A book by Arun D Ellis
A book by Arun D Ellis
Superstar
He that is of the opinion money will do everything
may well be suspected of doing everything for money.
Benjamin Franklin
He poured a cup of tea and took it with him into his haven; his games room. Upstairs he could hear Fiona and the girls, 3 year old twins, getting ready for their weekly shopping trip. He never went with them, hated the crush, hated shops, besides he had a big game tomorrow and he needed his rest; it was the crunch end of the season and he was carrying a few niggles that worried the Boss.
He grabbed the hand control to his Bang & Olufsen and Strauss' Blue Danube started up. He relaxed into his chair, scanning the walls, the showcased shirts of his favourite players. He stopped when he reached Pete Bowthorpe's shirt, legendary central defender for his beloved Newcastle United. He couldn't help it, every time he saw that shirt it tore at his soul, every time he heard the Geordie fans it tore at his heart, leaving him breathless. He drifted back to the early days when he actually enjoyed the game, when he played for the team he loved.
Sammy and Charlie ran in, screaming, vying to see who could get to him first and give him the biggest hug. Fiona's two dogs followed at their heels, yapping loudly.
"We're off then, Darren," yelled Fiona from the hall.
The dogs flew off towards the sound of her voice, this time the girls were at their heels. "You gonna come and wave us off at least?"
Five minutes later he was back contemplating the shirt, eyes half-closed, hearing the chanting crowds and remembering how it felt as he went to the stands after scoring, re-living the thrill and the love he felt for them and the love they gave him. Feeling the same old pull; always for him it would be the Magpies.
He looked down, one of the dogs was attacking his left ankle, this was the blue bowed one which was meant to be some kind of clue but he never bothered to listen so never knew which was which.
He stood up, shook his leg and flicked it off.
He flopped down into his chair and stared up at the Geordie top.
Tomorrow he was up against his old club, and it was him everyone would expect to score the winning goal. This time it would be crucial to both clubs, United could win the league yet again and Newcastle would be relegated. Simple as. If he scored the winning goal then he would be the one to send his old club down, a pain he knew he couldn't bear. How could he do that when all his life he had supported the Toon, when he had spent his youth in the stands with his dad and his cousins and then his mates, it was unthinkable that he was the one expected to sink the hopes and dreams of the town he loved.
He drifted back to the United v City game of the '73-'74 season when Denis Law thought he'd scored the goal that relegated United. As it happened United were already relegated but that didn't stop it passing into folk law that it was Law's goal that sank United. Was that his destiny? To be the man who destroyed the dreams of every Geordie?
He conjured images of Law trudging from the pitch. 'Thing is it wasn't even as bad for Law 'cause he was a Jock and he only adopted United,' thought Darren, 'this is my club, my home town. Is this where greed and a desire for glory has finally brought me?'
The letterbox clattered and the pink and blue bowed tormentors scurried off, yapping wildly. He rubbed his forehead as their high pitched yelps penetrated deep into his brain. He checked his watch, he was due at the club for physio; the Boss would be there ready to pep him along, big him up and stress the importance of the game. "Bloody Bergson," he moaned, 'it's alright for you, you've pretty much always been United and you'd love to see the Magpies go down. Bastard."
An hour later he was stretched face down on the table whilst Mike, the club physio, rubbed his hamstrings. Mike had tried to start up a conversation but gave up after receiving only grunts in response.
Bergson was in the corridor outside, talking to Terry Finch, one of his assistant trainers. He sounded excited, energised and as they broke off Darren closed his eyes. He hadn't realised just how much he didn't want to see his manager, the man who had tempted him away from St. James' with the prospects of glory, medals and, of course, money.
"Darren," said Bergson, bursting into the room, a big man, with a big head and a florid face and a voice he used like a weapon, "how you feeling? How's he looking for tomorrow, Mike?"
"He's good, Boss," said Mike, crouching down and wringing his hands Uriah Heep fashion; he was fearful of Bergson’s temper.
"How's that leg?" Bergson grabbed the limb in question, the one that had scored a total of 260 goals, 89 of them for United; an incredible 36 this season.
Darren flinched at the contact.
"Listen son, I want you to take it easy today, no training just physio, it's more important to rest than anything else. You get us an early goal tomorrow I'll get you off and shut up shop, no point risking further injury, there's still the final to come and we could end the season with the 'double'."
Darren tried to come up with a suitably positive response, though none was necessary, Bergson had moved on, pushing Mike aside, "Turn over a minute I need to see your face."
Darren rolled over, 'here we go,' he thought, 'the pep talk.'
"Listen, son, this is the very last game of the season, we're in prime position, but Chelsea are only 1 point behind us."
"But we've got better goal difference, Boss," Mike interjected enthusiastically, his head nodding up and down.
"Yeah, yeah," said Bergson, eyeing him coldly, then adding dismissively, "got work to do, Mike?"
"We're gonna win Boss," Mike said, missing the cue in his enthusiasm.
Bergson's look closed the supply of breath to Mike's throat, then thankfully the attention was back on Darren, "If we win...."
"When we win," whispered Mike, superstitiously touching two fingers to his head, his chest then left and right shoulders. He repeated the movement at speed until it became meaningless.
Bergson took a deep calming breath, if Mike wasn't such an accomplished masseuse and so well-loved by the dressing room he'd have him out on his ear faster than.., he dipped his head and rubbed his forehead, "If we win," he said, teeth gritted, "we win the league."
"Yeah!" shouted Mike throwing his fist in the air.
"Mike!" snapped Bergson, "If you don't mind."
"Sorry Boss, just kinda...well you know."
Bergson turned his back on him, focussing the blue eyed laser beam directly into Darren's troubled brown gaze, "Tomorrow's a really big day for this club."
Darren resisted the urge to blink, "Yes Boss."
"We could win the League again, and you know what that means to the club and the fans."
"To the club and the fans," repeated Mike, reverentially.
"And to me personally, Darren?"
"To the Boss," intoned Mike.
"I went out on a limb bringing you to this great club; you know that, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Although he'd heard it all before and it had lost some value in the repetition, it was still an unarguable fact, Bergson had fought a lot of people to get his transfer past the Board.
"They certainly didn't want to pay the salary, you remember that too, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Darren kept his face straight, stopped his lip curling in disgust at his own greed. Money, the root of all evil.
"So now's the time to show I was right and what a great investment it was."
"Right Boss," he managed a nod this time.
"So tomorrow I want you to go out there with only one intention, to make us champions again."
There was a small silence while Bergson held Darren's gaze, even Mike was in awe of the moment.
There was an elephant in the room and they had been circling it but now it was time to shine the light.
"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."
It was out in the open. NEWCASTLE UNITED. In letters as large as life. Darren thought it must be obvious to anyone with eyes that he was dying inside.
"But you can do it, I know you can." Not obvious to Bergson then.
"Yes Boss, don't worry about me, Boss," said Darren, "I'm United through and through." There, he'd said it, United through and through, the Newcastle bit was in his head only; he'd got away with saying it.
"Good lad," said Bergson, "so remember, a win tomorrow and....."
"We will win, Boss," said Mike keenly.
"That's enough, Mike," said Bergson.
"We will win," muttered Mike, crossing himself again.
Bergson dipped his head, then lifted it in a roar, "A WIN TOMORROW," he paused, offering Mike the bait but he wisely held his tongue, "and we win the league. However, if we draw..."
"We won't draw, Boss," said Mike, "Darren's leg will get us the goal we need."
"MIKE!" Bergson calmed himself, "Mike. Could you get me some water, Mike?"
"Sure thing Boss," Mike dashed from the room.
"I've been a player, Darren, so I know where you're at right now. I know that it's not only your old club but the club you've supported since you were a lad."
"Boss." Least said, soonest mended, Darren remembered from somewhere.
"I know that a win for us sees them relegated and, believe me, I never like to see a club go down, especially a great club like Newcastle, but that's the name of the game, right?"
Darren nodded, "Boss," he said, thinking, 'but you hate Keith.'
Bergson replied as if the words had been spoken, "I know Keith Morgan and I have had our differences," a small word to cover a huge depth of loathing, "but you know I think he's a great guy and I admire him as a manager, right?"
"Right, Boss," said Darren, thinking, 'You hate Keith 'cause he found out you shagged his missus and he took your Maureen in exchange.'
"It's just not been their season, right."
"Right Boss," said Darren, desperate to say out loud, 'Yeah but you didn't help, knifing and niggling at him in the papers.'
"And they'll spring back from this."
"Boss." Yeah right.
"Besides which, you're a United player now."
"United through and through!" Darren was having real problems maintaining this. How Bergson couldn't hear the double meaning was beyond him.
"So, tomorrow I want you to go out there with nothing else on your mind but scoring that winning goal and making us champions again. Then we can move onto the cup final and do the 'Double' for the fans, for United, for Manchester United."
"Sure thing, Boss."
"Remember," said Bergson, his eyes turning icy, "all that really counts is us being champions again. Otherwise Chelsea will get it and that would fuck me right off."
"Me too Boss," said Darren. A measure of sincerity entered his voice, he was no fan of the Blues that's for sure.
"Here's your water, Boss," said Mike returning at the run, slopping liquid in his excitement.
"Cheers Mike," said Bergson putting the plastic cup down without taking a sip and nodding for Mike to follow him into the corridor, "Well?"
"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.
"How is he? How's the leg?"
"Oh, it's good, Boss."
"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"
"Sure thing, Boss."
"What about up here?" said Bergson, tapping a finger on his temple.
"I think he'll be alright Boss," said Mike.
"You're sure?" pressed Bergson, "Terry's not so sure." The assistant trainer wasn't Darren's biggest fan so to a certain extent his comments could be taken with a pinch of salt, but Bergson wanted to be sure.
"Who can tell what a guy's really thinking," said Mike, "but he seems ok to me."
Bergson looked through the glass at the top of the door, Darren had rolled onto his stomach and was resting his head on his arms. "Well, if he doesn't look interested we'll whip him off."
A voice from the top of the corridor hailed them, and Pat Seymour, Club Director, bore down, face wreathed in smiles, "We're all but there, man."
"Aye!" replied Bergson, grimly, "Just the one more hurdle."
"Hurdle? Newcastle? They're shite, they've been shite all season." He included Mike in the breadth of his smile, "We'll tear them apart especially with our Darren, he'll bury them and send the bastards back down where they belong. Serve that bastard Keith right for shacking up with your Maureen."
Bergson raised his finger to his mouth and shook his head. Mike pointed at the door of the physio room. Pat pulled a face and wrapping his arm around Bergson's shoulders, dragged him off to talk more of victory and glory.
Darren closed his eyes, 'What am I doing here?'
Hope you have a nice Easter weekend
Cheers
Arun
amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Mayhe...
amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Mayhem-...
Superstar
He that is of the opinion money will do everything
may well be suspected of doing everything for money.
Benjamin Franklin
He poured a cup of tea and took it with him into his haven; his games room. Upstairs he could hear Fiona and the girls, 3 year old twins, getting ready for their weekly shopping trip. He never went with them, hated the crush, hated shops, besides he had a big game tomorrow and he needed his rest; it was the crunch end of the season and he was carrying a few niggles that worried the Boss.
He grabbed the hand control to his Bang & Olufsen and Strauss' Blue Danube started up. He relaxed into his chair, scanning the walls, the showcased shirts of his favourite players. He stopped when he reached Pete Bowthorpe's shirt, legendary central defender for his beloved Newcastle United. He couldn't help it, every time he saw that shirt it tore at his soul, every time he heard the Geordie fans it tore at his heart, leaving him breathless. He drifted back to the early days when he actually enjoyed the game, when he played for the team he loved.
Sammy and Charlie ran in, screaming, vying to see who could get to him first and give him the biggest hug. Fiona's two dogs followed at their heels, yapping loudly.
"We're off then, Darren," yelled Fiona from the hall.
The dogs flew off towards the sound of her voice, this time the girls were at their heels. "You gonna come and wave us off at least?"
Five minutes later he was back contemplating the shirt, eyes half-closed, hearing the chanting crowds and remembering how it felt as he went to the stands after scoring, re-living the thrill and the love he felt for them and the love they gave him. Feeling the same old pull; always for him it would be the Magpies.
He looked down, one of the dogs was attacking his left ankle, this was the blue bowed one which was meant to be some kind of clue but he never bothered to listen so never knew which was which.
He stood up, shook his leg and flicked it off.
He flopped down into his chair and stared up at the Geordie top.
Tomorrow he was up against his old club, and it was him everyone would expect to score the winning goal. This time it would be crucial to both clubs, United could win the league yet again and Newcastle would be relegated. Simple as. If he scored the winning goal then he would be the one to send his old club down, a pain he knew he couldn't bear. How could he do that when all his life he had supported the Toon, when he had spent his youth in the stands with his dad and his cousins and then his mates, it was unthinkable that he was the one expected to sink the hopes and dreams of the town he loved.
He drifted back to the United v City game of the '73-'74 season when Denis Law thought he'd scored the goal that relegated United. As it happened United were already relegated but that didn't stop it passing into folk law that it was Law's goal that sank United. Was that his destiny? To be the man who destroyed the dreams of every Geordie?
He conjured images of Law trudging from the pitch. 'Thing is it wasn't even as bad for Law 'cause he was a Jock and he only adopted United,' thought Darren, 'this is my club, my home town. Is this where greed and a desire for glory has finally brought me?'
The letterbox clattered and the pink and blue bowed tormentors scurried off, yapping wildly. He rubbed his forehead as their high pitched yelps penetrated deep into his brain. He checked his watch, he was due at the club for physio; the Boss would be there ready to pep him along, big him up and stress the importance of the game. "Bloody Bergson," he moaned, 'it's alright for you, you've pretty much always been United and you'd love to see the Magpies go down. Bastard."
An hour later he was stretched face down on the table whilst Mike, the club physio, rubbed his hamstrings. Mike had tried to start up a conversation but gave up after receiving only grunts in response.
Bergson was in the corridor outside, talking to Terry Finch, one of his assistant trainers. He sounded excited, energised and as they broke off Darren closed his eyes. He hadn't realised just how much he didn't want to see his manager, the man who had tempted him away from St. James' with the prospects of glory, medals and, of course, money.
"Darren," said Bergson, bursting into the room, a big man, with a big head and a florid face and a voice he used like a weapon, "how you feeling? How's he looking for tomorrow, Mike?"
"He's good, Boss," said Mike, crouching down and wringing his hands Uriah Heep fashion; he was fearful of Bergson’s temper.
"How's that leg?" Bergson grabbed the limb in question, the one that had scored a total of 260 goals, 89 of them for United; an incredible 36 this season.
Darren flinched at the contact.
"Listen son, I want you to take it easy today, no training just physio, it's more important to rest than anything else. You get us an early goal tomorrow I'll get you off and shut up shop, no point risking further injury, there's still the final to come and we could end the season with the 'double'."
Darren tried to come up with a suitably positive response, though none was necessary, Bergson had moved on, pushing Mike aside, "Turn over a minute I need to see your face."
Darren rolled over, 'here we go,' he thought, 'the pep talk.'
"Listen, son, this is the very last game of the season, we're in prime position, but Chelsea are only 1 point behind us."
"But we've got better goal difference, Boss," Mike interjected enthusiastically, his head nodding up and down.
"Yeah, yeah," said Bergson, eyeing him coldly, then adding dismissively, "got work to do, Mike?"
"We're gonna win Boss," Mike said, missing the cue in his enthusiasm.
Bergson's look closed the supply of breath to Mike's throat, then thankfully the attention was back on Darren, "If we win...."
"When we win," whispered Mike, superstitiously touching two fingers to his head, his chest then left and right shoulders. He repeated the movement at speed until it became meaningless.
Bergson took a deep calming breath, if Mike wasn't such an accomplished masseuse and so well-loved by the dressing room he'd have him out on his ear faster than.., he dipped his head and rubbed his forehead, "If we win," he said, teeth gritted, "we win the league."
"Yeah!" shouted Mike throwing his fist in the air.
"Mike!" snapped Bergson, "If you don't mind."
"Sorry Boss, just kinda...well you know."
Bergson turned his back on him, focussing the blue eyed laser beam directly into Darren's troubled brown gaze, "Tomorrow's a really big day for this club."
Darren resisted the urge to blink, "Yes Boss."
"We could win the League again, and you know what that means to the club and the fans."
"To the club and the fans," repeated Mike, reverentially.
"And to me personally, Darren?"
"To the Boss," intoned Mike.
"I went out on a limb bringing you to this great club; you know that, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Although he'd heard it all before and it had lost some value in the repetition, it was still an unarguable fact, Bergson had fought a lot of people to get his transfer past the Board.
"They certainly didn't want to pay the salary, you remember that too, don't you Darren?"
"Yes Boss." Darren kept his face straight, stopped his lip curling in disgust at his own greed. Money, the root of all evil.
"So now's the time to show I was right and what a great investment it was."
"Right Boss," he managed a nod this time.
"So tomorrow I want you to go out there with only one intention, to make us champions again."
There was a small silence while Bergson held Darren's gaze, even Mike was in awe of the moment.
There was an elephant in the room and they had been circling it but now it was time to shine the light.
"Notwithstanding consequences for Newcastle."
It was out in the open. NEWCASTLE UNITED. In letters as large as life. Darren thought it must be obvious to anyone with eyes that he was dying inside.
"But you can do it, I know you can." Not obvious to Bergson then.
"Yes Boss, don't worry about me, Boss," said Darren, "I'm United through and through." There, he'd said it, United through and through, the Newcastle bit was in his head only; he'd got away with saying it.
"Good lad," said Bergson, "so remember, a win tomorrow and....."
"We will win, Boss," said Mike keenly.
"That's enough, Mike," said Bergson.
"We will win," muttered Mike, crossing himself again.
Bergson dipped his head, then lifted it in a roar, "A WIN TOMORROW," he paused, offering Mike the bait but he wisely held his tongue, "and we win the league. However, if we draw..."
"We won't draw, Boss," said Mike, "Darren's leg will get us the goal we need."
"MIKE!" Bergson calmed himself, "Mike. Could you get me some water, Mike?"
"Sure thing Boss," Mike dashed from the room.
"I've been a player, Darren, so I know where you're at right now. I know that it's not only your old club but the club you've supported since you were a lad."
"Boss." Least said, soonest mended, Darren remembered from somewhere.
"I know that a win for us sees them relegated and, believe me, I never like to see a club go down, especially a great club like Newcastle, but that's the name of the game, right?"
Darren nodded, "Boss," he said, thinking, 'but you hate Keith.'
Bergson replied as if the words had been spoken, "I know Keith Morgan and I have had our differences," a small word to cover a huge depth of loathing, "but you know I think he's a great guy and I admire him as a manager, right?"
"Right, Boss," said Darren, thinking, 'You hate Keith 'cause he found out you shagged his missus and he took your Maureen in exchange.'
"It's just not been their season, right."
"Right Boss," said Darren, desperate to say out loud, 'Yeah but you didn't help, knifing and niggling at him in the papers.'
"And they'll spring back from this."
"Boss." Yeah right.
"Besides which, you're a United player now."
"United through and through!" Darren was having real problems maintaining this. How Bergson couldn't hear the double meaning was beyond him.
"So, tomorrow I want you to go out there with nothing else on your mind but scoring that winning goal and making us champions again. Then we can move onto the cup final and do the 'Double' for the fans, for United, for Manchester United."
"Sure thing, Boss."
"Remember," said Bergson, his eyes turning icy, "all that really counts is us being champions again. Otherwise Chelsea will get it and that would fuck me right off."
"Me too Boss," said Darren. A measure of sincerity entered his voice, he was no fan of the Blues that's for sure.
"Here's your water, Boss," said Mike returning at the run, slopping liquid in his excitement.
"Cheers Mike," said Bergson putting the plastic cup down without taking a sip and nodding for Mike to follow him into the corridor, "Well?"
"Boss?" Mike looked mystified.
"How is he? How's the leg?"
"Oh, it's good, Boss."
"He'll be alright for tomorrow?"
"Sure thing, Boss."
"What about up here?" said Bergson, tapping a finger on his temple.
"I think he'll be alright Boss," said Mike.
"You're sure?" pressed Bergson, "Terry's not so sure." The assistant trainer wasn't Darren's biggest fan so to a certain extent his comments could be taken with a pinch of salt, but Bergson wanted to be sure.
"Who can tell what a guy's really thinking," said Mike, "but he seems ok to me."
Bergson looked through the glass at the top of the door, Darren had rolled onto his stomach and was resting his head on his arms. "Well, if he doesn't look interested we'll whip him off."
A voice from the top of the corridor hailed them, and Pat Seymour, Club Director, bore down, face wreathed in smiles, "We're all but there, man."
"Aye!" replied Bergson, grimly, "Just the one more hurdle."
"Hurdle? Newcastle? They're shite, they've been shite all season." He included Mike in the breadth of his smile, "We'll tear them apart especially with our Darren, he'll bury them and send the bastards back down where they belong. Serve that bastard Keith right for shacking up with your Maureen."
Bergson raised his finger to his mouth and shook his head. Mike pointed at the door of the physio room. Pat pulled a face and wrapping his arm around Bergson's shoulders, dragged him off to talk more of victory and glory.
Darren closed his eyes, 'What am I doing here?'
Hope you have a nice Easter weekend
Cheers
Arun
amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Mayhe...
amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Mayhem-...
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