Each ball boy had their patch at City’s stadium and mine was behind the bye line at the home end. The floodlights were beaming down on the sodden pitch and our supporters were roaring the team on, undaunted by the rain lashing down on the terrace. I watched Colin Macey – Rovers’ centre forward – pick up the ball about twenty yards from goal and let fly. His shot went wide and hit me like a cannonball on the forehead, knocking me flat on my back.
As I lay stunned in the mud, I heard the referee blow the whistle for half time. Out of nowhere, Terry appeared and dropped onto his haunches beside me, his straggly hair falling to his shoulders.
‘That was a sore one you took there, son. I see that sod Macey hasn’t bothered to apologise. Let’s get you up and over to the dressing room. Our trainer will bring you round with his magic sponge.’
He helped me to my feet and escorted me across the pitch to the applause of the fans. It was unreal. The mercurial Terry Burton, the man with the magic feet, who I’d idolised for years taking care of me! I’d lost count of the number of times I’d seen his athletic figure cut in from the right wing onto his favoured left foot, bamboozling defenders, and rifling in goals for City.
Terry guided me down the tunnel and into the crowded dressing room which smelled strongly of liniment, and took me over to an older guy wearing a flat cap.
‘This one needs a little TLC.’
‘Come here, lad.’
The trainer took the sponge out of his bucket and applied it to my forehead. The ice-cold water quickly brought me round and I gazed in awe at my football heroes sitting around the room.
‘You’d better get back out there, otherwise the gaffer will get annoyed,’ said Terry.
I tried to thank him but couldn’t get the words out before running off.
This happened over forty years ago but the memory comes back every time I cross the doorstep of
Terry’s house.
He is sitting in his favourite armchair when I enter the sitting room.
‘Who’s he?’ he barks.
‘There’s no need to raise your voice. It’s your carer, Ray,’ Anne replies. The dark circles under her eyes are getting worse.
‘He can’t be a carer with those hands.’ His face flushes.
‘Don’t’ worry, Dad, he’s nice,’ she says gently.
She’s wearing the same green top she had on a few days ago.
I give him a few moments before speaking.
‘How are you today, Terry?’
He looks at me blankly initially but then his face brightens.
‘Do you know I used to be a footballer?’
‘Yes, I saw you play many times.’
‘I was good. Other players used to try and kick me but I was usually too quick for them.’ He laughs.
‘Sometimes when they caught me, I dished out a left hook and got an early bath for my troubles.’
‘I’m going upstairs to lie down,’ says Anne. My twice weekly visits give her a brief respite from looking after her father.
‘Let’s get you washed,’ I say.
Terry’s unsteady on his feet so I help him up, take his arm, and guide him to the wet room. I assist him undressing and steer him under the shower where he grasps the wall grip and, after turning on the water, I soap up the sponge and start cleaning his back. He seems to get thinner each time I see him.
‘There’s nothing like the magic sponge to get me going,’ he chortles. ‘This reminds me of being in the showers at City, all the lads starkers, singing away if we’d won.’ He starts humming the club’s anthem.
Afterwards, I dry him, help him dress and tidy his short white hair with a comb, and help him back to his chair.
‘Am I having breakfast now?’
‘No, Anne gave it to you earlier.’
‘I don’t remember that. What’s for lunch?’
‘Baked potato with cheese and beans.’
‘OK. I’ll give it a try.’ He says pulling a long face.
He has this dish every Tuesday and enjoys it.
I switch on the television and Terry watches it while I prepare his medication. After taking it, he turns the sound down with the remote and looks at me with a twinkle in his eye, signalling we’re off down memory lane. I’ve heard most of his football tales before but I never tire of listening to them. He reminisces happily for over an hour before his voice suddenly drops to a whisper.
‘I never made much money,’ he says.
‘Why was that?’
‘Gambling. Loved going to the dogs and casinos but Lady Luck wasn’t kind to me.’
‘That maybe so but you gave a lot of pleasure to thousands of people.’
He smiles and pats his tummy.
‘I’m feeling hungry now.’
I go into the kitchen to prepare his meal. When he’s tucking into it, Anne comes downstairs and enters the room yawning.
‘It’s nearly time for Ray to go, Dad.’
‘That’s a pity. Hope to see you again.’ He gives me the thumbs up.
I’ve never asked him if he remembers rescuing a distressed ball boy as I’ve been taught that asking people with his condition questions can agitate them or cause anxiety. Anyway, why should he recall such a trivial incident from his illustrious career?
An unfamiliar face opens the door to me.
‘Hi, you must be Ray. Anne told me you’d be calling round about this time.’ She’s a stout lady with short grey hair. ‘I’m a neighbour. She’s got a GP appointment and she asked me to be here until you came.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, stepping inside. ‘Has he had breakfast?’
‘He hardly touched his cereal but downed his tea.’
She leaves and I go in to see him. He looks up and frowns.
‘What? Another flaming stranger?’
‘I’m Ray, the carer. Shall we watch a bit of telly together before your shower?’
He nods.
I switch on the set and select channel 12 which is showing ‘The Big Match Revisited.’ The featured game happens to be one between City and Rovers from the late seventies.
Terry studies the screen for a minute and then his eyes light up and he leans forward.
‘That’s me,’ he yells.
His younger self is standing over the ball with a wall of players standing ten yards away from him. He steps forward, shoots and hits the crossbar with a thunderous shot.
‘That should have gone in. But listen to that crowd. They used to chant my name.’
The camera zooms in on the spectators on the packed terrace swaying behind the goal. I remember standing there before I became a ball boy, terrified I would get crushed by the adults.
We are both spellbound by the action which follows. It was a close game and the score was two each going in the last minute, and then up popped Colin Macey to head the winner.
Terry groans.
‘That so and so had a habit of scoring against us. He used to climb on our defenders’ shoulders to head the ball and the referees let him get away with it.’
He goes quiet and slumps into his chair.
‘Turn that off,’ he says in a quiet voice. I do as he asks.
His eyes start to dart around the room.
‘When is Anne coming back? I’ve not seen her for ages.’
He starts sobbing and I walk over and squeeze his shoulder.
‘She’ll be back soon,’ I assure him.
‘I hope so. She’s ever so nice,’ he says clutching my arm.
‘Dad’s got a visitor this morning,” Anne tells me on my arrival. “I’ll leave you to them. I’m going upstairs for my kip.’ She looks as white as a sheet.
‘Enjoy your lie down.” I tell her.
I get a bit of a shock when I enter the sitting room and see Colin Macey sitting beside Terry. I’d assumed they hated each other’s guts. Colin has hardly changed over the years. He still looks trim, his face is lean, and his dyed brown hair is long.
‘Looks like you’ve got another visitor,’ Colin says.
‘Don’t know him from Adam. Have you got the right house mate?’ Terry glares at me.
‘I’m Ray Thompson from the agency.’
He shrugs his shoulders
‘Nobody tells me anything. This is Colin. He was my best pal off the pitch when I was a footballer.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I never thought I’d hear myself say that.
Colin holds out his hand and I shake it.
‘Terry’s been trying to tell me City beat us regularly when we were playing them. Fat chance of that!’
‘Nothing wrong with my memory,’ says Terry. ‘I’ve also been reminding him about taking me out boozing during the week. The gaffer wasn’t happy when I turned up for training smelling like a brewery and I got fined a few times.’
‘You never needed much encouragement and I usually ended up paying as you were skint.’ Colin chuckles and turns to me. ‘By the way, Terry has promised me a slap-up lunch.’
‘If you count a corned beef sandwich and a fig roll as a treat, you won’t be disappointed,’ I tell him with a chuckle.
‘Terry always was a cheapskate.’
They both start to laugh their socks off and I make an exit to the kitchen.
I’m still trying to get over the fact that Terry is no longer with us. It was a heart attack that got him in the end. I’m glad City did him proud by opening a book of remembrance at the stadium, placing a film on their website with clips of his goals, and arranging a round of applause at a home game. And the memorial service was lovely and Colin was one of the speakers.
I’m intrigued why Anne has asked me to pop round to her house. When I arrive, she greets me with a hug. She has got some colour back in her cheeks since I last saw her and is wearing a nice floral dress.
She invites me into the sitting room and it feels strange to see Terry’s armchair lying empty.
We sit down and, after exchanging a few pleasantries, she gets to the point.
‘I didn’t know you’d met Dad when you were a lad.’
‘It’s true we had a fleeting encounter. That’s all.’ I don’t know where this is going
I was going through his football memorabilia and found some newspaper clippings relating to matches he played in, including this one.’
She hands over a yellowing page containing a photo of Terry escorting a youngster across City’s pitch. The caption reads:
'Terry Burton looks after fourteen year old ball boy Raymond Thompson after being knocked down by a wayward shot by Colin Macey.’
‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I can feel tears in my eyes.
‘The press liked to paint him as a bit of a bad boy who liked to drink and gamble, and he probably cut it out because it showed him in a different light. Did you ever mention the incident to him?’
‘No. It was enough for me to repay him the kindness which he showed me back then.’
‘He couldn’t have asked for a better carer. I’ll make us some coffee and you can tell me the full story.’
About the author
Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
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