The Striker's Fear of the Open Goal

35 years and we’re still here

Ewan Glumie was born on the 28 February 1976, while Manchester City were playing the League Cup Final at Wembley Stadium. He sometimes told people he was born at approximately one minute past four, at the precise moment of Dennis Tueart’s overhead kick, which had won the cup for City, but in truth, no one was really sure of the exact time. He’d heard different versions and both his mother and father were unreliable witnesses.

His mum had told him he came out of her right at that moment, as if Dennis himself had leapt into the air and bicycle-kicked him out of her womb into the net of life. It was the story he’d grown up with as a child, when he’d first become aware of this thing called birth and asked her about it.

—Oh, she’d said, your birth was very special. You were born at home right here in Manchester and the TV was on for the game because I told them they had to bring the telly upstairs.

She’d kept one eye on the final while she went through her labour with the midwife, and everyone had said it was the excitement at seeing such a spectacular winning goal that had brought on the birth, just a minute into the second half.

It was 1-1, due to a first half opener from young Peter Barnes on the eleventh minute, which had been wiped out by a 35th minute equaliser from Alan Gowling, the Newcastle forward, after half a dozen chances by City that could have seen them easily 6-0 up, and it was looking like they would pay the price for not putting away those precious chances, and as soon as the teams had come out for the second half, City had launched an attack. Willie Donachie, the left back had sprinted unopposed into acres of space down the flank, deep into their half, looked up, and launched a cross-field diagonal to Newcastle’s penalty area. Tommy Booth on the far side had snatched a header that arced the ball back across the goal. It had floated across the area, everyone watching it like a falling grenade as Dennis Tueart, who’d twisted himself round, back to goal because the ball had gone behind his run, had jumped into the air, flailing with his left leg, which was nowhere near the ball — everyone thought he’d missed it — but the flailing left leg had only been leverage to power his right leg as it scissored up and connected perfectly with his right boot and the ball ballooned goalwards, down and to the right, hitting the Wembley turf once and cannoning past the flailing hand of Mike Mahoney, the Newcastle goalkeeper, to ripple the net.

—And that’s the exact moment you were born, she’d said.

But another time, when she was annoyed with him, she’d said he was born when Newcastle scored, because he was bad luck.

Years later, after she’d left them, he’d asked his dad about it, needing clarification, and he’d said no, he was born after the game had finished and he remembered because the telly was downstairs and he was the one watching it, even though he supported neither team, being more aligned to Birmingham City, his home town, but feeling he might be able to contribute to the messy, screaming process going on upstairs if he kept her informed of proceedings by shouting up when anyone scored.

—Tueart just missed a sitter!

—Newcastle just had a chance!

—Corner to City!

—Great save by Corrigan!

All the time wondering if she was even interested, being, as she was, too busy screaming.

—The game was over, he said. I remember watching them doing the lap of honour with the cup, with that big blonde woman with the bell, and your little screams came from upstairs and I turned the TV off and went up to see you.

Ewan had tried to tell himself many times that the exact moment he’d been born had no significance, that it was impossible that a football team that had won nothing since that day, thirty-five years ago, had no direct relationship to his life — that their constant failure was not the cause of everything going wrong for him. Nor the more frightening thought that it was all the other way round and he was the one that had caused City’s bad luck. Because many people over the years, when he’d told them the conflicting stories of his birth, or when they’d realised the significance of his birth date, had laughed and suggested maybe he was the Jonah, the jinx, the bad luck charm. If they were supporters of other teams they’d laughed. City fans had always joked about it but with a strange glare in their eyes — a glare that betrayed their real thoughts: maybe this guy was the jinx. And if City had won nothing since he’d come into the world, it followed that as soon as he left it they would become successful again, like they used to be.

And there was another worry, because City had been taken over by rich Arabs from Abu Dhabi three seasons ago and they’d started investing to build the club up to the level of their rich competitors so they could finally fight on an equal footing and everyone, even their bitterest rivals who’d gloated that they’d never win anything again, knew that it was only a matter of time before the first trophy came, maybe even this season. And this season only had a month to go. And City had somehow scraped their way into their first FA Cup semi-final for thirty years, to be played at Wembley, and the only team standing in their way were bloody United, the rivals who, since that last City trophy in 1976, had gone on to receive their own massive injection of cash and then gone on a twenty-five year orgy of excess, winning every cup in sight, which had made the misery of City winning nothing for 35 years even more pronounced.

So, if City were to beat United in the semi-final and then go to the final and win the cup, maybe Ewan would have to die first. Some time in the next month.

This was totally nonsensical and the kind of logic that would be laughed at by an idiot child. But to any football fan in the world, it was like a pirate being handed a black spot.

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Ewan was worrying about his impending death as he looked at his face in the mirror and wondered if he could get away with not shaving. If he cut his throat open with the razor, would it guarantee City winning the FA Cup? He could never know and he needed to stop thinking about it.

It was eight thirty on a Monday morning and he had flu coming on and faced another inevitably late arrival at an open plan office he attended solely for survival.

He decided to forget the shaving. He couldn’t be bothered. He could hardly be bothered washing sometimes, but then you’d end up having to get right up close to some woman in the office and even the half bottle of perfume she had on her neck couldn’t save you from the smell of your own armpits or your sweaty crotch. So the effort had to be made. He skipped the shave, and showered, resisting the urge to crack one off. There’d be plenty of time for that later at the office. Always slipping off to the toilet and walking out ten minutes later with his knees trembling. Desperate, but he could hardly stop doing it. Couldn’t leave it alone. Epic sadness for a man of thirty-five, who was unattached, in a way, and available. Even reasonably good looking, or at least not hideous, which was all you could hope for. But sad was what it was. Desperation on a grand scale.

He shouldn’t have done it, he shouldn’t have done it. There was a pain in his head and a black flash every so often.

He brushed his teeth, careful not to catch his trouser leg on the bucket he’d mopped the cat piss up with earlier, and then a quick gargle with the whiskey and he was running down the stairs and out into the bright summer’s morning with it still burning in his throat. Nothing like it for warding off the flu demon. A kind of scorched earth policy. Killed all known throat infections dead. An extreme solution to an extreme situation: his vulnerability regarding every whiff of flu doing the rounds.

Of course, exercise was the best remedy. But he never got round to managing ten press ups. The only vigorous exercise he was getting was in the toilets at work, and every time he thought that was going to kill him. Imagine it. A heart attack in the antiseptic gents; found lying there with his purple dick in his hand. Maybe some more conventional exercise would put a stop to all that too.

He felt dazed. A strange feeling this morning. He didn’t know if it was the flu, all the flu remedies he’d pumped into his body, or what he'd done with the door frame.

There it was again. A black flash. He shouldn’t have done it. Maybe he’d caused some damage. It was a stupid thing to do. But it had happened before he knew it. Moira had been off down the stairs, leaving in a huff after a stupid argument, and then he’d done it.

It was supposed to be all over with Moira. They were just living under the same roof now, sharing a flat, with separate bedrooms, trying to be civil friends when all the time there was this irritation with each other. This morning they’d got in each other’s way. She’d baited him.

—I saw Penny last night, she’d said.

Ewan hated Penny anyway so he’d said nothing. Moira was watching him drink his morning coffee, dazed like a bomb survivor. Then she’d hit him with it.

—She said Kosh is back in Birmingham.

She’d had this look on her face. Disgust and triumph. Waiting for his reaction.

—Oh, that’s nice, he’d said. She staying with her brother?

—Yeah. You’ll have to get in touch with her. Have a nice chat.

Ewan had just out stared her. She’d given up, not knowing whether to be angry or amused. He’d followed her onto the landing.

—Have you finished with the bathroom yet?

She was trotting down the stairs.

—All yours. Give my regards when you see her!

And he’d done it a few seconds later. After she’d slammed the door, trying to leave on a note of triumph.

He’d headbutted the door frame.

A sound like a dull punch. His teeth had clicked. A dull nausea that made him think of childhood, though he couldn’t think why. Maybe someone had hit him when he was a kid and it had made just the same sound in his head. It seemed so bizarre now. He had headbutted the door frame! What had possessed him?

He’d let her goad him. Yet again. He’d have to stop rising to her bait. How had she worked out that it was mentioning Kosh that would most get him riled? Kosh: the woman he’d always wanted instead of her.

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The bus stop was just a few minutes’ walk from the flat. He had fifteen minutes to go, which was cutting it very fine indeed. Not that they seemed to care. The temps seemed to get away with murder, and he just went with the tide. If that was the situation it suited him down to the sewers; no questions asked. He didn’t like to say he lived in Birmingham, mainly because it accentuated his utter failure in having never moved back to Manchester, so he always said he lived in Moseley, which was the city’s nearest thing to a bohemian quarter where you could convince yourself things actually happened. They called it the Village, just because it sounded NYC, and Ewan went along with it because he could think of it as an overhang from when it really was a little village, but he’d almost punched someone he once overheard trying to call it MoHo.

The bus ride to work only took fifteen minutes, so he'd only be five minutes late, which was practically early. He used to use this time to read books, but these days he just took out his iPhone and caught up on football talk. He tabbed up the site to check on what his online FLBs (Fellow Light Blues) were talking about. Normally they chatted about anything but football. In fact, football talk was generally frowned upon, or admitted to with some embarrassment. The site prided itself on being a place where people could talk about the trivial things of life such as:

• Songs that sound like footballers names.

• Is it called a barm or a bap?

• Films that sound like footballer’s names.

• How many shits do you do per day on average?

• TV shows that didn’t quite make it.

• Bread products that sound like footballer’s names.

• Who would win in a fight: a shark or a tiger?

• Cars that sound like footballer’s names.

• 80’s match things you don’t see anymore (apologies for football thread).

This morning, though, there was some discussion about the crucial league game taking place tonight. City were off to Liverpool and it was a great chance to banjo them, as they’d done earlier in the season, and cement their place in the top four to secure that vital Champions League spot for next season. Securing Champs League football for next season was absolutely vital for the future of the club because, although the Abu Dhabi owners made Croesus look like a benefit scrounger and they could pump billions into the club with money they’d found down the back of the sofa, the bigwigs at UEFA had become terrified that their carefully constructed entertainment cartel was about to be blown apart and were forcing clubs into ‘financial fair play’. This meant it was fine if you had massive debts and you could meet the monthly interest payments with that Champs League money you got every year, but you couldn’t just invest in your business to build it up to compete on an equal footing with the big clubs who’d had the Champs League money pumped into them for years. That was deemed 'unfair'. But City were tearing the cartel apart and it was a joy to see, especially after having had to watch it feed itself for the last dozen or more years and keep the same four teams in the money and everyone else the poor relations.

Liverpool had been one of the chosen ones but had recently foundered, slipped down the table, appeared to be in crisis, and City were more than likely going to take their place. But they were crawling back to their knees again, before the ten count, and making a bit of a revival, so tonight’s game was no certainty.

Ewan read quickly through all the comments, those who were totally pessimistic about a victory, those who were quietly confident, and those who wanted to know the top five Liverpool players whose names sounded like bread products.

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He walked into the office block with a snort of relief. He’d made it. Only five minutes late. He was always thankful for the corridor of coat hangers that ran down the middle of the otherwise wide open floor. You could get to your desk without having to march down the whole office. He liked to slip into his chair like a ninja, so silent and deadly that people would look up and think he'd been there all morning.

The other temps were