Ten Minute Tales : We Are The Champions by Richard Tearle

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WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS

by

Richard Tearle

There is something strange about discovering that your new girlfriend's late father was your old PE teacher at school.

   As I'd left school some five years ago, I hadn't heard that he'd passed away and, to be honest, it had rather dampened the evening a little. I'd liked old Mr Ramsey (nicknamed 'Alf' by us schoolboys) and not just because he'd picked me for the school team. No, it was the fact that he was approachable, and always fair even when having to be harsh. Not that he got much trouble from us; we were healthy sixteen-year-old boys and most of us lived, breathed and dreamt football, so games afternoon once a week was like a half-day off to us. We had the whole afternoon because our school was in Crouch End, North London, and the playing fields were a distance off at Winchmore Hill. The school issued bus tickets to cover the fares to the ground and from there direct to home. Naturally, nearly all of our class (well, those of us who loved their football) were either Tottenham or Arsenal supporters and the rivalry was friendly  but always there. Mr Ramsey was a Manchester United supporter and the irony of his nickname was that the real Alf Ramsey was not only a Spurs player but the then manager of England's World Cup Winning team.

   I escorted Ginny home after our evening in the Red Lion with mutual friends broke up earlier than intended. I wasn't expecting it, but she invited me in; 'You can meet me mum before she goes off to work.'

   'Work?' I asked. At this time?'

   Ginny smiled. 'Mum's a nurse. At the General. Late shift tonight.'

   'Oh. I see'.

  I was introduced to Mrs Ramsey, who was fussing about, getting ready, but she still found time to shake my hand and make me a cup of tea. I said that I was very pleased to meet her and that I was sorry to hear about her husband. 'He was my sports master,' I added. She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

   'Were you one of his Subbuteo Boys?' she asked.

   'I was, yes!' 'Alf' had introduced a Subbuteo Club for after school and most of us were members. We had a league and cup competitions, spread out over the season. Just like the real thing! 'Alf' didn't take part, but would often play 'Exhibition Matches' if there were odd numbers and someone didn't have an opponent. He never lost.

   Ginny's mother left for work, saying 'Nice to meet you,' to me and a semi stern 'Not too late,mind, Ginny'.

   Ginny and I repaired to the living room to finish our tea and share a cigarette.

   'So you were one of Dad's Subbuteo Boys?' There was a hint of a smirk on her face.

   I nodded. I enthused that it was a great time for us where we could forget about the trauma's of school and the worries of homework or exams, but a time when we could let off a little steam. She listened without interrupting, her elbow resting on her knee and her hand cupping her chin.

   'He never lost,' I concluded, shaking my head.

   Ginny was silent, reflective, for a moment, finished off the cigarette and stubbed it out. 'There's a reason for that,' she said quietly.

   'He was bloody good at it,' I laughed.

   But Ginny shook her head. 'Not really.'

   I cocked my head to one side, the question unspoken.

   She seemed to be thinking about something. Stood up, said, 'Come with me.'

   I followed her up the stairs, wondering just for a moment. But no. Ginny pointed to a dangling cord and said, 'Just pull that for me, would you?'

   I did so. A loft ladder descended and she climbed up and scrambled through the now open trap door. She flicked a light switch on so that when I emerged intro the attic neon light illuminated the entire room.

   I gasped. In the centre of the room was a Subbuteo pitch laid out on the table. Not just any old Subbuteo pitch but one that was surrounded by a scale replica building of Old Trafford. Not the new one, but the old one as it was in the 1960s. She reached underneath the table and after a moment I thought to myself, Damn! Even the bloody floodlights work!

   'Fancy a game?' It was more of a dare than an innocent question.

   I shrugged. 'Why not?'

   Ginny turned and opened the top drawer of a chest that leaned against the wall. 'Who do you want to be?'

   'Spurs,' I replied automatically.

   Ginny smiled. 'of course!'

  She handed me a green box: inside an old-style team with the team colours printed on thick cellophane. I placed the tiny figures on the pristine pitch. She had her own team – Manchester United with their red and white colours – and named the figures as she lined them up. 'Gregg, Foulkes, Byrne, Colman Jones. Edwards, Berry, Whelan, Taylor, Viollet, Pegg.'

   I suppressed a smile: her face was a picture of concentration, tiny furrows creased her forehead.

   'Five minutes each way? You can kick off,' Ginny said.

   I was thrashed six-nil.

   'I'm a bit rusty.' Trying hard to cover my embarrassment. Ginny smiled condescendingly. Lined up the players again.

   'You come round here and play United.'

   I did as she said. After the fumbling during the first game, I found my form. Every pass was pin point. Every shot on target. 'Gregg' saved everything. I won five-nil.

   'Best of three?'

   I nodded, feeling a lot more confident. Seven-Nil. Tommy Taylor scored four goals and Duncan Edwards three.

   'Do you understand now?' Ginny asked.

   I shook my head. I didn't.

  'It wasn't Dad that never lost.' She pointed at the red team one by one. 'They never lost.' *

© Richard Tearle

*Manchester United have won more trophies than any other club in English football

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