in on things. But pretty soon, I realized 3KM kids and 3GL kids were switching teams at random. Paul White (3GL) banged a long-distance shot at his own goal. Gavin Coley did a spectacular dive, the wrong way. When Ross Wilcox fouled Oswald Wyre (his team) in our penalty area, it was Neal Brose (our team) who took it and scored. Mr McNamara must’ve guessed litres of piss was being taken. Perhaps he didn’t want to turn his first solo lesson into a bollocking parade.
Then the fouling began.
Wayne Nashend and Christopher Twyford pogoed on to each of Carl Norrest’s shoulders. Carl Norrest cried out as he buckled under their weight. ‘Sir!’ Wayne Nashend sprang up first. ‘Norrest took my legs from under me! Red card, sir!’
McNamara looked at trampled, muddy Carl Norrest. ‘Keep it flowing.’
I spent the game near enough to the ball to not get done for malingering, but far enough away to avoid having to touch it. I heard the feet come thudding up but before I’d time to turn, a rugby tackle knocked me flat. My face was smeared into the mud.
‘Eat as much as yer want, Taylor!’ Ross Wilcox, sure enough.
‘Maggots love this stuff!’ Gary Drake, sure enough.
I tried to roll over but they had all their weight on my back.
‘Oy!’ McNamara’s whistle blew. ‘You!’
They got off me. I got to my feet, trembling with victimhood.
Ross Wilcox prodded his heart. ‘Me, sir?’
‘Both of you!’ McNamara pounded up. (Everyone’d abandoned the football to watch this new sport.) ‘What in hell d’you think you’re playing at?’
‘Bit of a late tackle, sir.’ Gary Drake smiled. ‘I admit.’
‘The ball was up the other end!’
‘Honest, sir,’ said Ross Wilcox. ‘I thought he had the ball. Blind as a bat without my glasses.’
(Wilcox doesn’t wear glasses.)
‘So you knocked this boy to the ground with a rugby tackle?’
‘I thought rugby’s what we’re playing, sir.’
(The spectators cackled.)
‘Oh, a comedian, are we?’
‘No, sir! Now I’ve remembered it’s football. But when I made the tackle, I thought it was rugby.’
‘Me too.’ Gary Drake began jogging on the spot like a Sport Billy. ‘Too much competitive spirit, sir. Clean forgot. Sweat equals success.’
‘Right! Run to the bridge, the pair of you, to jog your memories!’
‘He made us do it, sir.’ Ross Wilcox pointed at Darren Croome. ‘If you don’t punish him too you’re letting the ringleader off scot-free.’
Bone-thick Darren Croome gooned back.
‘All three of you!’ Mr McNamara’s inexperience showed itself again. ‘The bridge and back! Go! And who told the rest of you the game’s over? Keep it flowing!’
The bridge’s just a footbridge that connects the far end of the school playing field to a country lane that goes down to Upton upon Severn. ‘Run to the bridge!’ is a standard Mr Carver punishment. There’s a clear view so the teacher can check they’ve run all the way. Mr McNamara got back to refereeing so he didn’t see Gary Drake, Ross Wilcox and Darren Croome run to the bridge, then, instead of running back, disappear over it.
Ace. Skiving off a lesson’s a serious enough offence to be sent to Mr Nixon. If Mr Nixon got involved, they’d forget about me for the day.
Without Gary Drake and Ross Wilcox organizing the sabotage, the football match turned normal. 3GL scored six goals, 3KM four.
Only as we were whacking the mud off our boots by the huts where the sports gear’s kept did Mr McNamara remember the three boys he’d sent to the bridge over forty minutes earlier. ‘Where in blazes did those three clowns get to?’
I kept my mouth shut.
‘Where in blazes did you three clowns get to?’
Wilcox, Drake and Croome’d got back, reeking of fags and Polo mints. They looked at Mr McNamara, then each other, in fake confusion. Gary Drake answered, ‘The bridge, sir. Like you told us.’
‘You were away for three quarters of an hour!’
‘Twenty to get there, sir,’ said Ross Wilcox. ‘Twenty to get back.’
‘Do you boys think I’m a complete idiot?’
‘Of course not, sir!’ Ross Wilcox looked hurt. ‘You’re a PE teacher.’
‘And you went to Loughborough University,’ Gary Drake added. ‘“England’s premier sporting academy bar none”.’
‘You boys have no inkling of the trouble you’re in!’ Anger made Mr McNamara’s eyes brighter and his face darker. ‘You can’t leave school premises without permission just because the fancy takes you!’
‘But, sir,’ Gary Drake said, puzzled. ‘You told us to.’
‘I did no such thing!’
‘You told us run to the bridge and back. So we ran to the bridge over the River Severn. Down in Upton. That’s what