Why I Quit International* Football

This is about Kevin**
Kevin's mum looked like a skinnier Nigella Lawson, or a greedier Diane Keen and cooked us 'Quavers' as a treat. Has that settled in yet? 'Quavers': home made. Kevin and I were in the same class, but his mum was 20 years younger than mine - this makes it totally OK for me to fancy her, aged 11. She was married to a bookish man with a 'tache, who looked like Reggie Perrin's son-in-law. What on earth did she see in him? Nice man, though. So we are in the same class and in the football team too -  equal 11th best footballers at the school.

We had previous. At nursery there was a sandpit; and in that sandpit there was a saw, ee-i ee-i o. Health & Safety was in it's pre-school then too - all we had was a picture of Brian Wilson, with "If you see this man, scream" underneath. A saw. A proper metal one with a wooden handle and some little balsa wood blocks to cut. I hit Kevin on the head with it to see what would happen; then I hit myself on the head to even things up. I can still see the little dents in our heads.......then weeping....then blood. Kevin's mum always raised an eyebrow towards me after that; an untrusting but devilishly attractive eyebrow. Much later we went to Upton Park to see Diddy David Hamilton, John Peel, Roy North [Basil Brush's 'arm'-a-matey] & other celebs play in a charidee match against a West Ham XI. I can still see the magical cinemascope vision of green shiny velvetness under floodlights - as important as the first sight of the sea. The car was stolen and we had to traipse to the tube. The name 'Jinx' soon stuck.

Our school was the biggest in the area; we had the biggest population to choose from, acres of pitch, more footballs, more whitewash, the lot. As a result we bullied all the other schools we played. Our attack and midfield were so big that the opposition were too scared to go in our half - so there was room in defense for a couple of 'stoppers'. Our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dyall drew an imaginary box from the edge of the penalty area to the half-way line. My job as left back was to hoof the ball away if it came into the box - leave the box and the slipper would follow; pass to one of ours enough times and the nod would be given to go up for a corner. One corner. Being left-footed, I would start the game in the No.3 shirt, and Kevin got the No.12 for the second half. Never rivals, never a crossed word.

Cut to the District Cup Final. We got there easily, but knew little of our opponents. In an act of heartless betrayal, our headmaster decided to call in a coach from Dagenham F.C.; then in the 'Berger Isthmian League' [oh, the glamour] and relegate poor Mr. Dyall to magic sponge duties. Mister Big showed us all sorts of systems and strategies on a blackboard and we looked at him like Homer Simpson; wishing he'd just give us a doughnut and some orangeade. He knew 'they' were weak down their right - no pace, lacking that all-important first touch blah blah - and I was to change from Doug Rougvie to Roberto Carlos at the drop of a cap. We were being asked to think out of the imaginary box.

The final was played in a stadium. We had nets for the first time that season, and spent the entire warm-up period smashing balls into them -  while our enemy were probably stretching every sineNO, they were smashing balls into their net too. #Nets. The whistle went, we kicked off and the ball was passed straight to me. Then [and only then] one of my own team was in the imaginary box with me [the cheek!] wanting a pass. Of course!: The Plan. We did a one-two past their right-winger and just carried on running. I lobbed the ball over their right-back and found myself 30-odd yards out with the goalie making a suicidal charge out of his area. Time stood still. I could knock it past him and dribble it into the empty net, or try the lob. I fell over and sprained an ankle. They went up the other end and with no left-back to worry about, went 1:0 up. Kevin came on and kept them out until half-time - but having to play nearly a whole game took it's toll: we lost 6:0. Five goals in the last ten minutes. Kevin's mum blamed me.

I gave up on the footie after that and cricket came along to split us up. Kevin was rubbish at it, so could fill the No.3 shirt with pride and distinction thereafter. He later married a librarian who was older than him by the same margin as his mum was to me. Which proves nothing. I wonder if she can make 'Quavers'.

*The 'International' bit was Mr. Dyall from Sri Lanka - we later played many times against each other on the cricket field - a lovely man.
**Kevin is not his real name. I changed it in case Paul got uppity about me fancying his mum.