “Where does he play? Not my position, I hope!”
“No, he’s or new right midfielder. Replaces Pellinore.”
Pellinore, their Welsh winger, had picked up a nasty knock against the Dragons the previous season, and probably wouldn’t make another frenzied sliding tackle this season.
“And, at Galahad’s request, I suggest he wears the Number 7 shirt this season. Any objections?”
There were no objections.
“Right, in that case, here are our tactics.”
They spent the rest of the session planning their new counter-attacking game. Tristan zooming up the left, Galahad shimmering in from the right, Percy banging the ball into the back of an enthusiastic net. Lawrence stroked a few leisurely through-balls down the centre, and all was well.
Match-day, and the rain was starting to fall over Ascalon. Dark stormy clouds, unhappy with the town’s performance this season. It was a bad omen, thundered the bearded man to himself, as he watched from the windows of a bus stuck in traffic. It wasn’t match traffic – Ascalon didn’t get match traffic – but it brought doom nonetheless. There was something the bearded man needed to tell the home team, something dreadful, and if he didn’t arrive by kick-off it would be too late.
He hummed anxiously as the traffic stood still. The man, as a rule, never lost his steadfast composure, at least on the outside, but this was testing his mettle, all the same.
Team talk time. Lawrence peeked outside the window. Funny, that. The opposition team coach had turned up, but no-one had seen it arrive. The coach was empty now, as you’d expect – the players must have gone off to the away dressing room – but nobody had seen them.
“Didn’t make any noise, neither.” Boris had joined Lawrence at the window.
“Just a polite team, I suppose. Not bothering their hosts, not disturbing the peace. Fair play to them.”
“A polite football team? There’s something going on here, I reckon. Not saying hello to your opponents, not singing songs… they’re up to something, and it’s not good.”
“Aye, they’re trying to psyche us out,” Graham volunteered. He kicked a bench, just to make a point. “Take no notice, laddies. We’ve got fire in our bellies!”
The team yelled, turning up the volume on their pre-match sing-song.
“Something going on here,” Boris muttered to Lawrence. “Wish Merv was still around. He’d know what to do.”
The bus was moving now, but at the pace of a lower-league centre back. ‘I’m going to be late,’ the bearded man shivered. I can’t be late today.
Ascalon Rovers jogged out on to their pitch, proud FA Cup faces on. It was one of those beautiful country September days, the kind that reminded Lawrence of being back on the school rugby pitch, ready for the first games of the season. The smell of hope and promise, so different the sweltering, weary days of summer. The FA Cup! The first round! They’d all dreamed of this since the draw went up. Bolton Wanderers!
But that was the thing: there was no sign of Bolton Wanderers. The only people pitch-side were the Ascalon Rovers fans, all 16 of them, including the players’ mums. A couple of dogs woofed in encouragement, but that was the closest anyone came to travelling support.
“Well, this is weird. Where are they?” There were no players to be seen, either.
“Ref, where are they?”
The FA’s representative, the burly referee, turned to Lawrence.
“Oh, they’ll be here in a minute. The Wanderers always appear when I’m about to blow the whistle. Surely you’ve done your homework on them?”
“Well, yeah. From the north-west, long-ball specialists-”
The referee guffawed. “Haha! Well, you’re in for a shock I can tell you. You’ll be spooked out, I can tell you Haha.” And with that he announced that the Wanderers would be kicking off from right to left, and that kick-off would be in one minute.
The bearded man was too late. He knew that, as he saw the town’s clock at one minute to three. The bus took at least 5 minutes from here, and that was in good weather and fine traffic. Not in this dark mess. There was no time to warn them. That would be the end of Ascalon’s glorious cup run, right before it had even begun. You don’t just beat the Bolton Wanderers if you don’t have the right plan. It had all been in vain. He sighed, and put his headphones back in. If he had a word with them at half-time, maybe they could come up with something.
It was five seconds to three, and Bolton Wanderers still hadn’t turned up. The Ascalon lads all looked at each other with helpless glances, bemused.
“Right, gentlemen,” said the referee, “let’s begin.”
And with that he blew the whistle.
For a second or two nothing happened. Then the ball rolled forward, inexplicably half-a-metre or so, from the centre spot. Percy walked towards the ball, warily, not sure what had happened.
But then they saw it they all saw it. The Bolton Wanderers. Eleven faint, translucent footballers appeared, hovering half a metre above ground in the other half of the pitch. Their shirts were greying-white, with small v-neck collars and side-parted haircuts. The two central midfielders sported magnificent handlebar moustaches. One, a gangly centre forward, even had a combover. The faded figures watched the ball with interest, but did not approach it.
Percy, having hesitated a moment, sprinted at the ball and gave it the old-fashioned hoof towards the opposition goal. High went the curiously heavy ball, higher and higher, but then something strange happened. The ball curved up and back, looping through the September mist, back over Percy’s head, back over Lawrence’s languid stare, to land to earth with a thump just outside Ascalon’s penalty area.
“Percy! What do ye think you’re doing!” Graham demanded. “Kick it up the field!” And with that Graham Ormond charged at the ball, socking it with all of his considerable Glaswegian power.
But the result was even worse. The ball slammed forward, but it curved back on itself, whooshing over Graham’s ruddy head, right towards Ascalon’s goal. Boris dived despairingly at the top corner, but it was no use. The ball thudded into the back of the helpless net.
“Graham, what was that?”
“Graham!”
Graham stared back at goal, face reddening. He’d never done that before. The team dared not look at the crowd, who were making a loud, distant, painful groan.
Lawrence tried to calm everyone down. “Right, lads let’s start again.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the captain, who had folded his arms in disgust at the own goal. He strode up to the centre spot, purposefully staring down the Bolton boys, who hadn’t moved a translucent muscle. He chipped the ball forward.
Except that it didn’t go forward. It floated back, right over Lawrence’s head, watched with curiosity by their faint foes. It landed, this time, right at Alfie’s feet.
“Give it a hoof, skipper! Give it a hoof!”
And he did. The most almighty hoof the team were likely to see. A hoof to send the ball through time, to banish all evil from this land. Of course, it didn’t work. The ball crashed past Boris, cannoning in off the beleaguered left post.
“2-0 Wanderers!” exclaimed the ref. “I did warn you, lads. You can’t take on the Bolton Wanderers without doing your homework.”
That was the moment Ascalon chose to look at the crowd. By doing so they received the biggest shock of the afternoon so far.
The Bolton Wanderers fans had turned up, but they didn’t look too happy. A legion of zombies groaned across the field, lifting their remaining hands together in weary acclaim for their heroes. Vampires lifted their wings in celebration and flew high into their air. Mummies wandered uneasily through the throng, lifting their bandages as makeshift scarves for the occasion. The tumult stretched back all the way to the boundary fence of the field, the ghastly, undead tumult.
Percy was secretly pleased. He’d never played in front of such a big crowd before.
“Don’t hoof it! Nobody hoof it!” Alfie proclaimed to his troops, who were still staring in shock at the zombie army in the crowd. “Keep it down!”
Tristan, the master of keeping it down, took up the centre spot. “I’ll dribble past these dead heroes. No ghost can catch me.”
He collected the ball at the centre circle and glided forward. It was all in vain, though. Every touch he took with the ball, he seemed, through some ghastly force, to take two steps backward. After a mazy dribble he found himself back in his own penalty area. He stopped, giving up, and the ball stopped. Kevin Kay, always full of bright ideas, ran in and booted it again. Back of the Ascalon net. Three-nil.
“Well in, Kay!”
“Get stuck in!” yelled one of the Ascalon spectators, whatever that meant. The zombies were now doing a Mexican Wave, which had to be seen to be believed.
“Kay, you moron,” muttered Boris, as he picked the ball out of his goal again. He wasn’t used to picking the ball out of his net, not in the Wiltshire Western League.
The game kicked off again. It was fair to say that Ascalon had run out of ideas. Every time they kicked the ball it went backwards. If they ran with it they couldn’t kick the ball, else it went backwards. Kevin Kay, that indefatigable trier, kicked it a couple more times, but it didn’t exactly help the scoreline. Ascalon spent the rest of the half staring at the ball, watching themselves slowly falling out of the cup. Five-nil at half time.
“Five-nil. Five ruddy nil. Who’d have thought it?” Kay remonstrated as the team made their way to the dressing room for the half-time team talk.
“If you hadn’t kept hoofing it up the field, we’d still be at two-nil, ye daft donkey!” roared Graham Ormond. “Stop hoofing it, laddie!”
“You put one in the back of our net too, Ormond.”
“As for you, Tristan, ye little numpty, running backwards all the time. Where do ye think you’re going? Percy didnae help, and Galahad – star signing? Did nothing! He’ll be seeing stars by the time I’ve finished with him!”
Once Graham started, there was little stopping him. Lawrence opened the changing room urgently, hoping he and the captain could rally the boys. Not that he knew what to say – how do you defeat an team of the undead? He strolled into the changing room, looking as cool as he could, and was met with an unexpected sight.
Nobody has been expecting this. The all stood stock still, staring at the bearded man on the bench.
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Where have you been?”
Even Graham calmed down at the sight of their team guru. Even so, he asked, a little impertinently, “Where were you an hour ago? Ye might have helped us!”
“Boys, boys, boys.” Merv was serene, but rebuking. “Why didn’t you do your homework? Five-nil down at half time.” He twirled his beard a bit. “Why didn’t you find out about these boys first, put together some tactics. You can’t hope to win the FA Cup without a few tactics.”
“We did!” cried Kay, “I watched them on telly. Old matches, long-ball specialists…”
“We changed our game plan a bit. Keep the ball down, bring Tristan into the game a bit more, move it out to Galahad – Merv, this is Galahad-”
“We’ve met. Hello again, Galahad.”
“Hi Merv,” the young man breezed. His white socks were still laundry-clean, despite taking on the undead for the best part of an hour.
Lawrence looked surprised. “Well, anyway, we changed our game.”
“Boys, boys, boys.” Merv was almost smirking. “Watched them on telly, eh? Since when did I tell you to believe everything you saw on telly?”
There was no answer to that. Merv continued. “You see, the big leagues, they’re not like the ones on the screen. That’s a sanitized version, the PR game. In real life these leagues are hard-fought, magical places. They’re not just 22 blokes kicking round a piece of leather.”
“But that’s football, right-”
“That’s not football. That’s what it’s like for the ordinary man and woman on the street. And the TV keeps showing this fake health-and-safety stuff. It’s not the real FA Cup, lads. You’ve got to up your game for the real FA Cup.”
He kept going, warming to his theme. “Do you really think they pay Wayne Rooney and Gareth bale hundreds of thousands of pounds a week just to kick a ball round a bit of grass? Against other people? You must be off your trolleys, the lot of you. What a strange idea! No, these lads, they take on the universe and win. They’re competing against time and space, different nations, different continents, different monsters, and yet they still come out on top. The whole universe depends on this lot. That’s the reason they get paid so many millions every year.”
“This lot out there. They’re small fry, but you still need a plan to take them on. It’s the first round of the FA Cup. Your days of small-town football are over, at least for the next forty-five minutes, when you get booted out of here. Five-nil! Well, I never.”
There was muttered, disgruntled silence. Finally, Percy spoke up.
“So it’s five-nil. Merv, who are these lot? How do we beat them?”
“Clear as day who they are, right? They’re The Bolton Wanderers. A team of undead footballers, condemned to wander the Earth for the rest of time, suffering an eternity of score draws against Ipswich Town. It all started a long time ago…”
The team settled on their benches, a half-time story was better than a half-time team talk any day.
“A long time ago – well, the early 1950s to be precise – Bolton reached the Cup Final. It had been a great campaign. Some wonderful victories over big name teams. There was only one more opponent left – Blackpool, their local rivals. Blackpool were the wizards of English football in those days. Twinkletoed little’uns that would have put Tristan here to shame. Scottish hard men that would have trampled Graham into the dust. Strong-jawed centre backs that would have made your own Alfie seem like a tender sapling. But to top it all, they had Stanley Matthews. He was everything, that lad. He did this thing with his feet where he would dribble along, step infield, look at the defender with all the contempt of the world, then step out again, leaving the hapless opponent trailing in his wake. Oh, Blackpool, they were the wonder boys.
“But Bolton had a chance. Sure, they might not have had the individual stars of Blackpool, but they were a team. Together, they were. Never saw them apart. All eleven of them worked together, went on holidays together, got their hair cut together. A real bond. And they didn’t concede goals, that lot. Only one goal shipped in all the rounds, and that was a 93rd minute consolation when they were four up.
“So everyone was expecting a close one. A good proper derby between the Lancashire lads. The whole town turned up at Wembley, packed out the stands. And a tight derby was what they got, at least for the first twenty minutes.
“But then, disaster struck. The left-back, the tightest of their tight back-four, sent a pass back to his keeper. Wasn’t a good pass, mind. He sliced it and, instead of trickling back to the goalie’s feet, it whipped in past the left-hand post.
“Pandemonium. Bolton just didn’t concede goals like that. They didn’t know what to do. The crowd was screaming at them, Blackpool were jubilant, the players were turning on each other. And the team spirit broke, just like that. No-one would pass to the left back any more. The centre forward told everyone that he hadn’t wanted to go to holiday in Bognor Regis anyway, and that they should have gone to Eastbourne instead. The inside left told the centre backs that he’d always hated their side-partings, and he preferred a good short-back-and-sides.
“As the team spirit crumbled, so did the team. Goal after goal went in, past the hapless keeper. Bolton were undone by one own goal, and that was it. Eight-nil at the last.
“So you see, boys, how important team spirit can be. So important, in fact, that one local Bolton warlock got angry. He put a curse on the team. Because of that untimely own goal, they would have to play for the rest of time, until they delivered the FA Cup back home to Bolton. Every year, they turn out for this tournament, even though the youngest of their squad died long ago. They can’t kick the ball, they can’t run with it, they can’t do anything. Their only power is to make the opposition put the ball into their own net, just like they did all those moons ago. Without that, they will never lift the FA Cup and escape their dull, everlasting torment.
“It’s the big cup, boys, You’re dealing with forces beyond the understanding of mortal man.”
The team considered this for a moment.
“So how do we beat them, Merv?”
“Yeah, Merv, tell us how to beat them?”
Merv considered for a moment.
“No, why don’t you tell me how to beat them?”
Percy thought for a moment. “We can’t kick the ball…”
“And we can’t dribble with it,” Tristan added.
“If we can’t kick it, then we cannae do anything,” Graham thundered. “That’s the name of the game: football.”
“Graham’s got a point,” said Merv.
“But if they’ve never won the FA Cup in all this time,” replied Percy, hopefully, “then there has to be a way of beating them. I mean, for decades other teams have found ways of beating The Bolton Wanderers.”
“Percy’s right,” Lawrence added, “everyone else has found a way. Merv, how have other teams beaten them?”
“This is why you should have planned ahead, boys.” Merv adjusted his crumpled collar ineffectively. “The Bolton Wanderers, they have to wander, see? No fixed abode. No home to go to. So they can only play away matches. If they’re drawn at home they have to forfeit the tie.”
“So in all those years they’ve only lost when they’re away. Not much help,” replied Kevin Kay.
“Other teams have been cleverer than you,” Merv pointed out, “they knew about the Wanderers and how they could make the opponents score own goals if they kicked the ball. So the other teams didn’t kick the ball. After ninety minutes of the home fixture it was always nil-nil. Went to a replay. So the Wanderers forfeited, and the other team went through.”
The team sighed. Now that was cunning.
“That’s not much use to us, either. We’re already five-nil down,” Kay pointed out. “We have to score five!”
The team, to a man, looked resigned to their fate. Well, all the team except one.
Boris, thinking quickly, had an idea. “Well if we can’t kick the ball, we have to move it some other way. I don’t have to kick the ball. I can pick it up.”
“Go on.”
“I can score by picking it up and throwing it!”
“Ah,” replied Lawrence, “But you can only throw it from your area. Can you really score from your area?”
Boris thought for a moment. “Not sure. But there’s only one way to find out.”
Merv looked at them. “It’s worth a try, I suppose. Get out there and see what you can do. Go on, boys.” He tapped them each on the side of the head, and the team started to leave the dressing room, going out for the second half out of duty rather than hope.
Kick-off, and the Ascalon lads faced their first challenge. If Boris the Goalie was to have any chance of scoring, they needed to get the ball back into the penalty area so he could pick it up. Fortunately, Graham solved this the only way he knew how: a giant cannon of a shot that looped back, as expected, to the Ascalon penalty spot.
“Boris, go for it!”
Boris picked it up. Some rogue on the touchline yelled “Get stuck in, lad”, presumably meaning something by his words.
The goalie held the boy high above his head. He rotated his arm in circles, faster and faster, gathering momentum for the all-important throw. Team mates watched on as the arm sped up more and more, ready for the killer lob.
And then it came, ball flying out the hand, high into the sky. Tristan watched as the ball started to come towards him, high up the field. He continued to watch as the ball fell, quicker from the sky, and land, unceremoniously, only a metre outside Ascalon’s own penalty area. Boris was right that it would go forward, but it just hadn’t gone very far. Kevin Kay ran to it hopefully and tried to hoof it again. Six-nil.
Everyone in the ground groaned, whoever they were supporting, whatever stage of decomposition they had reached. Even the vampires wanted to see Ascalon make a game of it, after all.
“Any more bright ideas, genius?” As the whistle blew, Graham kicked the ball in anger, sending it back to his own penalty spot again. That was it, Boris thought. There’s no hope. We’re out of the FA Cup at the first round. Failures. We’re small-town amateurs. We’ll never beat the big boys. All the heads were down, he could see right across the pitch. The Wanderers, being ghostly apparitions, didn’t look too happy about the whole thing wither. Even the zombies’ heads were down, but perhaps that was more due to their lack of a robust physical constitution.
“We can still do this! We can still do this!” Young Percy hadn’t given up. Young Percy never gave up, Boris thought. He watched as Percy ran back towards him, comically over-sized shirt flapping in the wind…
Over-sized shirt! Of course!”
“Give me the ball! Give me the ball!”
Percy was alongside Boris and the ball now, demanding to do something with it.
“I’ve got it, Percy! I’ve got it!” Boris’s team mates looked round in surprise as Boris yelled and jumped in inspiration. “Your shirt… hold the bottom of your shirt and pull down a bit. Make it tighter.”
Percy did as he was told, baffled.
“Now hold up the bottom of your shirt a little bit. Like you’re using the shirt to carry something small.”
“Still wearing the shirt?”
“Still wearing the shirt.”
Percy followed instructions.
“Now, on your shirt, I’m going to place the ball. Wrap the shirt round the ball – careful not to touch the ball with your hands, else that’s handball – and run upfield with it. Basically you’ve got the ball up your shirt, you’re not touching it with your hands – only I’m allowed to do that – and run into the other team’s goal.”
“\Boris, that’s brilliant!”
“Now go, lad, go.” And with that he put the ball in Percy’s shirt. Percy folded the material around the ball, and ran for dear life.
The others, suddenly catching on, hollered him on.
“Go on lad, go on!”
“Well in, Percy!”
“Get stuck in!”
Percy legged it through his own half, past his midfielders, past his striking partners. He crossed the halfway line, the ghosts of Bolton Wanderers watching on, bemused. He continued, through the Bolton half, past their translucent defenders and round their flaxen-haired keeper. Into the net he ran, the joyful, welcoming net. Six-one!
“Right, let’s do this again!” Lawrence commanded, vice-captain to the fore. “Tristan, you’re next – get to the penalty spot. Everyone else, form a queue. Graham, get to the centre circle. I want you booting the ball.”
They did as told. Tristan ran to the penalty area. The ball was placed in his shirt, he ran the length of the pitch, six-two. Kevin Kay next, just about keeping the ball under control up his jumper, six-three. Galahad, his spotless shirt miraculously failing to pick up any mud from the ball, made it six-four. Percy was back, yapping and eager, to make it sic-five…
“Thirty seconds left to play!” the referee reminded everyone.
“Last play! Last play! Who’s next?”
Alfie. The Captain.
“Sir, here’s the ball.”
Alfie held out the front of his shirt, his enormous, forest-clearing shirt. The place was placed soberly on its fabric. He did not run. Alfie did not run. He strode, magnificently, up the centre of the pitch.
“Twenty seconds!” He continued to stride, passing the centre circle.
“Fifteen seconds!” The ghastly spectators were moaning louder now. The cup run of their comrades rested on this moment.
“Ten seconds!” Alfie was in the opposition penalty area, his great stride splitting the lines on the field.
“Five seconds!” Alfiewas at the penalty spot.
“Four!” Six-yard box.
“Three!” Alfie stopped on the goal line.
“Two!”” Alfiestood, motionless, contemplating the scene.
“One!” Alfie, finally, let the ball drop, bouncing over the goal-line.
“Six-all!” said the referee, “And that’s time.” Ascalon Rovers 6, Bolton Wanderers 6. Score draw!”
The Ascalon supporters leapt high into the air. They’d seen a 12-goal thriller today. The Ascalon players jumpeed on Boris, their master tactician, and piled on top of their sturdy captain, the last-minute hero. The Bolton Wanderers faded, ever more transparent, and then disappeared entirely, doomed to walk this cruel Earth for another unholy year. The zombies, too, were gone: they and the vampires vanished, gone from the mortal realm just as silently as they had come.
And so ended the first chapter of the Quest For The FA Cup. Ascalon Rovers had vanquished the forces of darkness, at least for now. It was, however, only the start of a fabled journey, and there were to be many trials and temptations along the way.
Jezknee 