They Think It’s All Over
When the full-time whistle blew, Pollock lifted his eyes from his phone and looked at the TV. Nil-nil meant only one thing; the game would be decided on penalties.
‘Well, that’s us out of the tournament,’ his father said.
‘No bloody talent in this country, that’s the problem,’ his grandfather added. ‘We rely too much on all the bloody foreign players.’
‘You can’t say that,’ Pollock admonished, a little too sharply. He loved his grandfather immensely, but the old man had never learned that racism was an outdated concept.
‘Less of your cheek, Po,’ Father chided. ‘You know as well as I do, England’s no good at penalties. Might as well call it a day now.’
‘Not like in my day. 1966 – now that was a match.’
Pollock rolled his eyes. Even his father had not been alive when England last won the World Cup.
‘I don’t know how you can hang on to something from so long ago,’ he said. ‘At some point you need to move on.’
While his grandfather’s face darkened with an emotion Pollock did not recognise, his father said, ‘So long ago? Tell me the last time we got a penalty through.’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No, you can’t, can you? Now, shut up and let’s watch.’
Po sullenly turned back to the TV to watch the shootout.
*
When the full-time whistle blew, Allan felt his heart sink.
‘Well, that’s us out of the tournament,’ he said bitterly.
From his slouched position on one of the room’s armchairs, his teenage son whined, ‘You can’t say that.’
Allan loved Po, but the boy had become infuriating of late. Po even refused to look at him, directing his comment elsewhere.
‘Less of your cheek, Po,’ Allan snapped. He immediately felt guilty, knowing he was taking his frustration with the England team out on his son.
‘You know as well as I do,’ Allan added softly, his attempt at peace-making. ‘England’s no good at penalties. Might as well call it a day now.’
‘I don’t know how you can hang on to something from so long ago,’ Po countered. Allan wondered if the boy was deliberately trying to get under his skin. ‘At some point you need to move on.’
If there was one thing a lifelong football fan detested, it was being told by a youngster to forget the past.
‘So long ago?’ he blurted, barely keeping his cool. ‘Tell me the last time we got a penalty through.’ Before Po could mention the record twenty-two penalties scored in the 2018 World Cup, Allan said, ‘No, you can’t, can you? Now, shut up and let’s watch.’
Red-faced, Allan turned back to the TV to watch the shootout.
*
When the full-time whistle blew, Edgar chuckled to himself. He was more a horse racing man, but he liked to keep up with his son’s passion.
‘Well, that’s us out of the tournament,’ Allan sulked.
Edgar saw an opportunity to tease his grandson. ‘No bloody talent in this country,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem. We rely too much on all the bloody foreign players.’
As expected, young Po bit: ‘You can’t say that.’
Edgar beamed with pride. Po was turning into a fine young man, aware of the social injustices in the world. By feigning ignorance, Edgar was keeping his grandson’s mind sharp.
‘Less of your cheek, Po,’ Allan said curtly. ‘You know as well as I do, England’s no good at penalties. Might as well call it a day now.’
His son took the game too seriously, in Edgar’s opinion. Like most England fans, they glorified the golden days of their last World Cup win.
In mocking tones, Edgar repeated the oft-said lament. ‘Not like in my day. 1966 – now that was a match.’
‘I don’t know how you can hang on to something from so long ago,’ Po argued. Something in his tone cut into Edgar. ‘At some point you need to move on.’
Concern clouded Edgar’s face.
Move on.
Did Po really want him to do so? Had he outstayed his welcome? As Allan replied to his son, Edgar decided that it was finally time.
Edgar willed his spirit to dissipate and left his living family to watch the shootout.