Sunday morning, Convent Field. Eight blokes and no ball at our weekly ‘who-turns-up, jumpers-for-goals’ kick-around. What a gut-wrenching disaster. My once-best-friend Matt drives me into town and we run around looking for one. None in Tesco, or Woolworths. Only a deflated punctured one in the market by Waitrose. Inter Sport is shut. Argos is open. Argos sell us a ball. We rush back to the park, waving it in the air. Heroes!
I haven’t seen Matt for three years, since he turned up for my fortieth birthday. He made a day-return trip from Devon for an hour at the party. Typical madman behaviour. I love the guy. He’s in town for his brother’s 40th. Another flying visit. All I’ll see of him is at this game. He’s brought his eleven year old. We get put on opposing teams. Matt’s football style hasn’t changed much since he was eleven. He’s energetic and skilful, but wayward when it comes to shooting. His side is better than mine, though we take the lead. Eventually they equalise, and score another. I get more and more ratty and inept, as defeat looks increasingly inevitable. Matt takes a shot, which crosses the imaginary goal line, but faintly touches the side of the ‘post’ (a rucksack). “3-1!” he shouts. “That wasn’t a goal”, I yell, “it hit the post”.
“It was a goal,” says Joe, one of my team-mates. I’m incensed. Usually we play that if the ball touches the post, even the inside of the post, the goal doesn’t stand. “Why,' I moan, 'are we suddenly changing the house rules?” Afterwards, when Matt has gone, I reflect that a competitive football match, however low key it is, isn’t necessarily the best way to catch up with a once-best friend. Then again, considering the wide gamut of emotions and moods such an experience puts you through, for a retro slice of true friendship, maybe it is. AL