The crowds were restless. We had had a minutes silence to remember the name of our beloved chairman Alf Battersby. It was fitting that we were at home playing Weatherfield only the day after Alf had dropped dead of a heart attack...     Football Girl Season 2 ~ Chapter 11 By Susan Brown Copyright © 2011 Susan Brown

Previously...

Daddy strolled in, phone in hand.

‘Hi Sue, did you hear the news?’

‘What news?’ asked Mummy.

‘Alf Battersby died last night.’

‘Oh dear, he was a nice man.’

‘Yes he was. I don’t know what is going to happen to the club.’

‘Will we be taken over?’ I asked.

‘Possibly; John Battersby has his own businesses that aren’t doing that well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sells out to the Americans.’

‘What will that mean to the club?’

‘Probable changes. It might be good, but I doubt it somehow.’

‘Why?’

‘Hiram B Attwater has criticized Sandy in the past for some of the transfers and the high wage bill. I’m not sure that the two can co-exist together.’

He paused for a moment and then continued.

‘He is noted for being a M.C.P’

‘M.C What?’

‘It stands for male chauvinist pig. He thinks that girls should stay home and learn to cook. He’s not very well liked by a large chunk of American women.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ said Mummy, with flour flying out of her hair in a cloud. I had a feeling that Hiram would not consider Mummy to be an ideal woman in the kitchen. Well, she had many talents but being a house frau wasn’t one of them.

I looked at Daddy and he looked at me. I recalled the list that I had on my computer. Would the death of our chairman mean that I might have to leave the club? I loved Melchester, but if everything changed then I wasn’t sure whether I could stay with a club that had a M.C.P as an owner.

And now the story continues…

The crowds were restless. We had had a minutes silence to remember the name of our beloved chairman Alf Battersby. It was fitting that we were at home playing Weatherfield only the day after Alf had dropped dead of a heart attack.

There were banners around the ground saying a variety of things. In the main they had Alf’s name and a brief message of sorrow. However, there were some that said, “Sandy for ever” and, “We want to stay English.”

The papers and media had been full of speculation regarding the future of the club. There was nothing in the reports that gave us any sense of security.

Not much had been said in the dressing room except that Sandy told us to play for Alf today and that was just what we were going to do. On another note, Dave Hastings had been sacked and was awaiting a tribunal to see whether he had any rights regarding payments for the remainder of his contacts. So you can see, the dressing room was not a fun place, that day.

After the news about Alf had broken yesterday, the phones not stopped ringing from the media asking for my reaction to the news. None of it actually filtered down to me as others had taken the calls and it was deemed wise for me not to say anything to anyone. Indeed, we had had a couple of interviews lined up for yesterday and they were cancelled by Sheila Strong, my media guru. ‘Thank heavens for small mercies,’ I thought at the time.

There was constant talk of this takeover by the American, Hiram B Whatsitface and this didn’t look too good for me as it appeared that I might be told to stay at home and polish my nails rather than play. And then there was Sandy; it was no secret that Hiram and Sandy hated each other. Sandy would not take to being ordered around by an owner. Many clubs are ruled by their chairmen and some even bought and sold players over the heads of the managers. Sandy and Alf had a good working relationship and conflict rarely happened and that was why the club was so successful.

As a team, we all wondered what was going to happen. Rumours were rife in the dressing room about what was going on. After I had changed in the new ladies dressing room, I had walked in and they were all in huddles discussing the latest, no doubt inaccurate piece of gossip. Talk about like a lot of old women! I of course was above all that and just sat down next to Odongo who gave me a cheery grin and carried on playing with his hand held game thingie.

I noticed in passing a few stray hairs on my legs and that depressed me. I had thought that I had managed to get them all, but there are always one or two that I missed. Claire was going on about having a waxing, but that particular horror I was trying to avoid, being a coward at heart, and anyway, my hairs were quite fine and I wasn’t exactly a hairy gorilla...

So here I was, in my thin red polyester kit, standing in the wind waiting for the ref to blow his whistle after a minutes’ silence —oh for leg warmers, hat and gloves...

I looked across at the opposition.

The Weatherfield lads were great. They were our favourite team in the league; they played fair and there were a lot of cross club friendships between the two great clubs. This was unusual but the clubs had a history of being similar in style and temperament. It also helped that Sandy’s brother Kenny was their manager.

The ref blew his whistle and the crowd roared.

I dashed down the pitch to get a bit of warmth in my legs before kickoff. I hated the wind and it blew quite strongly on that day. It was a good job that my long hair was scrunchified.

We lined up and off we went — game on!

Weatherfield came on to us like there was no tomorrow. We believed that they were under orders to rattle us as this was a difficult day for us and they were doing quite a good job. There was no room for compassion when there were much needed points to gain.

We were restricted to our own half for the first twenty minutes. I hadn’t managed to do anything very clever except to clear the ball off the line after a corner kick went straight to Tom Forrest, their prolific striker who volleyed the ball almost straight at me. Still, at least it was no goal.

Then the worst happened; we had a penalty against us and Forrest didn’t miss this time as he rifled it past Ivan Gloshter, who had no chance.

We had to endure further onslaughts on our goal and it was more by luck than design that we managed to go in at half time only 1-0 down.

Sandy did his usual thing about having a quiet chat to individual players. He came over to me as I sucked on an orange.

‘Well lassie, how are ye feeling’?

‘Not bad, frustrated at not getting at them in the first half.’

‘Aye their quick and fit. I want you to go deeper and try to pick up the ball early. We can try ta string a few crosses into the box and the big lads might get their heads on them.’

‘Okay boss.’

It amazed me that Sandy didn’t appear worried about his own future. He had said nothing and it seemed like it was just like an ordinary match day for him.

The second half carried on from when the first half finished with the other team throwing everything at us, up to and including the kitchen sink. The first ten minutes, the ball rarely left our half, but then we got lucky. Our keeper threw the ball out to Odongo who latched onto it and ran up the field. The Weatherfield team had pressed too far forward and that left them exposed at the back.

Like a good little girl. I dashed up the field like a dog who could see a juicy bone in the distance and wanting to get up close and personal to it.

I arrived on the edge of the area, after doing a deft side step that left their thug of a Neanderthal centre back, floundering on the ground. If his tackle had caught me, I would have been pushing up the daisies.

Any road, as we say Up North, there I was ready, willing and eager to get the ball before any of the other team could come and spoil things and Odongo, bless his cotton socks, obliged by sending over a peach of a ball that landed at my feet. The keeper, a big Dane called Rasher or something rushed out to try to either get at me or maybe just narrow the angle and then I did something a bit flash. I jinked to the left and then to the right — I did a sort of Riverdance thing (I do love Michael Flatley) and must of mesmerised the poor lamb as my feet did the talking and as he weaved to the left, I weaved to the right and stroked the ball home just before ten tons of flesh landed on me from a great height –he was a big lad!

‘GOAL!’

I received some nice hugs and kisses from my team mates and I hoped that Andrea wouldn’t get too jealous. I swear that they kiss and hug me more than the others when they scored, but that may just be my imagination.

After that things went more our way. I tried the Riveredance move once more, but was scythed down for my trouble so I didn’t bother with that one anymore.

There was two minutes to go and the crowd were going mad. I heard plenty of chants from our supporters like ‘Suzie, Suzie,’ and ‘Go Girl’ and from the opposition ‘Keep Your Knickers On’ and other not so flattering ones. A couple of subs came on in the final few minutes as we pressed hard to take advantage of our now superior attacks.

One of the subs was Peter Horseman, a very gifted winger who had come to us on loan just a few weeks previously. He had just gotten over a thigh strain and that was why he hadn’t played before.

Anyway, Peter was passed the ball about twenty yards out and ran down the line. He just managing to keep the ball in play, despite some desperate tackling from the opposition. He reached the dead ball line, swerved his body somehow and managed to send the ball over into the box where a grateful Ogsood dived and headed home.

‘GOAL!’

The crowd went mad, the team went mad and I went doolally as we mobbed Ogsood and Horseman. We eventually ran back to the centre and Weatherfield restarted. There was three minutes extra time to play and they went hell for leather to try to equalise. It was hard going for us and it was only the cross bar that stopped a vicious volley from Hernadez, the Weatherfield midfield genius getting a well earned goal.

The Weatherfield lads got the ball yet again and managed to force a corner which was luckily punched out by our poor overworked keeper.

I was deeper than normal as per Sandy’s instructions, but I was no use in the box, being small and light and let’s face it, I didn’t want to tackle with someone three foot taller than me and full of testosterone induced angst. I wasn’t a coward, just cautious.

Somehow the punched ball came out to me. Once again, I was on my own as the other lazy sods ...I mean lot were too busy inspecting their fingernails and chatting to the opposition about parentage and such stuff.

So I did the only thing I could, I hared up the field like a, erm hare and soon found myself mano-a-womano against the keeper. He was none too pleased with me and I didn’t fancy doing the tango with him, so I just gave him a bright and cheerful smile, thumped the ball with the outside of my foot and watched it do a banana and spin into the corner of the net.

‘GOAL!’

I think I saw tears in the keepers’ eyes as he looked at me and said a naughty word. I didn’t think that ginormous Dane goalkeepers were that emotional; perhaps he was just getting in touch with his feminine side.

Anyway after a nice kiss and cuddle from my team mates, as the fans went wild and asked for another goal, we strolled back to the centre circle– we were in no hurry.

A few seconds later the whistle went and we had won.

It was all for Alf; I kind of think that he was looking down at us and having a chuckle. I am sure we did him proud that day and it would be one that I would remember for the rest of my life.

As we arrived home, my ears still ringing from the fan's praise and the post match interview, I was soon put in my place again as Mummy, with the twins in her arms came out of the kitchen.

‘Mummy, we won!’

‘I know dear, that’s nice. Now can you change the girls’ nappies and give them a nice wash while I help Mrs M with tea?’

‘Yes Mummy,’ I sighed.

Mind you, the twins were so sweet; it wasn’t that much of a chore. I just wished that they wouldn’t wriggle so much!

Once I had finished doing a top and tail job on the little darlings I was free to do as I wished. That meant finding out what the others were doing. Things didn’t seem to be going well as I was told by Danni that Claire and Andrea had gone with Auntie Monica on one of those relative visiting expeditions. Evidently their Granny had had one of her funny turns and needed help and support. Granny was, in my opinion as strong as an ox and would outlive the lot of us, but that was just my opinion, Daddy was busy wheeling and dealing and Mummy was up to her neck in flour in the kitchen.

That left Danni and Charlotte–of course they were busy attempting to kill each other in the gym and as I didn’t like the sight of blood, especially my own, I kept well clear.

In the end, I watched some TV. It was one of those unreal reality shows and I was bored after five minutes.

For the next hour or so, I listened to some music on my cool iPhone. Glee had just released the latest songs and some of them weren’t too bad. I was deep into it all and humming tunelessly to myself as I lay on my bed with my eyes closed when I nearly had a heart attack as someone touched my bare shoulder.

‘Daddy, don’t do that!’ I said looking up at my wayward parent.

'Sorry Sue. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

I sat up.

‘Wasup?’

‘I wish you would speak proper English.’

‘Like I always like do, don’ I?’

‘Susan Hurst...’

‘Sorry Daddykins.’ I said, batting my eyelashes at him in an innocent sort of way.

‘Sue...oh never mind. I thought Josie was bad enough...anyway, can we talk?’

‘Course, I mean of course.’

He sat on the bed and he had put on his serious expression.

I quickly scanned my internal database files and did not see any rogue entries, so I think I was not going to be guilty of a misdemeanour but when in doubt, act dumb...so I just looked at him with a blank expression.

‘Mmm, right...oh for God’s sake take that dyspeptic sheep look off of your face; you aren’t in trouble, this time.’

‘This time; when have I ever been in trouble? Mummy says I can be an angel and I did change the nappies today, even though I swear that they had curry for tea and...’

‘Susan.’

‘And I played well today. How many kids of my age scores 2 goals against...’

‘SUSAN!’

I stopped mid stream and looked at Daddy, raising my eyebrows a good inch. Mummy did that and I thought it rather effective.

‘Thank you. Right you need to know what is going on.’

‘About what?’

‘If you button your lip, I will tell you. I have just got off the phone to John Prentiss. He has found out that Alf Battersby’s son, John has agreed to sell the club to Hiram B Atwater for an undisclosed sum and Hiram is, as we speak on a plane coming to, as he has just said to a member of the board, sort the club out and make some much needed changes.

‘How can that happen? Alf has only just died?’

‘John knew the contents of Alf’s will and it appears that Alf has had a heart problem for years and the son was just waiting for him to die. He was the sole beneficiary since Amy died and it appears that his businesses are in dire need of a cash injection. It will take a while for probate and other matters are sorted out, but it appears that Hiram will be the new chairman of the board as soon as permission is given by the FA and he wants to start wielding the axe sooner rather than later. The rest of the board are a bit spineless and have agreed for him to be an ‘advisor’ until the formalities are over. In effect, he is in charge. Rumour has it that Hiram has injected a large amount of capital into John Battersby’s businesses and this oiled the wheels. I am not sure of the legalities of all this, but effectively, Hiram B Atwater is now your boss and he is about half way across the Atlantic.’

‘This can’t be true. How can he get away with this?’

‘Money talks and big money talks big.’

‘What will this mean to the club and me?’

He looked at me sadly.

‘I don’t know honey, but what I do know is that Hiram would be mad to get rid of the best manager in the league and one of the rising stars.’

‘You mean me?’

I noticed that Daddy had a paper in his hands. He handed it to me.

It was a copy of an e-mail sent to a senior director of the club, Mike Newell, it was from Hiram.

I refer to my previous e-mail to you and the rest of the board. I am coming over to Melchester this PM and expect to have a meeting with the board at 8.00am GMT at the club headquarters.

Hiram B Atwater


I looked at Daddy.

‘Does this mean that I could be sold?’

‘Yes honey, it does.’

A day that had started sadly with memories of a great man and then continued with all the highs of a great game, now had ended with the terrible prospect of the club being torn apart with me being right slap bang in the middle.

But I wasn’t a weak kneed little girl who hides behind others. I had gone through too much to let things slip away. I would fight with every means available and I was sure that there were others at the club too who felt the same way. Also and most importantly, you could not discount all the fans that supported us come rain and shine through the lean times and the good ones. They would not let any one man become bigger than the club. If Hiram B Crapshooter thought that he could ride roughshod over the premier club in the league, I genuinely believed that he was in for a big surprise.

To be continued...

Please leave comments and kudo thingies...thanks! ~Sue