Spectating the Dream

It was two hours after the match ended in defeat for the home side when Andy finally stumbled out of the pub and decided to call it a night. The emptiness of his wallet was the real determining factor in the matter. It was a bad night. But then it was always a bad night when Arsenfield lost.

He’d spent his last fifty quid on this match. He’d had high hopes when he left the office. Whistling a tune that he’d heard for at least the twentieth time that day on radio one which was never ‘not on’ in the office, he made his way to the bookies and put down thirty quid on Sloan for first scorer. Sloan had been a thirty plus goals a season striker two years running; and with seven of those goals in his last five appearances against Linchester the six to one odds were pretty much guaranteed to be his in a few hours. Sloan was one of those rare players who stays with a club through some weird sentimental sense of loyalty, knowing in spite of this he could do better. Every time he played against Linchester he made their defences look like an awkward assembly of pub players.

It had been a clear day. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. He had the next two days off and was looking forward to catching up on sleep and season four of Stunned after winning a hefty profit on the bet once Arsenfield beat the pants off of Linchester.

He donned his Arsenfield away top which he truly believed, no, he ‘knew’ it to be lucky. He had every home and away shirt since the team came into existence back in 74. Some of them were worth an absolute mint but that didn’t stop him wearing them. He wasn’t just a collector, he wanted to show off his collection as well.

He’d been a fan since he was born. His dad used to take him to home matches and he was there when that famous goal was scored that saw Arsenfield qualify and go on to win the Premier League. Sure, he was only two when it happened but he’d seen the footage enough times to know deep down that he remembered it.

Andy was never any good at the game himself. He played with the lads in P.E. and sometimes on the school pitch on the weekends when he was growing up, but he was never fast enough. He didn’t have the same stamina and now that he was older and had an impressive keg sized beer belly over his belt, he knew his days of dreaming to make it into the premier league were numbered. But that was okay because he loved to watch it and support his team and his favourite footballer Sloan most of all.

Making his way toward ‘The Buggered Badger’ which was actually named the far less hilarious ‘Blundering Badger’, though he preferred the former and refused to use anything other than that; he stopped into a corner shop and bought himself twenty Lambert and Butler. He proceeded to drink the remaining fifteen quid over the course of the match.

Needless to say Sloan didn’t score first. In fact Sloan didn’t score at all for the entirety of the match which nearly saw him knocking a few teeth out of the bastard Woods from Accounts.

Woods was a Linchester supporter through and through, and it was enough for him to be one of the untouchables to Andy. He didn’t speak to him at work. He wouldn’t even piss next to him if they were in the toilet at the same time. In Andy’s world, Woods didn’t exist.

When Woods chose to make a few slurs against Arsenfield and that washed up Sloan, Andy noticed that he existed and wanted to pound him right back out of his world and right back to wherever the hell it was that he did belong.

He got one good hard swing in, but sadly he was too drunk to connect and instead ended up on his back on the floor of the Buggered Badger. Woods laughed and jeered and perhaps it was the lucky shirt doing its bit a little late that saw the bouncer lift Woods and throw him out for starting trouble.

Andy climbed back up from the sticky floor, winded and angry. His temples were throbbing and his face was the colour of the Merlot the bar tender was handing to a girl a few bar stools away.

Andy was out of cash but had half of his pint of Tenants remaining so he nursed it slowly, a part of him knowing that he was really waiting to be sure that Woods and any cronies he may have amassed had buggered off home or to another pub instead of lying in wait for him to begin his journey home; tail between his legs and head down in defeat while those bastards gloated.

Knowing he didn’t have any friends that would either buy him another pint or spot him the money for a taxi to get home safely he admitted yet another defeat for the evening and made his way to the door. He suffered a few more taunts as he went, the shirt acting like a beacon to attract unwanted attention. They rubbed his face in the failure of the night.

He thought to himself “How could Sloan have done this to me? Losing me thirty quid and on top of that making me the laughing stock of the entire pub. And after I went and waited for hours after the last three home games in hopes of an autograph that I never even got.”

He was angry and his breath came in pants before he had even reached the door. Once there, the bouncer that had thrown Woods out made another jibe at him, “You may want to cover up before heading out there, and not just because of the pissing rain!” Andy ground his teeth and dug his nails into the palms of his hands.

He hadn’t brought a jacket or a brolly and so he just walked out into the rain and stomped harder than necessary through the puddles that littered his path. Anger wasn’t the word. He was enraged. How could Sloan do this to him? Let him down like this? The thoughts kept echoing in his head.

As he plodded on, getting more and more soaked until the Arsenfield jersey was sticking to him like a second skin, he found himself remembering the good times.

“When he scored that goal against Renham with seconds on the clock and won the game at the end of last season.” He smiled. Who was he kidding. Sloan was the man. He’d proven himself many times over. “Sure everyone has bad days, it’s just a pity this one cost me thirty quid.” He said it out load but to himself.

“Just gotta keep on remembering all the times he came through for me.” He sighed. That was it. He’d won far more betting on Arsenfield than he’d lost. That was what mattered. The bottom line as that bastard Woods from Accounts would have said.

Andy was sure that if he ever did get to meet Sloan in person that they’d be great friends. That was the only problem with the Premier League guys. It took them out of your reach. He fantasised sometimes about himself and Sloan sitting in the pub, both wearing matching Arsenfield jerseys, talking sport. Reliving the good old days and going over the big wins in detail. Reliving the best bits of the best matches.

He didn’t tell anyone about it but it’s what he considered to be his own little happy place. Sometimes when the pressure was really on at work and he found it hard to stop thinking about it he would go out with Sloan in his mind. It always helped him sleep in the end. It relaxed him was all.

Andy approached his tower block. When he let himself in he saw the sign on the lift indicating it was out of order. “Aye. That IS out of order. Not on!” Any growled to himself as he approached the stairwell, his clothing dripping on the floor and leaving droplets of rain water around each wet shoe print.

He threw the stairwell door open by punching the door and looked at the momentous climb he had ahead of him. The stairs appeared to go on forever. With a growl of anger he lit a cigarette right there in the stairwell. He didn’t care and if anyone wanted try to stop him he’d put it out right in their face.

He decided to enjoy it before even starting on the long journey onwards and upwards and so there he stood, pacing and dripping and smoking his fag. His mind flickered between all the reasons he was angry and how the entire world seemed to have just had a massive shit all over him.

When he could feel the heat of the end of his cigarette on his yellow stained finger tips he dropped it into the puddle that had accumulated at his feet. The sound of it extinguishing in the water cheered him somewhat. He had already made up his mind to go back to his happy place.

Sloan would help him make it up the stairs. It would be just like training right along side his good mate Sloan. Under his breathe he started to sing one of the more offensive football songs he’d heard in his years following the team. After jogging in place for just a moment he lunged forward and made a point of not skipping a single stair as his feet rhythmically pounded in time to the song.

After two floors he was winded and the words were barely coming out between his wheezing. It was okay though. Sloan was right there along side of him in his imagination and struggling just as hard as he was. He shot him a smile and pretended to get a bit more encouragement from his imaginary friend Sloan before he continued on.

When he was approaching the fifth floor he was struggling so hard to breathe that he had to take a break. His pulse hammered in his temples and his chest felt as though it were on fire. His face was so hot that it looked purple in parts and he felt like his eyes might actually burst from his face if he wasn’t careful.

“Shouldn’t of had that smoke before training.” He looked to Sloan who seemed sympathetic and gave him a gentle punch in the arm. “And this isn’t even the halfway point! It’s no wonder they signed you instead of me.” Andy watched as Sloan took a seat on the step next to him with a bit of a scowl on his face. Sloan didn’t like it when Andy talked that way. Andy knew very well how it worked, Sloan did well if he cheered hard enough. If Sloan played poorly it was because Andy had jinxed it somehow. They needed each other. They were a team. Comments about which one played which part always hurt Sloan though.

Maybe he wore the wrong shirt and effected the game that way he thought to himself. That must have been it. He had to wear the shirts twice before washing them if he wanted Sloan to score and thinking back he’d had to wash this one after he was sick on it a few games ago and couldn’t remember wearing it another time before this match.

He had followed all of the other rituals. He put his left sock and shoe on before his right. That was an important one and had cost him a game once before but he’d done it correctly this time.

He made sure that he hadn’t spoken to his girlfriend Kelly about the game at all. That was a surefire way to jinx it. Birds had no place in football as spectators, players, managers, or otherwise. Just mentioning an upcoming match in their presence meant doom.

It had to have been the shirt that had done it. “I’m sorry Sloan. I made you look like a right burk out there tonight. It’s my fault.” He felt genuine sorrow and guilt for what he’d done.

Sloan gave him a wink and a nod of his head and he knew all was forgiven. “I won’t let it happen again mate.” Andy got back to his feet. “Race you to the next landing!”

Without waiting for a reply Andy took off and was panting again before he reached the sixth floor. He won the race but he was pretty sure that Sloan had let him win even though he was grasping his hamstring where the old injury appeared to be acting up. It did that sometimes on wet days.

“Hurting again? We’ll take it slow for the next few.” Andy was concerned about Sloan. He didn’t want to see him strain himself and be unable to play. Taking it easy was probably the best thing, and he could use the excuse for a break himself. These stairs weren’t going to climb themselves.

The journey was long and hard. Andy had to stop once more on the twelfth floor when the stairwell started to swim before his eyes. His heart was racing and that burning pain had reappeared in his lungs. He honestly felt as though they were on fire. He clutched his chest and sat down a bit too hard, sure he was going to vomit for a moment. Sloan was right there beside him though, reassuring him that he could do it. He would be okay.

That’s why Andy liked Sloan so much. He’d been there for him since that day when he first got signed and Andy defended him in front of some of his work mates that had been die hard Arsenfield fans just as he was. Sloan had made it up to him by winning him some serious money in the world cup and by giving him encouragement when he needed it too. It was a good healthy relationship the two of them had in Andy’s head.

Andy thought of Sloan as his best friend. He was the only one that he could count on when the going got tough. He was reliable which was a lot more than Andy could say about any of his other friends. He used the term friends lightly; most people Andy knew were colleagues, fellow supporters, and acquaintances. He didn’t have any real friends, but it didn’t get him down because he had something better. A winning team, well most of the time, and Sloan.

When Andy did finally make it to the eighteenth floor he was really knackered. It had taken him and Sloan just over an hour to climb to his floor. He knew Sloan could have done it five or six times over and not really shown any sign of being tired, but he was a good mate. He wouldn’t rub it in like that.

Andy dragged himself to room one-eighty-four; his flat. He attempted to get his key into the lock but his heart was pounding so hard from the climb that his hand didn’t seem to be able to stay still enough to get the key in.

That’s when the door flew open in front of him and he was face to face with a boozed up Kelly, who was in a bit of a state. Her eye makeup was trailed down her face from drunken tears and he couldn’t help be see the similarity between his girlfriend standing before him and an angry badger because of it.

“Where have you been all evening? Look at the state of you! You’re drunk again aren’t you! I should have bloody well known!” And with that she had made it past him and was out in the hallway as well. The neighbours would be able to both see and hear everything that followed and normally Andy would care, but this had come as such a surprise to him that he hadn’t even been able to fully comprehend what was happening yet.

“Let me guess, Arseholefield verses Lichfucker at the Buggered Bastard.” She had obviously been lying in wait, ready to pounce the second he came home and ruin the good time he and Sloan had been having. Kelly was always like that. Anything to piss on his cornflakes.

It was a wonder they had even got together in the first place. They had virtually nothing in common. She liked her soaps and going to the gym and trying to keep fit. When she wasn’t doing that she was on the Bacardi Breezers or fancy cocktails with the harpies that she called girl friends.

They were just two lonely bastards in a cruel world that happened to be lonely and bored enough by chance at the same time and in the same place. He bought her a WKD blue and listened to her nag and bitch for a good hour one night and she’d been his ever since.

She had moved in with him a week later and they’d managed to somehow have a relationship; if you could call it that, for the next three months. Andy wasn’t complaining. They both did their own thing and occasionally met up somewhere in the middle for a film or a shag.

“Your pathetic team lost tonight. Oh yeah, that’s right! I heard!” She was absolutely vehement. “I hope you enjoyed the show Andy! Do you know what else today was?” She got right into his face. “It was my bloody birthday you bastard!”

She broke down and sobbed. Andy looked at her, completely clueless as to what to do. He looked for Sloan but it looked like Sloan had left him to his own devices to sort this one out. He tended to o that when it came to aspects of Andy’s life that he didn’t really play any part in. Sure, Sloan made the tabloids for his romps with only the finest of the prossies, and Kelly couldn’t old a candle to any of them.

Going with his gut Andy moved forward to give her a reassuring embrace. She pulled away from him faster than he could blink. She moved like lightning when she wanted to. “Don’t touch me you slob! Go wank it to your beloved Arseholefield! I’m leaving!”

And with that she was gone through the stairwell door before he had been able to get a word in. He stood there dumbfounded. Almost as much so as when she came into his life.

“She’ll be back. She’ll need to collect her things eventually.” He heard Sloan’s voice in his ears. “You can make your move then. Flowers and chocolates should sort this one out.” He looked around and saw him letting himself in without even asking. It was okay with Andy. He was his mate after all.

Andy followed Sloan into his flat. He knew straight away that something was amiss. The living room wall which was normally chockablock with framed photos and posters, most of which were signed limited editions of Arsenfield, had one large gap dead in the centre where the old peeling paint showed through. Andy moved in closer and saw that the remains of the missing frame lay in a pile on this mis-matched armchair.

He picked up the sharp shards of glass and moved them aside before turning over the frame that had been lying upside down. There was the only photo from the wall that hadn’t featured football. It was a portrait of him and Kelly all dressed up from when they celebrated their two month anniversary when they’d gone on a riverboat cruise complete with dinner and drinks in the city. Andy looked closely and saw their innocent smiles.

She had gone all out and had her hair and nails done. She was wearing a figure hugging little black dress that looked absolutely cracking on her. Andy on the other hand was clad in his finest Arsenfield away jersey and a sports jacket with his best pair of blue jeans. She looked like a model. He looked like a fat, washed up, loser.

Andy looked around his flat. He could see the different elements that said that she’d been here. She had helped him put his wardrobe full of Arsenfield shirts in order of year. She had even been the one to buy the frames so that his collection of limited edition posters and autographs were in matching silver frames; one of which lay broken in his hands now.

She’d been the one to get matching throws for his mis-matched settee and arm chair. She’d spruced the place up a bit with cushions and even a vase and fake flowers in Arsenfields colours to add a bit of femininity without clashing.

Andy set the broken picture frame on the scuffed coffee table. He walked to his bedroom, complete with Arsenfield wall paper and matching duvet cover and pillow cases. This was the bed they had shared and probably never would again.

He peeled off his soaking wet jersey, now more soaked in his acrid sweat from the climb than rain, and cast it onto the floor. There was an aching pain in his arms. His heart pounded in his ears. He lay down with his hands tucked below his head which only made his heartbeat seem even louder.

Just what exactly had happened tonight? It seemed like it was going to be such an amazing day and yet everything that had been possible to go wrong appeared to have done just that. Why? “What did I do wrong?” he asked aloud.

“What did you do right is the better question, mate.” Opening his eyes and brushing away the tears that had begun to well up Andy looked up to see Sloan sitting on the edge of his bed. Sloan picked up the crumpled pack of Lambert and Butler that had fallen on the floor when Andy got into the bed.

“Way I see it, you ain’t got nuffin. Shit job, no mates, no bird, no kid. No one to carry on your legacy” Sloan tapped the last cigarette out and crumpled the empty packet onto the floor. “All you got is me.”

Sloan lit his cigarette with Andy’s lighter before dropping it onto the floor as well. He took a deep long drag and then leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched before exhaling a foul cloud of smoke into his face. “And I ain’t even real.”

Pain shot through Andy’s arms and then settled in his chest. His heart beat that was pounding so load only a moment ago was beginning to falter. The pain becoming more and more unbearable.

He was unable to breathe as Sloan placed his hand over Andy’s heart, “The only thing you ever truly loved was me.” Sloan pushed harder and harder against Andy’s heart. “You didn’t care about nuffin else and see what you gone an’ done Andy. Did you even live? Or was I livin for you?”

Something lurched inside of Andy’s chest and his vision began to dim. Sloan smiled at him, his face becoming more skull like with each slowing painful beat of the drum in Andy’s head that must have been his fading pulse.

Andy died as he lived, gazing at something that only he could see the importance of. Something that he couldn’t touch, he couldn’t be, and that he had wasted his life living vicariously through.

The moral of the story:

Live your life. Don’t let anyone else do it for you.