Stripping off and jumping in the shower is the only thing on my mind as I go into the dressing room at the training
ground. I think everyone’s gone, but suddenly two figures, silhouetted against the windows, catch my eye. It’s
impossible to distinguish their individual features in the glare, but one has an outline that makes recognition a certainty.
Six feet-two, as skinny as an anorexic whippet, with a mass of frizzy ginger hair and always stands with his chin thrust upwards
and outwards; giving him a surprised expression that makes him look as if his fingers are permanently stuck in an electric
socket. Unmistakable, it’s our team manager Dave Abbott, nicknamed the Bishop - but not to his face.
I don’t recognise the other one, but so what? I badly needed a shower, the sweat from my solo workout’s
clinging to me like a coat of cheap greasy paint, so I'll walk over to my locker and start to strip.
“Who’s that?” the Bishop says, startled.
“It’s me boss - Wrighty.”
“I thought everyone had gone, what are you doing here at this time?”
“Bit of extra training boss. You know, to sharpen up after the knee trouble.”
“Oh er, good lad, keen as ever eh? But don’t over-do it.”
“No boss, I won’t.”
“Just come over here a minute, Wrighty, come and meet errrr Paul.”
As I walk over, the Bishop looks just like kids do when they’re caught doing something they shouldn’t.
When out of the glare, I recognise Chopper - we played Wolves in the cup last year and he’d put two past me - a face
I'd never forget.
Not that tall for a traditional centre forward, only five feet-ten, but judging by the number of goals he puts
away he’s plenty tall enough. But it’s not his height that gives clues to his mind-set, it’s his frame;
big shoulders, with short, well muscled arms and a huge chest. The body language is always clear – “Mess at your
peril.” If I met him in a bar, and didn’t know he was a footballer, I’d swear he was one of the bouncers.
“Harry Wright meet Paul Quinn,” the Bishop says. “Harry’s one of our keepers.”
“Yeah, I know, he’s a keeper,” Chopper shakes my hand with the usual disdain strikers have
for keepers.
“Paul, If you’d just like to wait outside, I need a Quick word with Harry. Only take a second.”
With that, Chopper turns and struts out of the room.
“Harry, don’t say a word about this please,” the Bishop pleads. “There’s er nothing
wrong, but we er still haven’t er quite signed him yet, and you know what the er press are like. I’d appreciate
it if you’d keep this er to yourself for a little longer.”
“No problem, boss, mum’s the word.”
“Good, lad, I knew I could rely on you, maybe a start on Saturday eh?” He swiftly follows Chopper
out of the door, and I grab the quickest shower of my life.
Mum’s the word? No chance! If the lads find out that I know about this without saying a word to ‘em
they’ll send me to Siberia, never mind bloody Coventry.
Tricky Mickey Pearce, club captain, his house is only ten minutes from the training ground; I make it in eight.
“Jesus, what’s the rush,” he says as I screech to a halt on his drive. “Have Barcelona
put in a bid for me?”
“You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen at the training ground?”
“Not Barcelona then? Hmmm, let me see – Ginger Spice, asking for my phone number?”
“Christ, Tricky, I thought you’d packed that game in after your missus caught you with the last one?”
“I have, but I can dream can’t I?”
“PAUL CHOPPER QUINN. Paul Quinn from Wolves, that’s who. The Bishop’s just shown him round
the training centre.”
“Paul bloody Quinn, eh? That’ll please Ferret!”
Ferret’s the incumbent centre forward; only two goals in the last dozen or so games, and under pressure
to perform. He fancies himself as a hard man but, in truth, he’s just a bit of a bully.
“Listen, the Bishop told me to keep quiet, they haven’t done the deal yet.”
“The deals already done, Comic, he just wants to make a big show for the press tomorrow. You get off, and
I’ll ring round. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the lads to keep quiet and look surprised.”
“Cheers, Tricky, I’ll see you tomorrow, but I’ll tell you what! Ferret might get a shock; this
guy looks as if he can handle himself.”
“Could be? I’ve heard he’s a real hard bastard. So, we might just get a laugh out of this tomorrow,
especially if I tell everybody but Ferret. Yep, that’ll be a killer all right. I’ve got some ringing round to
do. Remember, not a word to Ferret, or else!”
For the first time I realise that Tricky’s no fan of Ferret’s, but I’m not too fond of the
arsehole myself, so what the hell?
Shit, I’m the last to arrive, I hope to Christ I’ve not missed it?
No need to worry; Ferret’s in the middle of the dressing room floor, mouthing off, as usual, about how
he’s God’s gift to football and spouting about how many times he’s going to hit the back of the net this
Saturday. All the lads are sitting around with dead pan faces. Two or three are holding their cheeks, struggling to contain
their laughter; if just one lets rip the dam will burst and ruin the whole show.
Christ, a laugh’s building in my stomach, “Morning, need a piss.” Good thinking - back into
the corridor. Bloody hell, the Bishop and his assistant with Chopper and the Club Secretary are heading down it. Quick, back
into the dressing room and stand at the back to watch the floor show.
Here comes the Bishop, looks relieved, as if his fingers are finally out of the socket. Chopper’s behind
him, what a swagger. Why do all bloody Club Secretaries look as if somebody’s just secretly farted under their nose
and they’re doing their best not to let any emotion show?
Ferret, taken by surprise in full bullshit mode, jumps to the side and shouts, “Morning, boss.”
“Good morning, a lovely morning lads, a lovely morning.”
Ferret’s amused at the Bishop’s melodic greeting, but now he’s seen Chopper - from a look of
mirth, to puzzlement and then to shock, as if his fingers have just replaced the Bishop’s in the socket. Although as
thick as silt, he’s twigged on in around five seconds flat that Chopper’s appearance isn’t that good an
omen for his own career at the club.
“A glorious day boys – I want to present our new signing from Wolves – Paul, CHOPPER, Quinn.”
“What the fucks he doing here?” Ferret splutters.
“Sorry, Nicholas! I forgot your memory couldn’t handle anything from too far back. So just for you,
Nicholas, I’ll spell out exactly what the fuck he’s doing here. He’s here to score goals! Remember what
they are, lad? They’re the things that win fucking football matches.”
“Course I know what goals are – er, sorry, boss, sorry – just a bit surprised, that’s
all, no offence.”
“Nice to see you’re back from the land of the brain dead, Nicholas. Right, if there aren’t
any more bloody stupid questions, I’ll leave Paul here for ten minutes so you can all get acquainted, while I go and
check on the press conference. See you soon, Paul.”
“Cheers, boss.” Chopper says as if he’s got much better things to do elsewhere.
Everyone, except Ferret and a couple of his cronies from the reserves, crowd around Chopper. “What’s
he paid for you?” “Has he said if you’re straight in?” “Is Brian West still coaching at Wolves?”
“What time’s the press conference?”
Chopper’s puts up his hands to say hold on when a voice booms out, “He’s never played at this
level, and it’s a piece of piss in the first division. So why’s the Bishop bought a TOSSER?”
The chattering stops - a quick look to see a smug looking Ferret sitting on a bench with a crony on either side.
Then all eyes back to Chopper, “You two remind me of a pair of women’s legs,” he points to Ferret’s
two cronies. “Yep, just like a pair of women’s legs – a twat in the middle.”
It sounds as if the room itself is laughing. Ferret’s face is aflame with rage as well as embarrassment,
“PRICK!”
Chopper’s back at him in a flash, “Without a prick, a twat's just an empty hole – and it’s
prick’s like me that fill twat’s like you in.”
This is fighting talk, “Why Chopper then? That’s a defenders nickname, arsehole – why Chopper
if you’re such a fucking great striker?” and Ferret thinks he can win.
“I’ll show you why!” Chopper lowers his hand and the zip on his fly goes down, letting his
enormous dick burst into view. “This prick’ll finish off a Twat like you - for good.” He then shakes
his huge piece of meat with both hands and runs straight at Ferret, screaming like soldiers do in a bayonet charge.
Ferret throws his boots at the lockers, shouts, “Bollocks to this,” and runs for the door, with Chopper-
bayonet fixed - in hot pursuit all the way out onto the training ground.
Gobsmacked – that can’t be bloody real, can it? Jesus, nobody’s got a knob that big, have they?
Pandemonium - all of us, including Ferret’s cronies, laugh, cheer and chant, “CHOPPER, CHOPPER, CHOPPER,”
as we run outside after them.
The Bishop comes running downstairs to see us chanting, cheering and carrying a beaming Chopper, shoulder high,
around the training pitch, “Nice to see he’s fitting in so quickly.”
I shout back to the biggest cheer of the lot, “Fitting in, boss? He’s the biggest prick that’s
ever been at this club.”
© John Sales 2002.
