Jumpers For Goalposts

Franky Bonfanti
Nov 4 · 9 min read

“Good afternoon and welcome back to our coverage of today’s big game, the final game before the winter break. There’s a lot of stake today isn’t there Chris?”

“Absolutely Darryl, if 7B want to avoid an ABSOLUTE EMBARRASSMENT they’ll need to buck up with their ideas at both ends of the playground.”

“Indeed, Primary 7B have quite a mountain to climb with 7A up 17–8 from morning play time, at this point in time it seems Kenny Ward’s wee Subbuteo trophy will be staying in 7A’s possession for the third consecutive year. What do 7B need to change Ally?”

“Well they absolutely must find a way to contain the attacking trio of McAloney, Kelly and Strang, those three have run riot, particularly McAloney with his 8 goals. Too many of 7B players keep running after the ball leaving no one to protect Mullan at the 7B wall.”

“Yes, well thank you gents for your analysis, we’ll be back once the teams emerge from the lunch hall, don’t move a muscle!”

***

The raucous lunch hall was filled with the feverish excitement of hundreds of school children, giddy at the prospect of the Christmas holiday’s that would officially start in just over 2 hours. Even the St John’s Primary teachers, normally so prim and strict, had allowed themselves to loosen up a bit; even if they had had to watch The Santa Clause for the millionth time this week. The season of goodwill was well underway.

Except that is, for the boys of the primary seven class. There was a match to be won.

They all sat on opposite benches eating their pieces, occasionally glancing over malevolently at their hated rivals from the other class, conspiratorially muttering swear words they didn’t really know the meaning of under their breath. They all quickly turned their attention back to their lunches as Mr McDonald, the deputy head, strode into the lunch hall, his cold grey eyes searching for its prey.

“MR STRANG!!!,” bellowed Mr McDonald, “I’d like a word with you.”

The obviously guilty Strang timorously stood up.

“I hear you’ve been finding it funny vandalizing school property by writing- and I quote- “Old King Billy has…”, he paused, a look of disgust emerging on his face, “… a ten-foot willy.”

The massed ranks of both classes burst out laughing, united in their mocking of the tyrant.

“HA HA, HE SAID WILLY!”

“SILENCE!!!” screamed Mr McDonald. As ever, his unhinged anger managed to shut up even the most gallus of the pupils.

Satisfied at the instant acquiesce, Mr McDonald continued to address Strang.

“Quite aside from the vulgarity, attributing such generous measurements to a Protestant king is beyond the pale. You’re in detention for the rest of lunch time. Speaking of which, go get mine son.”

The children of 7A were too scared that they’d suffer the same fate to protest as Mr McDonald exited the lunch hall. One of their best players, suddenly out. At least they still had McAloney.

Or so they thought. At this point, McAloney stood up to address the crowd, incongruously clutching a packet of Dairylea Lunchables in his hand. Watson of 7B sat beside him, his face wearing a smug self-satisfied smile, ringed by the cheesy crumbs of recently devoured Wotsits.

“Me and Fraser did a one for one swap, his Dairylea for ma Wotsits so I’m playing for 7B this half.”

The shock of it sent the 7A players reeling. This was worse than that time their dads went mental because someone called Maurice Johnson joined them. McAloney’s betrayal wasn’t finished yet though.

“And I’m transferring ma 8 goals to 7B so it’s 17–16 now.”

The lunch hall exploded into screeching whines of protest.

“You can’t do that!”

“That’s no allowed!”

“Haw Fraser you said you’d give me your Dairylea for ma Transform-A-Snacks!”

Watson shrugged.

“I like Wotsits better”.

***

Darryl looked again at the sheet of paper he had just been handed to him, staring at it again to make quite sure his eyes were not deceiving him. They were not.

“I’ve just been informed by our pitch side reporters that there has been quite a bit of drama over the lunch break. Strang has been red carded in the tunnel and in a stunning half time transfer swoop, McAloney has joined 7B and taken his 8 goals with him for the princely sum of a packet of Dairylea Lunchables. Chris, Ally, your thoughts?”

“Are we sure this is entirely legal? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a ridiculous situation” lamented Chris.

“Now hold on a minute Chris, you know that this isn’t any old bog-standard game of football, this is playground football, proper no-holds barred, blood and snotters, anything goes football” said Ally.

“Come off it Ally, goals are like history…”, Chris retorted, adding with a sly smirk, “…you can’t buy them”.

Ally began to splutter a response, but Chris beat him to it.

“I mean, if that’s the case, I could buy all of Henrik’s goals and claim them as mine. And if we accept your absurd proposal, a team could simply buy the history of another team and claim it for themselves. As a matter of fact,…”.

As if prodded by someone with a stick, Darryl quickly reasserted control over the conversation, steering it away from the dreaded taboo subject that Chris was gleefully heading towards.

“The teams have emerged for the second half, let’s get back to the action!”

***

Within no time, the traitor McAloney had racked up another 3 goals and despite Mullan being embarrassingly nutmegged by a goal kick from his opposite number at the 7A wall, the score sat at 19–18 to the resurgent 7B class. A lengthy stoppage in play ensued after 7A’s Goodchild Baggiowed a shot over the wall, leading to desperate accusations of time-wasting by the 7B class in retrieving the ball.

And in this game, there was no such thing as injury time, once the bell rang that was it. Time was running out for 7A, at this point a draw would be preferable as so long as they avoided defeat, they’d retain Kenny Ward’s wee Subbuteo trophy.

With time trickling away, things got even more desperate. Even the girls who the boys reluctantly allowed to play line defence began joining in attacks, much to the chagrin of a studious bespectacled boy called Richard Dwyer. As one of the defensive corps who under no circumstances were to cross the halfway line, Dwyer helplessly cried out to the recalcitrant line defenders, to no avail. He particularly called Kerry-Anne’s name which would no doubt raise a few pre-pubescent eye-brows; he had been mercilessly teased by the other boys for saying Kerry Anne was pretty — “You like girls!? That is so gay”- but he had no time for such concerns at such a crucial juncture of the game.

Abandoning his defensive duties to chase after the girls turned Dwyer’s stomach and as he entered the vicinity of the 7B wall, he felt the onset of a nosebleed coming on, the strangeness of the attacking area of the playground making him dizzy.

In fact, his nose was bleeding, his glasses lying in a mangled heap at his feet. Reeling from shock as an amorphous mob enveloped him and an incessant ringing assaulted his ears, Richard allowed himself to be carried away, triumphant.

Mystifyingly, he…HE!… had just scored. 19–19. The bell had rung, the trophy was staying with 7A!

Or was it?

***

Mr Smiley, the janitor, sat in his small office, blissfully counting down the hours till the end of the day. By rights he should have been outside keeping an eye on the kids but the wee sods could go feral for all he cared, he had his paper, his fags and even a few cheeky wee tins of the old vitamin T to see him through the last day before the holidays. Not to mention it was freezing outside and he didn’t get paid enough to freeze his bollocks off.

Besides, he’d spent the morning wiping graffiti off a cubicle in the boy’s toilets’, so he’d be buggered if he was going to any more work today.

“MR SMILEY, MR SMILEY!!” cried out a voice.

Oh, for Christ sakes thought Mr Smiley, what now?

***

“That’s no goal, the ball hit the bit above the jumpers”.

“Those jumpers have been moved!!”

“No, they haven’t, games over, gies the trophy.”

“No way Jose”.

“As if he could ever score a goal!!”

“VAR!!!” someone called out.

***

“What an extraordinary situation we have here, the fate of Kenny Ward’s wee Subbuteo trophy lies in the hands of the video assistant referee, Mr George Smiley!!” exclaimed Darryl. Chris and Ally watched on in rapt silence, their previous argument forgotten amid the drama of the situation.

An annoyed looking Mr Smiley emerged from the school building, a plume of smoke from a hastily stubbed out cigarette still lingering around the janitor’s small rotund frame. The situation being explained to him, he turned away and went back into the school.

Now if there was anything that an old widower like Mr Smiley liked apart from beer, fags and OAP scud mags it was the football, and this was as good an excuse as any to not actually do any work. Besides, all the teachers would probably be sipping on a couple sneaky sherries in the staff room so they wouldn’t notice if he wheeled out the wee trolley with the telly on it into the playground. Being the resident handy man in the school, he had been responsible for the installation of CCTV after the council had built a skate park next to the school, much to the hysterical concern of the school PTA association.

Of course, they didn’t have to install the bloody thing, did they? Leave it to old Smiley, Mr Smiley bitterly thought as he recalled the laborious efforts he had undertaken to fulfil the PTA’s wishes.

Just as Mr Smiley was about to wheel the trolley out into the playground, it jerked back, the extension cord as taut as Senga’s -OAP of the Month for the November issue of Glam Grans- well worn, wrinkled face. Irritated but willing to waste more time of the ever-dwindling day, he returned to his office and retrieved another extension cord allowing him to complete the telly trolley’s voyage to the playground.

Mr Smiley was surprised to see that huddled around the telly with the warring classes were three microphone wielding men who he vaguely recognized from somewhere, his memory not being the best in his twilight years. He gave them a curt nod and pressed play on the video.

Tim Allen dressed up as jolly old Saint Nick in The Santa Clause came up on the screen, much to the anger of everyone present.

“Not again!” came the terrified cry.

“Sorry, sorry, wrong tape”, Smiley said as he replaced the reviled film with the CCTV tape. Aye, tape. St John’s, it was fair to say, needed some investment. Once again, he pressed play and a grainy representation of the school playground appeared upon the screen.

The video showed Richard, a nice quiet boy from 7A who never gave old Smiley any grief, inadvertently diverting the ball towards the wall that served as the goal, his nose bursting like a crimson champagne bottle, the poor wee sods’ glasses wrecked. Mr Smiley felt bad for him and was about to award him the goal when he clocked that wee shite Strang out of the corner of his eye, his detention now over.

That wee shite who had me in that stinking bog all morning cleaning up his graffiti on the wall, mused Mr Smiley darkly. Gesturing toward him, Smiley asked “What class are you in son, A or B?”

“A” came the reply.

“No goal then, 7B wins”.

The 7B class erupted in joy, the 7A’s crestfallen, the three men dropping their microphones in shock. Having performed his duties, Mr Smiley began wheeling the trolley back into the school. Maybe he’d put on The Santa Clause and crack open another tin to get him into the festive spirit.

***

“Well then, gies the trophy” Watson demanded.

“Naw” said Kenny, the owner of the wee Subbuteo trophy.

“But we won and you said you’d really give it to us if we won”.

“Nah, I changed my mind,” Kenny said as he produced the wee Subbuteo trophy from his pocket, held it aloft and mockingly kissed it before passing it on to his fellow self-appointed victors.

Witnessing the undignified gloating of the 7A team, Ally smiled and turned towards Chris and Darryl “Told ye boys, playground football, there’s nothing like it! Anyway, it’s freezing out here, let’s see if that janny has a couple of tins spare”.

Franky Bonfanti

If elected mayor, I’ll kill the whole lotta ye and burn yer town tae cinders

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