One Man and a Dog

Sitting there on that cold and slightly damp tiled floor, all I could hear was a dripping shower head. It had gone eerily quiet. The room still smelled of sweat and liniment. It still echoed with excited voices and the tapping of studded boots as the nervous players prepared for battle.

I’d seen it all so many times. From my point of view it’s all legs! Thin legs, fat legs, muscled legs. Long and short legs and everything in between. As they readied themselves.

We were wearing our away kit that day. The opposition wore blue with white socks, like Chelsea, and we wore very similar colours, except our shorts were white. Like Everton. We had to wear yellow today. Our away kit. I didn’t have an away kit so I was the only one still wearing blue. I didn’t mind. I liked the blue kit. I wasn’t keen on looking like a banana with legs or a hot dog with too much mustard. That made me smile when I thought about it.

The shower head dripped in the background annoyingly but I pricked my ears to try to hear what was happening outside. I guessed things must be reaching a climax, but it was hard to tell. I had heard the first sounds of shouting and cheering and clapping after just a few minutes. It was very loud. I guessed the home team had scored. One-nil. Oh well, we’d recovered from worse.

Last November. Saturday the 5th, to be precise. I know it was because I was scared out of my life later that day. Fireworks! I hate them. I tried to cover my ears but it’s impossible. Every bang and every whoosh is greeted with shouts of joy but I just want to die.

But that was later. I guess everyone had been getting ready though, because no one turned up for the match. It was cold and there was a horizontal wind slicing across the field right into my face. I was there though, supporting them.

One-nil down. Two-nil down. Half time.

Team chat. I wasn’t able to hear everything because I had been tied to the corner flag to keep me under control. I find this so embarrassing. I’m twelve, for goodness’ sake. I’ve seen it all. In all weathers. My days of being out of control are long gone. Apparently, a young pup once had a poo right on the penalty spot. I admired the accuracy but no one else was amused. After that, none of us were allowed on the pitch again. So, when Mate went over to listen to the team talk, I was left tied to the corner flagpole. Even at twelve I could have easily broken free, but I didn’t want to upset Mate. I knew my place. And I was grateful that he always brought me down here to watch the girls, even though his ‘girl’ had stopped playing a while ago.

That had been a strange time. On a match day I could feel the excitement building. Breakfast was rushed. I got a few bits of abandoned toast and then we all bundled out of the door and headed to the car. Mate was shouting and cheering, and Little Mate was already in her gear and was laughing. I liked her laugh. I jumped up and down and ran around her stockinged legs (white on that day) and we moved like an eight-legged amorphous mass to the car. Then the doors clunked shut and we headed to the match. It was pouring with rain. The windscreen wipers mesmerised me and I had to jump into the front to get a closer look. There was shouting and shoving, and I was banished to the back seat. I didn’t care. I liked it. I could see Mate and Little Mate talking to each other and sounding so happy. I really liked it when they were happy.

Then one day we were doing exactly the same thing, heading out at exactly the same time, and I was banished to the back seat (as usual), and when I looked up, Mate was not laughing. Little Mate was not there, and it was terribly quiet. Silent and sad. Except, after a few miles, a new sound. A gentle cough. No, not a cough — a sob. Like a sad, gentle dripping tap. Mate forgot about me when he did that. And he did it a lot. I missed Little Mate too, but I always believed she’d come back. No one ever told me whether she would or not.

Half time was finished. The talk was over and Mate marched over to rescue me from the pole. I did a little leap of affection, but he seemed more concerned about the game and ignored me. I understood that. When we’d arrived, everyone was saying, How you doing, Mate? and rubbing my head and looking at him with concern. I can see these things. I’ve watched so many faces over the years. Mostly they are all looking at each other, but occasionally they will grab my head and look directly at me — and that’s when I see the honest version. Just for a second. It’s like they think I don’t understand. Or maybe they think it’s just between me and them for that moment.

Well, they are right. It is. I keep their feelings in my heart and never share. It’s quite a burden, actually.

Two-nil down and out they come from the huddle. The wind had abated to some degree, but the ground was still wet and slippery. No one seemed to mind. Our goalkeeper (number 1 I call her. She wore the same green top as Little Mate but it wasn’t Little Mate) seemed to embrace the conditions, sliding in at the attackers’ feet and grabbing the ball. She was more mud than human by then. She was clearly making up for the first half. It hadn’t been her best. She was nervous. She had replaced Little Mate which was not easy.

Then suddenly my head was nearly torn from my neck as Mate jumped up and down. We had scored. I looked up at him and he was laughing. I had not seen that for a while. I didn’t mind being strangled. It was worth it to see that. And I was nearly strangled twice more. The novelty was beginning to wear off though.

Two-three up. We were in the next round.

And in the next round, me and Mate were the only ones standing in the snow at the edge of the pitch, watching the bizarre spectacle unfold. They had scraped most of the snow from the grass to let twenty-two mad kids kick a ball around. Mate had helped. The visitors were wearing an all-white kit like Leeds United. It was as if they had come in camouflage to hide in the snow. Only pink and cold legs showed up against the all-white background. It didn’t work. There was more slipping and sliding than running, but in the end we emerged victorious.

Five-nil. Next round.

A cold spring day. I was wearing my blue coat. I needed it. The girls were wearing tights and gloves and their teeth were clenched against the freezing weather. There was just me and Mate. And I was bloody freezing too. Not sure about Mate. He was very quiet nowadays.

Two-one. To us! Semi-final.

I have nothing to report. Mate forgot to take me. Something to do with pub or beer or other people called mate. I was confused. The decision was made at a very high volume. It hurt my ears, and in the end I was left in the house. I got my front paws on the windowsill and watched him leave. Just two legs now.

And here we are today. I am still wearing the blue kit. I suppose I am kind of a mascot now. I had always thought of myself as more than that, really. I’m a true supporter. I am at every game (except one) and I never waver in my support for the Blues. Those wonderful girls turn out every week to do battle with other teams and often have no more than me and Mate to support them. But cheer them on we do.

I think they must have forgotten me today. It is easily done. I am very quiet and feeling rather old nowadays. It’s been a long season. But I listened to the sounds from the changing room.

A muted cheer. Two-one. Must be. Another muted cheer. Two-all. I think.

And then a loud cheer from a few supporters and an audible silence from the rest. Three-two. To us! Was I right? Had we won?

And then the changing room door burst open and they all came charging in. Shouting and cheering, cup and medals and grins and excitement as they bundled into the previously quiet, dripping space I had been in for two hours. And as the throng of people gathered around me, legs of all sorts everywhere, number 1 bent down and looked at me and her face said:

“We miss them too, old boy.”