Not sure if anyone under the age of about 45 will relate to any of this, but what the hell. So, in keeping with the new Critique prose movement:
The Bolingbroke defender lunged clumsily into the tackle and the teenager's legs were taken away from under him. He was sent tumbling to the ground... and "Ned" blew the whistle.
Penalty.
The 4th-Former picked himself up, looked around and realised, with a sinking heart, that nobody else wanted to take it. They were 2-1 down, with about five minutes to go and if they could draw this game, they would finish third in the annual 3rd/4th Year Inter-House Football Competition...
...which was unprecedented in the young lad's experience. For the previous three years, they'd always finished fifth out of six... but this time, they'd got a few half-decent players and they were beginning to fill out in that sudden post-pubescent way. And they'd knocked over a couple of houses who they'd never beaten before. And now, they were one kick away from finishing third.
He put the ball on the spot. He'd already decided where he was going to put it. He took one pace back and then, after a brief pause, stepped forward.
He hit it really cleanly, low to the Keeper's right, who remained rooted to the spot. The ball shot towards the bottom corner, and rebounded out and away off the base of the post.
He was inconsolable. He's never forgotten that penalty miss.
All throughout his subsequent illustrious playing career with Steyning, Storrington, Rowley, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Santos, Boca Juniors, Estudiantes, Bayern Munich, AC Milan, Lazio, Marseilles, Crystal Palace, (the very pinnacle of his career) and AFC Monkfish, (don't even ask)... and even though he was later to score a hat-trick in England's famous World Cup victory of 1986, when they beat Argentina 5-0 in that unforgettable final... and even though he lifted the European Cup for the fifth time in 1989, wearing the sacred shirt of Selhurst Park, well...
That penalty miss against Bolingbroke in 1971 was the big one...
...and it haunts him to this day.
BBBRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG!!
"Come on Sime, we're gonna be late!" The shout made him jump. He pulled back out of the light. Shit!! He'd almost forgotten!! It was...
"Founders' Day".
........................
They were all really excited.
When they'd first heard the news, they couldn't believe it. No way. It just couldn't be true, could it? But when they all quietly filed into the hall, and looked at the two rows of people already seated on the stage, their mouths all fell open in astonishment.
It was true.
There they were, all dressed in their most glorious finery. The young boy drank in the scene. "Blimey!" he thought to himself. "So it WAS true. WOW!!" He surveyed the front row of seated dignitaries. He had to squint because of the intense light reflections from their enormous amount of jewellery and ritual paraphernalia... but there they were.
There to present the Divinity Prizes, the Archbishop of Canterbury, with, on his left, the Pope. The young boy's gaze wandered astonishedly along the front row. They were all there: Prime Minister Ted Heath, the Shah of Iran, Leonid Brezhnev, King Fahd, Valerie Singleton... and slap-bang in the middle, with the Headmaster on her right hand...
Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second.
But the young boys didn't give two hoots about any of THEM. There was only one person they wanted to see. Could it really be true? Was HE really going to be there? The young boy frantically scanned the assembled throng on the stage, searching... and then he saw him and a look of pure ecstatic awe came over his face. There he was: there to present the Sports Prizes - Edson Arantes do Nascimento, himself...
Pele.
The young boy could hardly contain himself. He hoped and prayed that the sixth-formers wouldn't let off any smoke bombs, thunderflashes, fire alarms, or unfurl any swastika banners at the back of the stage, at least not until AFTER all the prizes had been given out.
There was one prize that the young boy was desperate to win...
...the last one...
...the "special" one...
...and he could hardly wait.
........................
It was nearly the end. There were just five more Prizes to be given out. He heard the words in a daze.
"...and for all-round "Keepy-Uppy" football excellence, the Pele's-not-fit-to-tie-my-shoelaces Award, goes to...
Richard Williams..."
The young boy got up onto the stage, and blushed, as Pele knelt down to kiss his feet.
"...and for the best impersonation of Tom Marshall saying: "WILLLLYOU GET THOSE FOOTBALL BOOTS OUT OF MYEEE GYMMMMMMMMMMMMAH!!". the Mike Yarwood couldn't-do-it-any-better Award goes to...
Richard Williams..."
The young boy looked shyly down, as he received his Honorary Tickling-Stick from Ken Dodd.
"...and for outstanding services to the "Impersonating Alfie Hall" Industry, for the third year running, the Stanley Baxter Lifetime Achievement Bursary goes to...
Richard Williams..."
The applause was deafening, as the young boy graciously accepted his cheque from Benny Hill. The Headmaster continued.
"...for outstanding contribution to the world of life-threatening sabotage, above and beyond the call of duty, by booby-trapping the doors of the Chemistry Lab, and nearly, but unfortunately not quite burning down the entire Science Block...the Guy Fawkes Gold Medal of Honour goes to...
Alan Price..."
A tear welled up in the young boy's eye, as he accepted his gold-plated hand-held rocket launcher from Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez.
The applause died down, and an expectant hush came over the assembled gathering.
This was it.
The big one.
The one that the young boy so desperately wanted to win. He could hardly contain himself, as the Headmaster cleared his throat to speak.
"...and finally... for all-round superb sporting maestroship, academic excellence, virtuoso musicianship, wit, panache, wisdom-beyond-his-years and dedication to the art of the finest, the most honourable, the most arrogant, the most bigheaded bullshitting that the world has ever known...
...for which the Prize this year is a Life Bursary of £2000 per week, a four-storey townhouse in Belgravia...
...and three weeks on a desert island with Miss Greenslade and a bottle of baby oil...
...the Steve Kember Croix de Chevalier goes to..."
"ARE YOU AWAKE, DEAR?"
The old man was jolted out of his memories by a voice. It was the nurse, and she was asking him something.
"ARE YOU AWAKE, DEAR?"
"Oh...wha...wha...what's that you say? Deer? A deer? No no! It was definitely an impala!"
"There's an E-Mail for you , dear... shall I open it for you?"
"Ewe? A ewe? I was only looking after it for a friend, I swear!"
"Oooooooh look, dear, it's from one of your old friends!! Your old school's got a website!! That's nice, isn't it?"
"Tit? Tit? Don't mind if I do!" said the old man, as he sank his gums into her firm plump right breast.
"Oooooh, stop it!" giggled the nurse. "You are awful! Ooooooh look!! It says there's a section for your old "memories" of being at school...that's nice isn't it? You could write some, couldn't you?"
"Oh no, I haven't got the time..." mumbled the old man.
"Ive got to get to Maths..."
And just before the memories faded, just before the old man slipped gently back into senile dotage, he had a final burst of energy, of lucidity... and he sent his thanks out into Infinity.
...and as he wondered where they all were now, what had become of them all, he felt that something, somewhere, acknowledged his thanks.
The dribble started trickling out of his mouth again, urine gently dripping from the bottom of his trouserlegs.
His bag had burst.
His eyes glazed over as the nurse wheeled him back into the Rest Home, holding her nose in disgust.
Had it all really happened? Was it all really real? Or had it all been, when all was said and done...
...just a dream?
........................
