‘He’s not on his own.’ I stopped and looked around as if wondering who’d blurted that out, because surely it couldn’t have been me.
‘Eh?’ a woman asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jessica Brown,’ I replied, because it had indeed been me, thanks to my ferocious need to defend Elliot. I held out my hand like a politician on the doorstep, which after a confused couple of seconds the woman accepted with a limp shake. ‘Assistant Manager.’
Elliot looked as shocked as everyone else, which was still far less shocked than I felt.
‘Do you know much about football?’ Russell asked, eyes squinting.
‘Yeah, I bet she doesn’t even know the offside rule!’ someone else chipped in.
‘Which wouldn’t matter, given that there is no offside rule for under nines,’ I replied sweetly, my thumping heart grateful for the hour I’d spent flicking through the youth football regulations that morning. ‘Are you seriously assuming I don’t know because I’mfemale?’
‘She’s Pippa and Tom’s daughter.’ An older version of Connie appeared from behind the mini crowd of onlookers, Wilf alongside her.
‘And?’ Russell spat. ‘How does that give her automatic right to coach our kids?’
‘Are you kidding?’ the beardy man asked. ‘Did you hear how she took control of those Outlaws on her first day? If she can handle that lot, she can coach anyone. Good luck to you my dear. Not that you’ll need it.’
‘Are you DBS checked?’ an anxious looking woman asked me.
‘Of course.’
‘Fabian has complex needs. He’s epileptic, has severe dyspraxia and a learning disability.’
‘I’m trained in, amongst many other things, epilepsy, advanced first aid, ASD, learning disability awareness and trips and falls. Oh, and continence. Although I think the only risk of incontinence here is Russell’s bigoted blabbering.’
‘Okay. Wonderful. I’m off for a coffee then. Good luck! Break a leg, boys!’ She gave a cheerful wave before practically running back to her car.
Elliot called the team over and read out a short statement, covering the basic facts about Simon Simonson and reassuring everyone that he would do his very best to ensure every player found the Harriers under nines a fantastic team to be a part of. He also assured them that they’d still be taking part in the Sherwood Forest Cup. Once the boys had stopped cheering and jumping about, he sent them running around the field and asked the adults if they had any questions.
‘A nice little speech,’ Russell jeered. ‘Shame it didn’t mention anything about winning. Ending up bottom of the league is hardly “fantastic”.’
‘Why are you keeping Olly here if you’re so unhappy with how the team’s run?’ Connie’s mum asked. ‘I heard Bigley Bounders are short on strikers. Why not let your feet do the talking?’
‘Yeah, well.’ Russell shifted his shoulders. ‘Olly wants to play with his friends. He’ll soon learn that it stops being fun when you get slaughtered every single match.’
‘Same for Jackson.’ Someone else nodded. ‘So we’re stuck here. For now.’
‘What a delightful attitude.’ Connie’s mum tutted.
Elliot’s eyes were on fire again. ‘Because, by some miracle, you’ve ended up with amazing kids, they are more than welcome in this team. However.’ His voice dropped so low that every adult leaned forwards to catch his next words. ‘If I hear you spewing any more filth about them, me, or anybody else here then I will guarantee you a ban from any Houghton Harriers match, training or end of season booze-up. All ages, every team.’
‘Doesn’t your Karlie play in goal for the youth team, Russell?’ someone called out. ‘Better keep your gob shut if you want to see them lift the cup this year.’
Without waiting for a reply, Elliot turned and joined the boys, running in a straggly line down the final side of the pitch.
While Elliot oversaw the rest of the warm-up, the Ferrington Foxes arrived in a shiny minibus, their supporters piling out of cars with camping chairs, flasks, snacks and in one case a portable barbeque until the referee insisted they put it back in the car.
At five minutes past two, thanks to a last-minute toilet request, the referee blew the starting whistle.
A few seconds later, Wilf reminded the player standing by the ball that it was up to him to kick it, and they were off.
The next three quarters of an hour were, shall we say, eventful.
A flurry of trips, skids, flailing arms and balls sent rolling in the wrong direction. At one point Fabian even picked it up and ran. There’d have been a lot more of a protest from the Foxes if he hadn’t run straight into his own goal.
Elliot kept at least two of the stronger players on the pitch for each of the twenty-minute halves, but overall, every child got equal playing time, much to certain parents’ frustration. Russell had been right (about this if nothing else): there were four boys who were clearly stronger, more agile and accurate with the ball than the others. What infuriated some of the spectators, and delighted the rest, was how these boys consistently passed to those who struggled. They called out encouragement, even after giving away yet another goal, and waited patiently for their slower, less able teammates to catch up or stop and gather their bearings before having a go at a kick. Olly spent the majority of the time he was on the pitch helping the partially sighted player, Jan, despite the constant haranguing from his dad.
