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The noise was deafening. The Wembley crowd were, I suppose, about 30% us with the same for Teddenham and the rest were tickets given out either by the league or hospitality.

I was off the subs bench and there was just thirty minutes to go. We were two-nil down and Sandy McPherson was close to having some sort of seizure. You would have thought that the game wasn’t important, being just the Charity Shield, but it was important to us on a number of levels. It was the first real match of the season and it was against our arch enemy. Having a good Charity Shield sets a team up for the season. We didn’t want our noses rubbed in the dirt over a game like this, so I suppose it was a pride thing.

So, here I was running up and down the touch line, my hair in a scrunchie waving about and tickling the back of my neck. The fans were chanting ‘Suzie, Suzie,’ over to the left where our supporters were corralled and something less flattering was coming from my right; all part of the game and one that I could expect to experience for the rest of the season.

All too soon, I was warmed up and ready to go on. I was nervous, very nervous as this was the first time that I would be going on a pitch to play a proper game since Ferris nearly killed me at the end of last season, and it would have to be Wembley, the place where the evil deed was done.

As waited for play to stop and permission to go on the field, thoughts of Ferris reminded me and my mind drifted back––

~ §~

‘So, Ms Hurst, you agree that you tried to humiliate my client in front of the media press conference?’

‘I agree to no such thing––’

‘–Did you or did you not make disparaging remarks about my client?’

‘No, of course not––’

‘–Mr Ferris is, or was after your character assassination, a broken man, haunted by his past and the death of his brother, you feel no remorse for pushing him over the edge?’

‘I object, your honour!’

‘Overruled; please continue, Sir Robert, but stick to the point.’

‘Thank you, m’lud. You are a self-seeking self-publicising footballer with some talent, is that correct?’

‘I play football professionally, if that’s what you mean. As to the self-whatever-it-is you were accusing me of, no.’

‘You are, through your–shall we say–associates, able to block any adverse publicity regarding the more unsavoury aspects of your superstar lifestyle?

‘Objection, m’lud.’

‘Thank you, Sir Trevor; overruled, but, Sir Robert, I will not let this go much further, please get to your point.’

‘I am obliged, m’lud. The point is that my client was not able to report on the true facts appertaining to the lifestyle of Ms Hurst, the fact that she was having sex with an underage child, that she was seen taking drugs at a party, the fact that––’

~ §~

It was a tough time for me and I wondered why I had been forced to appear as a witness at the trial of Bob Ferris which had been brought forward to just before the start of the season. He had assaulted me in front of ninety thousand people and countless millions of fans watching the replays on the TV.

He argued, or his lawyers did for him, that he did it whilst he was not of sound mind. Well I could have told anyone that, but he hoped to get off on that technically.

I watched him, across the court, in the dock. He looked older and thinner, but his face had lost none of its nastiness. He may have not been of sound mind, but he knew exactly what he was doing–milking the system and trying to gain the sympathy of the judge and–more importantly–the jury.

As I had sat outside, waiting to be called in to give my evidence, I recalled the last six months which had been a turbulent time for me, my family and my club.

~ §~

It took some months to fully recover from my head injury and there was talk at one stage that I might never be able to play football again. However, I am young and strong and have good healing powers and eventually was told that I should make a full recovery.

The club were really good to me and were incredibly supportive. While I was convalescing I used the gym and facilities to try to keep up some level of fitness without endangering my health. I was often at the training ground and joined in what exercises and drills that I could. It helped make me feel part of everything still.

The previous season had ended and we didn’t have much in the way of trophies at the club. I should have played in the FA cup final, but of course, I couldn’t; we did win it though, so a totally bleak season ended on a bit of a high note.

When the team went for a pre-season tour to the USA, I went with them. I didn’t want to because–to be honest–not being able to play, I felt a bit like a spare part. However it was beneficial because I met loads of American kids–including a surprising number of girls who played and were really keen on the “Beautiful game”.

We stayed in loads of different hotels that looked exactly the same, inside and out. I missed my family a great deal while I was away and the fact that I couldn’t be with them made me irritable from time to time. I missed Andrea in particular; she had been dressing more or less full time since the end of term. It had been decided that she would go on to sixth form college–a girl’s one and she was over the moon that she didn’t have to wear boys’ stuff anymore. I loved her so much; I was having serious withdrawal symptoms!

The life of a superstar footballer–that’s me by the way, hang on, is my head getting bigger?–is not all wine and roses, not that I liked wine as I was too young and roses set off my hay fever. Anyway much of the time on tour was spent either in a hotel room, watching the other members of team play or having physiotherapy and exercising the things that I was allowed to exercise. As I say, I did meet lots of mad keen kids who loved football–or soccer, as they call it there–and for some reason they thought I was a good player–hence the superstar status of yours truly.

The headaches had gradually lessened and my hair started to grow where it had been chopped off following The Ferris Incident. I was getting fitter and fitter and actually anxious to start playing proper games once again.

It was nice to get away from the UK and the media attention for a while. In the USA, football is liked at a local level and in schools, but the stars out there are more likely to be baseball or American Football players rather than an insignificant little thing like me.

I wasn’t mobbed when I went down the road or if I went into a shopping centre (called a “mall” out there for some reason). The press didn’t seem all that interested in what my hair style was or what clothes I liked to wear or even if I had a boyfriend. The lack of interest was refreshing and helped a lot towards recharging my batteries.

And so we returned to sunny England (not) and I was home again. It was really lovely to be home again with my family. I had missed them so much and I did a really girlie thing as soon as I saw them–I burst into tears.

The new season began the following week with the traditional opener–the Charity Shield. This is the game played at Wembley between the winners of the league and the FA cup. Our opponents were our arch enemy, Teddenham.

I had been told by the boss, Sandy McPherson that I might be on the subs bench for that one, if the medics gave me the all clear.

I had had so many X rays and scans of my head that I swear that I was beginning to glow in the dark. All the tests showed that I was healed and that I was all right to play. News of my being a sub was kept secret for some reason. I was pleased about that because it reduced the pressure on me to perform. Any footballer will tell you that the lack of match fitness will hinder a player for a while and although I had kept fit, there is no substitute for playing the game.

Then, just before the Charity Shield match, I had to go to Ferris’s trial and it just brought up all the nasty things that had happened last season. After giving testimony I felt a bit drained and out of sorts. I was informed that the trial would resume on the Monday and that I would be required to continue giving further evidence then.

Glancing over at Ferris with his cold glassy stare and leering face, I hoped that I would be able to hold my temper and not say something stupid on Monday––

~ §~

I felt a tap on my shoulder and I was on the field. All thoughts of the past went to the back of my mind as I assumed my position. I vaguely heard the crowd chanting my name again but I was focussed and ready to help my team in every way I could.

The whistle blew and we were off with just 27 minutes of play left. For the first few minutes, nothing came my way and we were very much on the back foot as Teddenham piled more pressure upon us. Any thoughts of them resting on their laurels and going defensive were out of the window as wave upon wave of attacks pinned us in our half. They wanted to rub our noses in it and were taking no prisoners.

The cries of delight that I experienced when coming on the field grew less and less and were replaced by chants of ‘what a load of rubbish.’

‘Charming,’ I thought as I received the ball just over the half way line and tried to avoid being decapitated by Teddenham’s new defender–built like a brick privy and as hard nails.

The ref for once wasn’t looking the other way or reading a book and he blew up. Yellow card for Crapelski–I kid you not, so with a name like that no wonder he was built like a brick privy–and a free kick for us.

I placed the ball about ten feet in front of where the evil deed had been done and luckily the ref–who needed glasses after all the things that he had let slide that day–didn’t notice.

Ogsood was lurking on the far edge of the penalty area with several other lads. The opposition were doing the usual thing, pushing and shoving as if they were jostling for bargains at the Harrod’s sale.

Anyway, I kicked the ball towards the penalty area and Ogsood, rose like a ballerina and headed the ball, inches from the tips of the keeper’s fingers, into the far corner of the net.

‘GOAL!’

We all went into a group hug and had a kiss and a cuddle. Things were better and we had pulled one back, but with only twenty minutes to go, we would have to extract our digits and begin playing like a team.

It was our turn to pile on the pressure now, as Teddenham set up tents and camped on their side of the pitch, the only thing missing was a camp fire and hot chocolate with optional marshmallows. They wanted to hang on tooth and nail and they did all that they could to keep hold of the ball and frustrate our advances.

They brought on two defenders during the next ten minutes and didn’t hurry too much about it. I’m not saying that they were time-wasting, but how long does it take for one player to come off the pitch and another to come on?

Anyway, we carried on pushing the ball up-field, trying get the ball into the net. I was doing my usual stuff, spraying the ball about, cheeky jinks and the occasional salvo at the goal. I saw the keeper off the line once and chipped the ball over his head, only for the ball hit the crossbar. Another time I sent the ball into the area and a diving header from Peter Martins hit the keeper in his stomach.

I had a message from the touchline from Sandy McPherson, telling me to stop being a Jessie and get further up the field; honestly, I didn’t take it too personally.

So I did go further up, forgetting my midfield dynamo role (or is that two cell battery?) and changing to and out and out striker.

Anyway, there I was standing on the edge of the area when a corner was being taken and trying to be small enough not to be noticed by the gigantic Neanderthal defenders that Teddenham seemed to specialise in; buffing my nails and looking as if I would rather be anywhere but on the field with 22 –if you include the blind ref–hunks of testosterone-filled meat.

Morris saw me and floated the ball over the other taller players with a precise, almost surgical accuracy. Everyone was jostling, pulling, pushing, jabbing and generally trying to get away with anything short of murder, and while they were playing with each other, I just ran in and headed the ball sweetly. The keeper, bless him, went one way and the ball the other–into the back of the net.

‘GOAL!’

I ran towards the goal post and nearly pulled off my shirt in my excitement, stopping in the nick of time and remembering how unladylike that would be — anyway a yellow card was not what I wanted to be remembered for today, of all days.

I was mobbed by my team mates who wanted to get up close and personal. In several countries, what we were doing would be considered illegal but I couldn’t care less. Mind you, if I catch the sod who pinched my bum, I would make sure he suffered.

So it was two-all with just ten minutes to go and all to play for. I hadn’t thought about it when I headed the ball. I suppose that I should have been worried that my head might have split open like a melon, but I was okay and didn’t have any pains in that department so I was not going to worry anymore and just get on with things.

Of course, being still summer in the UK, the clouds came over and it started to rain heavily, soaking my thin polyester football shirt in seconds and making my hair feel like I was wearing a wet dishcloth. But we just got on with it and the game went on apace.

Teddenham started to be more attacking again and posed a real threat. Desmond Etoo, the plonker, decided that it would be a good idea to bring one of the Teddenham ballerinas down in the box. He swore that he just touched Santos’s arm with his shoulder, but Santos did a creditable impression of the dying swan in Swan Lake and went down to the screams of ‘PENALTY’ from the Teddenham players and their half of the crowd.

It was really pis–err–pouring down now and I had real concerns that we were not going to be able to recover.

Santos, who had made a miraculous recovery from his fall and was running around like a spring lamb, grabbed the ball placed it on the spot and after the ref blew his whistle, charged up and gave the ball an almighty thud––

–and the ball went sailing up in the air and nearly reached the second tier of the stand.

Screams of delight from our side and jeers and naughty words from our opponents’ supporters.

There were now only three minutes to go and all was still level. Mr McPherson was having an animated discussion with the fourth official on the line and I don’t think that he was discussing the inclement weather.

Ivan Goshter, our relieved keeper, punted the ball up the field as the rain really started lashing down. As luck would have it, the ball bounced and then skidded through to me. I was quite a way up and just behind one of the Teddenham defenders, so I was still onside. I let the ball run and ran up the pitch towards the goal with the defender chasing me. Over the other side was our Walter Indongo, I kicked the ball, high and long towards him and luckily he got it on his foot.

I, in the mean time, didn’t hang about and carried on up the field, watching for the defenders, who liked to man–or should that be woman?–mark me rather closely at times like these.

The crowd were going wild, chanting ‘Dongo, Dongo’ and ‘Suzie, Suzie’.

Walter looked up, I waved at him and he kicked the ball in my direction.

I sensed rather than felt someone lunge for me and I skipped over the trailing leg and carried on, jinking to put the other defenders off and watching the ball coming nearer and nearer. It might have been divine intervention, but maybe not as I would have thought that God was bi-partisan, but anyway, the rain stopped suddenly and I could see the ball as clear as day as it swooped towards me.

It was a bit like slow motion, I could hear my laboured breathing and those of the other team. The keeper came towards me, spreading his arms and trying to make himself as big a target as possible. I slowed slightly as I didn’t want to overrun the ball. Another defender tried to trip me, but I saw him in the nick of time and jumped out of the way, but still went on––

As the ball came down, I didn’t think about it, I just hit it on the volley from just outside the penalty area. The keeper dived, his outstretched fingers touching the ball, but it wasn’t enough and the ball hit the back of the net. We had scored.

‘GOAL!’

I just stood there facing the net and just did something really silly, I curtsied and then shrugged my shoulders. The keeper looked like he wanted to throttle me but then I was engulfed in a sea of red as my team mates once again expressed their emotions. Who said boys don’t have a feminine side?

Mind you, my bum was pinched again but I knew who it was this time. I name no names and no pack-drill, but if you see a replay of the match and do a slow-mo of that point you will see someone walk back to the centre circle with slightly bandy legs and a red face–

Seconds later the whistle was blown. We had won with seconds to spare and as luck would have it, it started raining again.

Several Teddenham players wanted to swap shirts with me, but I refused politely. I didn’t want to set a precedent or have pictures of me in my sports bra being plastered all the front pages of the tabloid press.

After we received the shield and our medals, we crossed to our side of the ground and thanked our supporters for being there for us. The sea of red scarves, shirts and banners brought a lump to my throat. Our media and advertising department had said that there was a huge explosion of female supporters not only at our club but others up and down the country and looking at the happy faces in the crowd, I could see lots of girls, young and old that confirmed what he had been saying. It was only a matter of time when other females would be able to play in the league, or so the sports columnists kept saying.

Apart from the manager, I was designated as being the player to be interviewed by the TV stations. I didn’t like this side of things as they went on about wonder goals and how much difference I had made when I got on the pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a team game and every member of the team played their part in our victory.

~ §~

All my family were there at the game and after things died down a bit, I met them in hospitality and we all relived the game. It was so cool to have them all around me and part of my life. I was a bit sad that my mum never got to see me play, but I kind of hoped that she was looking down at me and cheering me on.

That night, when I was tucked up in bed with my stuffed rabbit, wishing, not for the first time, that it could have been Andrea, watching the edited highlights on the Beeb¹ and seeing myself playing. It’s strange; when I see myself on the box it’s as if it’s some other person, not me. I shrugged and just enjoyed the game as a spectator would.

In two days time I would be returning to the courtroom and cross examination by the barrister; I hoped I would do well and that Ferris would be put away for a long time. But that was the future, I paused the game and rewound slightly; I just had to see that goal again––

To Be Continued...

________________
¹; Beeb: Affectionate shortening of BBC–British Broadcasting Corporation. Also known by some as “Auntie”.

Authors note.
I hope that you have enjoyed the start of season 2 for our Susan. The goal where she curtsied and shrugged was as a homage to one of my favourite players ever and a true gentleman–Peter Osgood. Please have a look at this YouTube video and watch goal number 4.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QSQyk_zHJY

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My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, making suggestions that I hadn't even thought of and pulling the story into shape.