Towerin' Thompson: Part I

"Ah want my name printed on the back of my shirt!"

Thompson leaned his slender, tall body into the wind and rain that blew directly into his red, cadaverous face. The hiss and whistle of that wind and rain mingled with the creak of his boots on the sodden grass as he raced for the ball. He hit the ball hard. The connection of his boot to the heavy brown ball sounded like a brick hitting wet cement.

"What guts are you talking about now, boy?" McMaster growled in his thick, taciturn Aberdonian accent. "Names on shirts?" What would be the bloody point in that? Fans who come to the floor week after week will soon know who you are, son. They will learn to recognize you. Especially if you start tossing the ball around the back of the onion bag week after week. Don't worry about that. Names on a shirt! I've never heard anything so stupid! Besides, if they don't sing your praises from the terrace, they can always look up your number in the program to find out who you are. In case they need to refresh their memory. Or if they want to isolate you for a slaggin to be shit!"

McMaster wiped a beaded curtain of rain across his forehead. He formed a neat suture at his hairline, clearly indicating where he started to pull back. He watched as the ball tumbled from the gray sky and bounced off the crossbar with a dull, thumping sound. The white crossbar shook once from the impact, then shivered like a dog shaking rain from its fur. The ball fell into a puddle and remained perfectly still.

"Also, if you don't score goals and keep doing things like you just did now, the fans won't need to know your name. Because you won't be in the starting XI. You'll be dumped faster than hot shit and people on the terraces will be so happy to forget your fucking name. And then are you gonna want "who the hell was he? McMasters waddled up to Thompson and, reaching out with his outstretched arm, happily handcuffed the lanky aspiring centre-forward around the ear.

Art by Charbak Dipta

Damn, McMaster thought, as he tried to calm his erratic breathing, he's a damn big boy. Bloody stuff in the land of the giants! Should be good in the air. A real predator from set pieces. He wouldn't need much jump but his full jump must be phenomenal! The boy must be at least 7 feet tall. OK. Maybe that was an exaggeration. Christ, I'm knackered. Don't think I can hack that lark any longer. Especially not with boys like the Big Man coming up through the ranks They have to put them in grow bags as than toddlers these days! I'm not cut out for this now. I would need a bloody stepladder to mark people like him. Yes, my days are over. It's time for me to hang up the old boots and let the younger ones...