Phony Footballer

William Bryant was looking out of the little training office window across at the terraced houses opposite. There was a woman sitting on what was quite obviously a toilet bowl. There were no curtains or shades to conceal her as she went about her business. Now she wiped herself and got up to re-arrange her undergarments and now she was looking at a mirror and fixing her hair. Should he pop over and inform her of her public display? Maybe she knew. Maybe she was some sort of exhibitionist and craved the attention. Maybe if he went over she’d pull hem inside and shag him. His young mind was fevered with such thoughts so much so that he had mentally cut himself off from the conversation behind him in the training room.

The trainer bloke was also a football coach for one of the lesser civil service teams. The Department of Employment Easy London Eleven or somesuch.

“So William! Eastcraigs Boys Club then a trial at the famous Celtic Boys Club? That’s some level”

He was an East Londoner but he knew his stuff and was clearly more interested in the football side of things than he was in ‘Customer Service: Dealing with Difficult Situations’. All in attendance worked in one London job centre or other so they all had to have some sort of briefing about folk going mental because they’d just had their money cut or had been told to go on some rubbish course or other to learn how to hold a pen and not spit at potential employers at interviews.

“Aye, aye, Eastcraigs, aye. Played up front, the number ten role”

William Bryant didn’t even know where Eastcraigs played. It was one of those prestigious boys football Mecca’s, he knew that.

“Tich Thompson’s hud Eastcraigs scouting him. Gen up!” and everybody gasped as if Tich Thompson had been invited to play the male lead in the new Emmanuel movie.

Why did he come out with these blatant lies? And why did he compound the felony with what he was about to say next.

“So you’ll come and give our wee team a try then William?”

“Aye, o aye. Look forward to it”

He’d never even played for his school team. In fact, when they were picking teams for a kick-a-boot he’d be way down the pecking order.

“O awrite, Bryant”

In football terms, his nickname would be ‘O awrite, Bryant’. A mediocrity who could just about kick a ball in the right direction towards the opposing teams goal and run after it.

The likes of Eastcraigs only catered for talented young boys, proto-Dalglishes and Baxter’s who had an obvious flare for the game. Not big drippy, lanky Willie Bryant who didn’t even have a pair of boots and would fall over them if he did.

This poor trainer guy was all excited now, like he’d found a pearl among the swine. He’d be away home for his tea and boring his wife with news of his lucky find.

He looked back over at the show-toilet to see if there was any more action and wondered why he had to put himself through such idle miseries.