—I came in three hours ago. I hoovered the committee-room carpet, after spreading this powdery freshener stuff that I’d seen advertised. It smells like a bloody perfume counter. I dusted. I scrubbed. I laid out clean glasses and placed the chairs for the committee tight together, like a defensive wall facing a Beckham free kick. I put the heater on, to shift the chill that makes your fingers go blue. It’s a new season. New hope. I hope the interviewing panel notice.

  The committee room is the biggest space in the small, rectangular complex. As soon as the door opens, fresh Shake n’ Vac wafts up my nostrils, as powerful as smelling salts. An electric heater makes the room feel like the Amazon. The panel of four face me. None were here when I played for the club. To their right is the window onto the pitch. It is cracked. Brown tape runs along the fissure on the inside. To their left are the wooden wall panels decorated with the names of captains and players-of-the-year going back to the dawn of the twentieth century. Two young Barshaw sons who didn’t return from a war are also commemorated. Alongside them is Bill Shankly, who briefly played here. Further along is mine. The club’s last great young hope, who abandoned it on the eve of their only cup-final appearance of recent times. I’m surprised it hasn’t been chiselled out, like one from an earlier era seems to have been.

  They know me but I only know one of them. A ball not yet kicked in anger and I see the defeat in their faces. Sense the heavy gloom that is polluting the air. They are going through the motions. No-one will touch this job. They know I know this. But still, there’s a formality to undergo. Rules are rules.

  William Kidd is the chairman. He took over early last season. He’s new to the area. He doesn’t have the deep roots of the others. But he has money. And that’s more important. He runs a small carpet-fitting business called Kidd’s Carpets. They run regular adverts on the local radio station with the ridiculous tagline ‘Piles better’. Their logo is everywhere around the ground and on the club’s red strips. I asked Higgy how much money Kidd has put in. He didn’t know the sum but he feels the need to reaffirm just how hard Kidd’s small team have worked to raise money for the club over the last year. Higgy vouches for the chairman like he was a Mob boss’s consigliere. But it’s the depth of Billy the Kidd’s pockets that I’m primarily interested in, not the benevolence of his character.

  Other second-division clubs like Ardeer, Muirkirk, Troon or Craigmark can muster finances to change the squad. Barshaw has a tiny fraction of that to work with. We’ll be relying on gate money – if we can attract a crowd – and intermittent sponsorship from The King’s Arms. And the tireless fundraising of its committee members, main and sub. The only other route is favours, but reciprocity is in short supply here, like everything else.

  —I gaze out the window, and suddenly, there I see him. Number ten. Running rings around fat midfielders. He was in total control on this pitch. No hiding here. No anxious looks over the shoulder. Senses attuned to everything. He didn’t shout or cajole back then. He was quiet. Calm. Composed. An old head on young shoulders, it was regularly said. Danny could see not only three or four passes ahead, but three or four minutes. That’s a long time in a passage of play. Especially in Scotland where genetics hinder. Fitter, stronger, harder, taller. The only attributes that matter.

  The committee file in. I can’t sit in while Danny talks to them, but I’m convinced he’ll be fine. The job’s his unless he decides he doesn’t want it. He’s interested, I can tell from all the questions he’s been asking. He hasn’t mentioned Raymond. Plenty of time for that later.

  The door closes. I go out for a walk around the pitch to pass some time.

  ‘Mr Garvey. Hullo. Alright if we call ye Daniel?’ Billy the Kidd is a bald ball of meat and whisky, as wide as he is tall.

  ‘Danny,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, yes … Danny,’ says the chairman. He probably thinks I should’ve grown out of Danny. Become something more adult. Daniel, en route to the middle-aged era of Dan.

  ‘We’ll take some notes, if that’s okay.’ Mr Kidd jerks his head sharply to one side and I follow its direction towards the corner. One of the seated men opens a notepad.

  Behind him, a young woman stands so close to a curtain that at first, I think it’s what she’s wearing. She has long dark hair; it almost reaches the clipboard she is holding. The committee introduced themselves as I came in, but no-one refers to her.

  ‘Ah hear ye were quite the prospect when ye last pulled on the shirt, eh?’ It’s a stupid icebreaker on anybody’s terms. He sounds like a disappointed headmaster about to admonish a former star pupil. It draws my gaze back from the corner of the room.

  I don’t answer. The past is a foreign country, and all that bollocks.

  ‘So … Danny, why do you want this job?’

  I resist the urge to tell him that I don’t. That my reasons for being back here are nothing to do with the club. That it’s simply a convenient staging post in the journey out of the dark place that I’m stuck in.

  ‘I think ah know how tae win,’ I say, generalising.

  The committee react like it was the Gettysburg Address. Nods and smiles. The woman writes. Job done for them. Billy the Kidd gets up and goes to the cabinet. He opens a door and brings out a decanter. He pours a whisky for each of his colleagues. They are celebrating. After one answered question.

  ‘Well, that’s our number-one priority, son,’ says Phil Dick, the only one here that I remember. Phil’s wife Senga was my primary-seven teacher. She was – as you might expect – known as ‘Suckma’. Scrubbing this off the red-brick toilet walls became a full-time job for the janitors. A letter was once given to every child outlining that Mrs Dick was reverting to her maiden name of Brown. It didn’t help her. Suckma Brown was arguably funnier.

  I briefly consider asking if she’s still teaching. But I don’t.

  ‘4-4-2 … or 4-3-3?’ poses Bert Thompson, club secretary, as if we’re holed up in a bank vault and he’s whispering combination alternatives. I see the numbers written on his notepad. His pen is now poised, ready to record my reponse.

  ‘Dunno. Ah’d need tae assess the players. See how adaptable they are.’

  ‘Good man,’ he says, winking at the chairman; his one rehearsed question has been addressed. The chairman offers me a plastic cup. I decline.

  ‘Higgy’s been keepin’ an eye on yer progress wi’ the Arbroath kids.’ I glance over at the corner. The woman is staring out of the window. Probably watching Higgy pacing the touchline. ‘You’re his recommendation, ah’m sure ye’ll gather.’

  ‘Aye,’ I say, to fill the gap he leaves.

  ‘We had a couple ae options,’ says the chairman. I don’t believe him. Higgy would’ve told me. Gilhooly, last season’s captain, was sounded out, but he told Phil Dick that he’d rather ‘get a short back an’ sides off a combine harvester’.

  ‘Ye’ve made a few waves up there. The Press & Journal feature. We thought we’d best get in quick afore Man United come callin’.’ They laugh; not at me, and not in the condescending way this sounds.

  ‘Ah think Fergie’s probably pretty safe,’ I say, smiling.

  They are delighted at this because it opens the door to the real reason why I’m being interviewed for a single candidate post.

  ‘Whit’s he like then, big Alex?’ asks Treasurer Des Bryson, on behalf of the males present. Beaming, expectant faces.

  Best not to let them down. I conceal the truth and appropriate an apocryphal story that they’ll recount at dinner parties for years. ‘He came to the house. Back in eighty-three. Right after the Talbot semi-final,’ I tell them. ‘They’re preparin’ for the Cup Winners’ Cup final an’ he still finds time tae drive aw the way tae Barshaw tae persuade a sixteen-year-old tae sign for his club.’

  This staggers them, and it would have staggered me too, had it been the truth.

  ‘He told me I’d be nurtured at the Dons. Looked after an’ developed properly. He said I’d be a future Scotland captain under his direction,’ I tell them. ‘When he said that, I knew it was the club for me.’

  Aberdeen was the option available to me that put the most distance between me and the consequences of what happened on the night of the Talbot game. Alex Ferguson didn’t come personally to pluck me from teenage obscurity. That’s the truth. But that’s not the tale I’m telling.

  ‘What a fella,’ says the chairman.

  Their faces ooze admiration at the class of the man whose picture I’m painting. The cut of him. The exquisite taste of him. I’m certain Billy the Kidd will be contemplating the possibility of me persuading my old boss to revisit Barshaw. Hand out a commemorative medal or two. Record a line praising the luxurious comfort of a Kidd carpet. Uttering the words ‘Piles better’.

  ‘Aw, Christ, son … that’s brilliant!’ Phil Dick slaps his thighs when I lie about Alex Ferguson driving me personally to Arbroath ten years ago; one of his last acts before taking over at Old Trafford.

  I’m not the man they think I am.

  They ask me to step out for half an hour or so to allow them to consult their notes. Less than five minutes later, I’m back in the room. The woman has gone, her purpose there seemingly at an end. I’m shaking hands with my new employers. They talk mobile phones. I’ve never had or used one. A modest clothing allowance to buy a suit I’ll never wear from Bert Thompson’s brother’s shop in Ayr. They probably think I need one. I decided against wearing Raymond’s. Death is the only justifiable reason for dressing up. They offer the use of a pool car with a designated parking space that I’ll never use, and a hundred a month. It’s a third of what I was on at Arbroath but I’m not paying rent at Higgy’s. And there’s a free carpet for Libby’s place in return for some regular Kidd’s Carpets promotion duties. It’s more than I thought they’d have to offer.

  I’ll be able to access payments for players of five to twenty pounds a week paid as travelling expenses to avoid the tax. Signing-on fees, at a modest level, if I can use my contacts and lure anyone decent from the bigger leagues – even if they’re just on loan.

  They show me the office. My new office. I remember Deek Henderson sitting in there, in tears. Pleading with me not to go to Aberdeen before the final. Apologising. Talking about the stress he had been under. Begging me not to tell anyone about him and what he had asked me to do.

  I’d already told Raymond, of course. He cooked up a plan. I’d get my shot in the first team, and he’d get a few quid out of Deek to pay for our silence. I already knew I was good enough to play but my brother didn’t see it that way.

  I lift a rotting plant from the desk and throw it in the bin. Through the small window, I watch Higgy continue to circumnavigate the pitch. I leave him to it.

  It’s just us. Me and the awkward, uncertain playing squad I’ve just inherited. Minus a couple of young midfielders who are in Spain on holiday. A kid wearing what looks like a space helmet plays on his bike on the other side of the pitch. Higgy is off somewhere. Checking on Libby. Meeting an old acquaintance. Who knows?

  I look at them. Say nothing. The younger ones fidget, snigger. The older ones remain cynically remote. They’ve seen it all before; a new broom. Different ideas, same outcomes. Some of them joined in the last months of the crisis season just past; a campaign in which Barshaw FC barely won a game, and the team’s manager resorted to bribery and cheating to avoid relegation. It’s surprising any of them returned. They’re here because, despite everything, they love playing. Crave the draw of being part of a gang, regardless of how dysfunctional it is.

  I’m looking intently at the words on a piece of paper. They were written days ago by Higgy. As I read, I imagine him laughing out loud at his own descriptions.

  Keepers: we’ve only got the one right now.

  Tony McIntosh – Like Goram. Great shit-stopper. Don’t leave any pies lying around tho.

  Higgy’s handwriting makes it hard to know if he meant to write shot-stopper or not.

  Defenders:

  Davie Russell – This yin’s a good yin. When he can get here.

  Mark Buchan – a cripple with legs dipped in tar, wearing ice. skates with the laces tied th’gither’s got more grace and speed.

  Paddy Gilhooly – aircraft carriers turn quicker.

  ‘Dib’ Ramage – New Youngster. Worth a chance.

  Stevie Smith – The better of two evils.

  Mids:

  Sean O’Halloran – McGinty had him as a defender???? But he’s the best natural ba’ player in the club. Build the team round him.

  Luke Lorimer – Shy kid. Needs more self confidence. He fits carpets with Kidds.

  Micky Minns – Thinks he’s Michael Laudrup. More like yon Michael O’Fattly … That Lord of the Dance cunt.

  Fraser Boland – Promising. Came along with Lorimer.

  Higgy searching out a highlighter pen to draw further attention to Sean O’Halloran tells me that he regularly put forward his theory last year to widespread ignorance.

  Strikers:

  ‘Flute’ Strawhorn – A total cunt. A rabid Orange yin into the bargain.

  Jaz Sinclair – This yin played with Ayr United. He’s a good plasterer, I’ll give him that. But a bloody disaster as a fitba player.

  ‘Huck’ Finnegan – A decent shot. He’s got that in his locker. (Along wi’ 50 Embassy Regal, 1000s ae bettin’ slips and photos ae his teammates wives in the scud.)

  The remainder are categorised with reference to the wooden slats he figures they’ll spend most of the season warming.

  Planks:

  Cyril Smith – I know! About as much fucken use too. Him and Stevie are twins. He’s got a motor.

  Andy Meikle – Fucken hopeless. But his auntie runs the laundry and we get the strips washed for cheap.

  Dougie Wilson – Jury’s out. Came from the Glens. Meant to be good. Fits carpets.

  They all live locally; they won’t have any excuses for not being able to get to training when unpredictable weather hits. I’ve gathered them together early. Season doesn’t start for five weeks. They seem surprised. Like they expected the club to fold. Curiosity and fuck all else to do on this mid-summer Sunday morning has made them turn up.

  They aren’t in differentiating kit, but I immediately know McIntosh before I ask them to introduce themselves. A bit fond ae the drink, Higgy has warned. He’s the one three from left with long, curly hair. He smells like a brewery and looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s fat sister. No wonder he’s hopeless at cross balls, having to hoist that belly off the ground to reach for them.

  They stand in a line, not in a group. Mouthy ones in the middle. Shy ones at the edges. It reminds me of the primary school teams I played in. Twelve selected as a minimum, because, despite the absence of talent, you still needed a sub … just in case. The ‘in case’ scenarios rarely came though.

  I ask them to introduce themselves. Mainly to determine if the ‘Meikle’ is the one I think it is. It is. That’ll have to be dealt with carefully. The two missing are Lorimer and Boland. In Magaluf. Together. I look at them more intently, my squad. Apart from two, I’d guessed them correctly from Higgy’s pinpoint descriptions.

  ‘Gaffer?’ That still sounds bizarre. It’s a term I associate with the hierarchy of the unions, not football. At Arbroath, I was ‘Mr Garvey’ to the players, like I was one of their school P.E. teachers.

  ‘When wis you here, again?’ The lower-league equivalent of ‘show us yer medals’. It’s Gilhooly asking. The current captain. The questioning will be a way of delaying the training, rather than any real interest in my playing history. However, I indulge it.

  ‘Ah was in the team that beat Talbot tae get to the league cup final. 1983.’ I suspect he already knows this. But we’re feeling each other out. It’s about what they’ll get away with, how strict the new man will be. Will he be worse than the last? Will he make us run further?

  ‘Left before the final, though, eh?’ A challenge from my overweight goalkeeper, or an acknowledgement?

  ‘Aye,’ I reply. ‘Ah did.’

  ‘Must’ve been a tough yin, that,’ says Micky Minns.

  ‘How?’ asks Gilhooly of his team-mate. ‘A chance tae get out ae this fucken dump an’ make some solid dough playin’ fitba for a pro team? Ye widnae ae seen me for fucken dust, pal.’ Maybe the captain will be an ally. Every manager needs one on the pitch.

  ‘Played for Scotland, din’t ye?’ says Gilhooly. He sounds impressed. He’s a veteran of this team. He’s been here since 1985; a traumatic year for Barshaw Bridge FC. And for me. The year of the injury. Inevitably, I’m asked about it. I rarely think about it now, but since I have their attention. And yours…

  The day after the semi-final against the Talbot, Raymond phoned a scout at Aberdeen whose number he’d kept. A meeting was hastily arranged. Raymond travelled across the country with me and Higgy. Three buses. The two of them studied my first formal contract like they were Harvard lawyers, protecting their own interests. I signed it because they hadn’t a fucking clue whether it was good or bad. They only saw the money; minuscule in comparison to what the other boys said Miller or McLeish were on. But it was like a pools coupon win for a couple of opportunistic Ayrshire chancers.

  The Aberdeen youth coaches turned me into a right fullback – the white Viv Anderson, they called me. A year and seven months after I left the village, I was playing for the Dons youth team and up in Banff. A friendly against Deveronvale.

  A freezing cold February morning. A dismally poor first half. We were a goal down. It should’ve been more. I was up against a great wee player; a lightning-fast jinky winger. He was running me ragged. The conduit for all their chances. Our manager told me to let him know I was there in the second half; to do him. He was bombing towards me, making a move to go outside. I saw a big lunging slide tackle. I launched into it. A terrible crunching and twisting, and astonishing pain surged immediately from my hip, groin and stomach. My right leg was diagonally behind my back and my right boot was behind my left ear. Like an Action Man bent shapeless by a destructive child.

 

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