Stanley’s Travels

Sports nut Stanley Hathaway, a London schoolboy, suddenly finds himself in a parallel, slightly off kilter world of 60-years ago. Here, he’s older: and playing for East End United in a Champion’s League game against an Italian team. As half time approached, everything changed. A Campanian halfback was slow to challenge Josh, giving him time to bring the ball under control and get into his stride. Josh was past him in an instant, stumbling as a trailing boot clipped his ankle. The Italian standing at Bobby Brown’s shoulder hesitated, anticipating the ref’s whistle for a foul. Bobby was away from him, into space. Josh played a diagonal ball beyond Bobby and Ray Harmer’s marker left his man to cover the danger. Not quickly enough. The ball was with Bobby, and he played a perfectly weighted ball square across the front of the goal area to Ray. Ray leant left towards the ball, but let it run to his right, then ever so casually stroked it towards the opposite corner of the goal. The keeper was maybe a yard too far forward, he scrambled back, his whole frame stretching and arching as his fingertips sought the ball spinning under the crossbar. The crowd standing behind the goal surged forward as one, a human wave breaking against the wall behind the goal. The goalkeeper’s fingernail touch was enough. The ball was diverted onto the crossbar where it hung for a moment and fell onto the slack roof of the net. It rolled off, and the net took the whole weight of Bobby Brown as he followed the ball into the goal. Bobby untangled himself. First aid men rushed to pick up a photographer behind the goal who, viewfinder to eye, was unable to get out of the way before sixteen stone of ex-steelworker suddenly came into focus. A corner. Ray wandered out to the wing to take it, unperturbed. He’d shown no reaction as his shot was saved, no hands thrown high, no beseeching look to the heavens. He flicked aside his long, straggly hair, pushed a length of errant shirt into his shorts and ambled to the sideline, his face a study in dreamy innocence. Placing the ball the ball by the corner post, the linesman watching officiously to ensure the ball was legally in place, Ray stepped back a few paces, smiling as a steward made room for him, and waited for the ref’s signal. The ref blew his whistle and Ray stepped forward: only to stop, bend and adjust the position of the ball. He stood, satisfied, but didn’t step back. He straightened and in one fluid movement Ray whipped the ball over into the penalty area. It was a move familiar to every one of his teammates, and to every manager and coach in the English First Division. But the Campania defence were slow to react, allowing Bobby Brown to rise high above his marker – and crash a header against the crossbar. The ball ricocheted out into the field of play and an Italian head helped it out of the area to where Luke Gaines lurked. Putting his head down Luke took an almighty swing at the ball. Now it should be said that Luke hadn’t scored in two seasons, for club or country. He rarely ventured upfield for corners, and as the weeks went by his confidence in his ability to get a shot on target lessened with every game. His timing was usually way off, stance ungainly, balance all wrong. The ball flew off his boot, away from the pack of players and towards the corner flag, the crowd already swaying and ducking in anticipation. This was when Stanley lifted his leg into the air and stuck out a left boot. He’d moved out to the edge of the six yard area to lure his marker from the middle and make some space. Seeing the ball come off the crossbar he’d turned to follow its path and was facing Luke as he took his blind swing at the ball, ‘Head all over the place, looking up into the stand somewhere,’ Uncle Sandy might have said. The ball caught Stanley just below the ankle, the force hooking him back into the chest of his marker, and both sprawled to the ground. Changing direction abruptly, the ball arrowed unerringly back towards the goal and down into the angle of the near post and the ground, evading the fullback standing on the goal line, hopelessly unsighted by the players milling in front of him. Stanley’s deflection ended up in the back of the net. Stanley, looking up from the ground, was aware the crowd noise was suddenly muted, before it turned into a reactive, disappointed moan, save for the odd cry of ‘Goal’ or ‘Gowl’ as it sounded when strangled in the throats of those of the East End faithful who’d made the long trip South. The referee stood on tippy toes, pointed with a Gallic flourish to the middle and blew his whistle. Stanley was pulled to his feet and surrounded by a pack of hand shaking, hair tousling, back slapping teammates. The admiring smile on Charlie Fairbank’s face was enough. To him, it wasn’t the opportune, reflex movement Stanley would swear to after the game. To Charlie, ever the naïve optimist, it was a touch of pure, footballing genius.