Big and Clever by Dan Tunstall Page B

direction, Leroy flies in the other and the ball harmlessly trundles out for a goal kick. When the players have finished picking themselves up and jogged back towards the halfway line, there’s a huge muddy cross left behind in the penalty area. It looks like the site of buried treasure in a kids’ pirate book. X marks the spot. Somewhere behind us a bloke’s voice pipes up.
    â€œSomeone should get out there with a spade,” he says.
    Everyone laughs. Unfortunately that’s just about the entertainment high spot for the next thirty-five minutes. Dave Nicholson’s still having a shocker. As the digital timer on the scoreboard flicks over to 80:00 he launches himself into a flying tackle on the Castleton number 16, misses, and demolishes the advertising hoarding for Silk And Satin Table Dancing Club. It’s his most useful contribution to the afternoon.
    â€œTen minutes to go,” Ryan says. “It’ll start to get interesting soon.”
    I blink, wondering what he means. It looks to me like it’s heading for a 0-0 draw. Both teams have settled for it.
    â€œI don’t mean on the pitch,” Ryan says. It’s as if he’s read my thoughts. “That’s bollocks. I mean here. Look around you.”
    I’ve been too busy watching the match to really take notice of what’s been happening in the stands, but now for the first time it registers. Groups of youngish lads are starting to form, gradually edging towards our side of the terracing, nearer to the away fans. Looking behind me, I spot the DVD boys. They nod at me again, then grin at Ryan. Further up I can see some other lads I recognise from the back of the school bus. Without realising it, we’ve been absorbed into a gang too. All of a sudden there’s excitement in the air. It’s an odd feeling I can’t quite put my finger on. A bit scary. But good.
    I glance across towards the away section and see almost a mirror image of what’s going on in our part of the ground. Gangs forming, advancing towards the fencing. It’s probably nothing sinister. Just part of a ritual that I’m not used to yet. Still, it’s hard not to conjure up the image of soldiers manoeuvring before a battle. But football violence died out years ago, didn’t it?
    I look at Ryan. There’s a sort of half-smile on his lips.
    â€œTold you it would be a better viewpoint from here, didn’t I?” he says.
    Strange things are starting to happen. The match is still going nowhere, but the crowd seems to be getting more and more animated. The chanting is getting louder, building and building as each set of fans taunts the other.
    Shit Ground No Fans from Castleton.
    Your Support Is Fucking Shit from our lot.
    You’ve Never Won Fuck All from Castleton.
    You Dirty Northern Bastards from our lot.
    There’s real vitriol in some of the stuff that’s being bandied about, but we’re right in there, belting out each of the songs like our lives depend on it. Things get cranked up another notch when the Castleton fans start bringing up the history between the two clubs.
    Did You Cry In Ninety-One? they’re goading over and over again.
    At first there’s just booing from our section but then a chant of Wankers , Wankers , Wankers breaks out. It’s not the wittiest response, but it’s having the desired effect, drowning out any sound that’s coming from the Castleton lot.
    By the next time I look at the timer, it’s showing 87:00. The chanting is dying down. Over to the left I notice something going on in the technical area. John Whyman, the Letchford manager, is waving his arms around like a windmill, trying to get a message across, and the fourth official is heading towards the touchline flashing up the numbers 16 and 22 on his digital board. Leroy Lewton is being substituted.
    â€œOh shit,” Ryan says, as Leroy starts trudging off.
    I turn towards him.
    â€œWhat’s