One Final Chance

Chapter One

"Welcome to England, mate," said Number Four. Tony Matthews looked up from the muddy hole that he had been pushed in. It was definitely a foul. His leg ached; a bruise would appear on it the next day. Number Four was looking down at him, sneering.

"Stop whining and get back up," came a shout from the touchline. The Gaffer and his assistant were shaking their heads, presumably at Matthews' ineptitude. He got back up, slightly limping, and hobbled back into position. What had happened to his touch over the last nine months? He used to be good at this game. Used to... He picked up the ball from Number Six and tried a long diagonal pass to the winger. It was over-hit and went out of play. The ball rolled all the way to the barbed wire fence that separated the pitch from the coal power plant looming beyond, one of the largest in Europe, the white steam from its dozen cooling towers mixing with the overcast sky above. Tony Matthews wasn't in sunny Barcelona anymore.

The throw-in was long. Matthews jumped with the Number Seven to try and get on the end of it, but his lack of upper-body strength showed. He could hear the sighs and groans of the Gaffer as Number Seven took control of the ball. Number Seven passed it to Number Ten, James Hooper, who saw the 'keeper slightly off his line and exquisitely chipped the ball over him from twenty-five yards. The 'keeper, a short lad for the position, stretched his body beyond belief and managed to get a fingertip to it, but it wasn't enough to stop the ball ending up in the back of the net.

James Hooper ran to the touchline where three girls were cheering him on. Dolled-up in make-up and lipstick, and standing in stiletto heels on the one patch of ground that wasn't completely mud, their high pitched screams when Hooper scored pierced the countryside air. Hooper did some fancy celebration in front of them, they jumped up and down like they were at a pop concert, waving their pink and white banner that said 'WE LUV U JAMIE'. Hooper smiled his perfect white smile, straightened his hair, and jogged back to the center circle, still grinning. The goalkeeper took out his anger at being humiliated by screaming at Matthews.

"Piss off back to Spain, you're useless," shouted the 'keeper.

"Shut up Finlay," shouted Number Six on Matthews' behalf, "Even my gran would've saved that shot."

Tony Matthews gave Number Six a look of thanks, but he was starting to think that Finlay was half right. In Spain his pass had never let him down. Was it the English weather? Nine months without football? Homesickness? Could he even call Spain 'home'? He thought back to his time at La Masia when he was the next big thing - the 'English Messi'. Days spent training with some of the best young footballers in the world. The foothills of the Pyrenees as a sun-kissed backdrop. Heaven on earth. How he loved pulling on that famous blue and red shirt.

Just then, Number Five started swearing and scratching at his shorts. His discomfort was enough to make everyone lose focus on the game.

"Hey Dave, you Muppet," said Number Four, Vince Goodwin, trying to keep his hysterics in until he could finish his line, "Did you catch something from that slag you were with the other night?"

Number Five inspected his underwear.

"Itching powder again, what's wrong with you Vince?" he said.

Goodwin couldn't respond, he was too busy laughing his guts out.

A scream came from Hooper's fan girls. A different kind of scream than before. Matthews turned around and saw that Dave Bryan had removed his itchy underwear and was now chasing Vince Goodwin around the pitch like a streaker, his balls swinging in the wind as he ran, and his arse bright red from the itching powder. Dave tripped up Number Four, jumped on top of him, and put the itchy underwear on his head. The other players jumped on top of the pair and Vince Goodwin's muffled screams were only stopped when the gaffer blew his whistle to break the group up.

"Mate, you're sick," said Vince, "Do you ever change your pants?"

The match restarted with Dave Bryan commando underneath his shorts, his pants in a muddy puddle on the touchline. Tony Matthews could hardly belief what he had just witnessed. This team seemed more like a madhouse than anything else. The ball came to him again, and he controlled it with a perfect touch before a large thump on his back knocked him down, face-first, into the mud again.

"Welcome to England, indeed," he thought.