THE WRONG NUMBER

Trent Rovers are what you call semi-professional, playing in the sixth tier of English football, a small covered stand on one side of their small ground, with most of the spectators exposed to the elements. Steve Darke picked up £150 for training two nights and playing on Saturday and usually one week night. Steve had played for Trent Rovers for some fourteen years, and was getting a bit long in the tooth for a number nine.  He could still hit the ball hard, but his lack of pace was legendary, and things were only going to get worse.

This season had seen a bit of upheaval with a local businessman putting a few quid into the club, and bringing in a Welshman, Kenny Evans, as manager.  Evans had led Basingstoke to promotion into the Football League a few years earlier, and even though they’d only survived one season, he was rated highly as a coach. It was clear from the start that Evans (and his sidekick, Mike Jarvis) didn’t fancy Steve as the man to score the goals to propel Rovers up the league.

The one thing that rankled with Steve was that he’d never taken the match ball home in his long career; never scored a hat-trick, although he’d come close on too many occasions to remember. Today, the chance to right that ancient wrong had arrived. Shaun Hartley, the man brought in to lead the line at Steve’s expense, had pulled a hamstring in training so Steve had found himself back in the starting line-up against Valley Park . On seventeen minutes, a rebound off the post had fallen right in his path and left Steve with an open goal; thank you, very much.  On the cusp of half-time, a hopeful corner had contrived to find the net off Steve’s shoulder.  With fifteen minutes to go, the Park goalkeeper had rugby tackled winger Alan Jakes on the edge of the box and after consulting his assistant on that side, the referee had awarded a penalty. 

This penalty was Steve’s – there was no arguing about that.  Steve picked up the ball and placed it on the penalty spot, walked back a few yards and waited for the ref to whistle.  He was definitely going to hit it hard and low to the left (or the right).  What was the delay? Steve looked towards the touchline and saw assistant manager, Jarvis, holding up a card with his number on it, while Evans stood next to him whispering a few motivational words into the sub’s ear. The crowning moment of Steve’s career and that Welsh twat was pulling him off. Steve strode over to the touchline, stripping off his jersey as he went and flinging it to the ground. His blood was visibly bubbling with anger. He glanced at Jarvis and the youngster waiting to take his place. Evans had no chance – Steve hit him hard in the stomach with a left and a right before continuing straight towards the dressing room, knowing his career was finished…but something was troubling him.  He had been aware of a puzzled look on the faces of both Evans and Jarvis, but had put it down to the shirt business. In his mind, he tried to rewind the events of the last two minutes; he kept coming back to the card in the raised arm of Jarvis.  It wasn’t Steve’s number – nine – but eight.

It wasn’t just his legs that were going; it was eyes. He'd thrown away his last chance of glory and disgraced himself over the wrong number.