Wings of a Sparrow: A comedy about football, fortune and a fanatical fan

Epilogue.

Wings of a Sparrow

Part One

Chapter One

‘Oi! Cooper! You fat twat!’

Rob Cooper stood, ball balanced in his right hand, and ignored the comment shouted at him. He had more important things to focus on.

To his front, at the other end of the stadium and bathed in the lengthening shadows of a May afternoon, lay the massed banks of the Rose End. A sea of yellow shirts and eager faces providing a wall of noise, it forged the perfect background to a late spring Saturday afternoon at United.

To his rear lay the enemy. Rabid, retarded and clothed in blue and white. Rob couldn’t even bear to think their name, let alone speak it. Vermin came close, scum was closer.

‘Cooper! You arsehole!’

Rob smiled to himself as he thought about them. He had followed United all his life and so knew better than most how deep the hatred ran. Forget all that Old Firm and Merseyside bollocks, this particular derby was where real venom could be found.

He glanced over his shoulder. Not enough to see them but enough to let them think he had and a warm glow of contentment welled up in him as the level of vitriol directed at him cranked up yet another notch. Rob loved the fact that his hatred for them was reciprocated, but on this occasion they had extra reason to detest him. This was the final game of the season and they had come into it needing a win to stay up. Instead, thanks to his inspired goalkeeping, they were clinging on for a scoreless draw and the point that would give them a nervous few minutes waiting for news of results elsewhere.

Rob’s eyes were drawn in the direction of the fourth official who had walked out to his position between the two technical areas and was fiddling with his board. And there it was - two minutes. It was do or die, all or nothing.

He dropped the ball to the floor and rolled it forward with his left foot. His natural instinct was to hoof it upfield but instead Rob followed the ball out of his area, tapped it forward again and then broke into a trot.

Within seconds, he was running upfield until the challenges began to come. A drop of the shoulder saw him pass the first with ease, then a pull-back and swerve left the next for dead. And so it continued as he worked his way through the midfield and across the half-way line. Dodging desperate lunges with ease as he headed toward his own personal holy grail. The crescendo of sound was pouring off the Rose End, so loud he could have sworn it was actually slowing the ball down.

And then he was there, on the left hand corner of the opposing penalty box. He stopped dead, counting the seconds down in his head until, with barely ten to go, Rob hooked his right foot under the ball and sent it off on its way.

That’ll do he thought, as it followed a perfect arc toward the top right-hand corner of the goal. That’ll do nicely.

Even as he realised that the ground had fallen silent, the entire crowd holding its collective breath, that silence was punctuated by the sound of the ball hitting the inside of the post. The metallic clang was closely followed by the sizzle of the billowing net and the thump of the opposing keeper hitting the floor, his anguished groan half pain, half recognition that he’d just conceded an injury time goal and doomed his team to relegation. If there had ever been a finer collection of sounds in football, Rob couldn’t imagine what it was.

Then the world exploded.

Rob began running. First toward the madness of The Rose End and then at the last second he wheeled away from them and the grasping hands of his teammates and sprinted back along the touchline. Back to where the scum were now drenched in abject misery. Misery he had not only inflicted but wanted to enhance. The very holiest of football fan grails.

Within seconds, he was standing in front of them giving it as large as he possibly could, arms folded across his chest and his chin jutting out, the very picture of arrogance. Then he started to dance, first like a demon and then moonwalking like Michael Jackson on speed, the hatred and vitriol directed at him providing the perfect soundtrack to his own personal disco.

‘That’s my fucking dance, you arsehole.’

Rob turned to see ex-England striker Peter Crouch standing in front of him, hands on hips and a face like thunder.

‘Crouchy,’ he laughed as he carried on dancing. ‘Someone said you were playing today but I wasn’t sure ’cos I’ve seen fuck all of you.’

‘Stop doing my dance you fat twat,’ said the lanky forward as he pushed Rob menacingly in the chest.

‘But I’m better at it than you,’ said Rob as he continued.

‘Stop doing my fucking dance.’

Before Rob could reply the referee appeared in front of him and after rummaging around in his pocket, pulled out and held up a red card.

‘You… Cooper… off.’

Rob stopped dancing, horrified.

‘Me? What for?’

‘Your dancing, it’s shit. And you stole it from Crouchy. Go on, piss off.’

Rob glanced across at Peter Crouch, who was already doing his infamous robot dance. Almost immediately the referee started to laugh maniacally as he clapped and jigged around to some imaginary music like a deranged clockwork monkey.

Jane Cooper stood in the doorway of her bedroom and sipped quietly on her early morning tea as she stared down at her sleeping husband.

For a second she tried to work out what he might be dreaming about, given that he was so restless, but then she realised that she didn’t really care. Instead, her thoughts returned to the one question which haunted her on a daily basis. For no matter how hard she tried, or indeed how often, she still couldn’t quite understand why or how the young and handsome man who had swept her off her feet 18 years ago had somehow morphed into the bulbous, irritating slob who lay before her.

Inevitably, as it always did at these moments of quiet reflection, her thoughts turned to Brian. Brian Grove. She had loved him more than she had ever loved anyone in her entire life - and for the millionth time she considered how different things would have been had she left Rob and run away with him. He’d begged her to go and she had almost agreed - but in the end, she’d bottled out. Not for Rob’s sake, but for the sake of Charlie. He’d been barely five when she had enjoyed her all-too-brief affair, but she had known all along that if she was going to leave Rob it would have meant leaving her son behind. And although she and Brian had talked and dreamed, Jane had known in her heart that it had never been an option, so instead she had settled for second best; not quite loveless, but certainly devoid of the passion she had experienced with Brian. All these years later even the thought of it gave her goose bumps.

With a shake of her head and a silent curse to whatever God was responsible for her life, she turned and walked silently back down the stairs.

Two hours later, a noise resembling a hippo rolling along a corrugated iron roof shook Jane from her doze and Rob burst through the living room door.

‘It’s half nine. Why the bloody hell didn’t you get me up?’ he wailed. ‘You know the new edition's out today.’

Jane watched as her husband finished wrestling the United shirt over his head and ran out into the hall.

‘Charlie!’ she heard him yell up the stairs. ‘I’m off to the printers and I’ll be back in an hour. Make sure you’re ready or we’ll have to miss the cafe.’

Then, with a slam of the front door, he was gone.

With a sigh, Jane reached for the remote and turned on the TV.

‘Good morning darling,’ she said aloud to herself. ‘You look beautiful today. How did you sleep?’

Oh how she loved Saturdays.

Chapter Two

After Vicarage Lane and his bed, The Red Rose was Rob’s favourite place in the world.

Barely a stone’s throw from the United turnstiles and, at least when the sun was in the right place, genuinely in the shadow of the ground, it was a proper lads’ pub. Or more specifically, it was a shit hole. Not a place any sane man would ever take a woman he actually thought anything about.

For decades, The Rosie, as it was universally known, had been where the home fans drank before making the last-minute dash across to the ground - and if the building could have talked, it would have been able to tell tales of great days, sad days, lock-ins, lock-outs and even the odd riot. Tragically, thanks primarily to fact that no one ever went there except on match days, it was now boarded up. These days it served as nothing more than a desperate reminder of days gone by, to be filed past on the way into the ground or a meeting point. No more, no less.

For the hundredth time that morning, Rob stared across at it. He was so desperate for a pint it hurt, but all he could do was send a silent curse in the direction of Gary, the former landlord. What sort of bloke buys a pub next to a football ground and then sells it during the close season?

He took a drink of lukewarm water from his bottle and returned his attention to the business in hand. Selling copies of Wings of a Sparrow to the United supporters streaming past him in the direction of the ground.

A combination of comment, interviews and politically incorrect humour, it had somehow survived and prospered in the face of the online onslaught which had killed off most of its rivals. It consumed all of his spare time, caused him more stress than he could measure and occasionally cost him money, but it had also given him a much-needed focus.

Rob almost flinched at the memory of Jane’s affair. He had found out by accident, a simple case of two and two making four. But the thing that had shocked him the most was that he hadn’t cared. At all. The love, passion and romance had been sucked out of their marriage long before that and had been replaced by a life of familiarity and co-existence. As a consequence, when he’d realised what was going on he had kept that knowledge to himself. Why rock the boredom boat?

There had been plenty of times when he’d wanted to throw it in her face, if only to strip off the holier-than-thou mask she donned most days, but for reasons he’d never truly been able to fathom Rob had always stopped himself. Maybe it was a fear that she’d up and leave and destroy the status quo. Maybe it was a reluctance to embarrass her. Who knew?

The only thing he was sure of is that if she hadn’t been screwing Brian the paramedic then she’d never have allowed him to take on Wings of a Sparrow - and by the time her lover had seen sense and returned to his own wife, it was too late for her to do anything about it. She’d moaned of course. Moans that were now heavy with bitterness and regret at what might have been, but Rob didn’t care. He had his passion, and it came in the form of an A5-sized magazine. It had given him more than he could have ever imagined.

Not just access to the club he loved and more laughs and mates than he could ever have thought possible, but also his son. It had given Rob his son.

He glanced across and smiled at Charlie, who was busily selling while trying to chat to two giggling teenage girls standing beside him like pre-pubescent groupies.

Charlie was his life, his victory. That’s right, victory. Despite Jane’s best efforts, his son had grown up to be like his dad in so many ways it was scary - and much as Jane loved him, she hated that.

‘Wings of a Sparrow! The fanzine they tried to ban!’

The two of them shouted, cajoled, abused, joked, whatever it took to shift copies. It’s what they did and what Rob in particular was known for and known as; the fanzine bloke in Vicarage Lane. He was a Z-list celebrity football whore and, truth to tell, revelled in the recognition as well as the acknowledgment that he produced something which was tangible and which entertained people. Shallow for sure, but he didn’t care. He loved it. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone else.

‘Wings of a Sparrow! New edition today!

Yet again Rob glanced across at Charlie, now devoid of the groupies who had wandered off in the direction of the newsagent's at the end of the road. He’d often wondered why a 14 year old lad was happy to spend every other Saturday standing outside a football ground selling fanzines with his dad, but his son had never shown any inclination not to help and he’d certainly never complained. Maybe it was because, like Rob, he simply enjoyed it - or maybe it was because he just loved his old man. Rob was just glad he was there. Glad he was involved.

And involved he most certainly was. Charlie had written a number of items for Wings of a Sparrow when Rob had been short of content and they’d been so well received that he’d actually dropped hints of a possible career in sports journalism. Given that he’d also followed in Rob’s footsteps when it came to a lack of skill with a ball, that at least was something to be proud of - and even Jane had acknowledged that there was at least one positive to come out of the obsession, albeit grudgingly.

‘Afternoon Rob.’

The voice snapped Rob out of his daydream and he turned to see two policemen standing in front of him. He smiled and handed each a free copy, which they instantly began to flick through.

‘How’s the filth business going?’ asked Rob as he continued to sell copies to eager customers.

‘Not too bad,’ replied the taller of the two. ‘Same old-’ he paused and looked up from the small magazine with a shake of his head. ‘How the bloody hell do you get away with this?’

‘What?’ asked Rob without breaking away from his selling. ‘Nothing in there that’s not true.’

The policeman returned his gaze to the fanzine. ‘So the average City fan is a Jeremy Kyle reject-’

‘Well known fact.’

‘-who if he hasn't slept with his mother, sister-’

‘It's actually why they support City and not United. Inbreeding impacts on the ability to apply reason,’ said Rob with a smile.

The policeman looked up and stared blankly at Rob as he continued.

‘-or Dog, prefers the company of other small animals.’

‘Your point being?’ said Rob, stone faced.

The second policeman let out an involuntary laugh and held out his copy for his colleague, who also laughed at what he was being shown.

‘Be careful,’ he said, barely able to conceal the mocking tone in his voice. ‘You’ll go too far one day.’

‘Wings of a Sparrow! Get it while you can,’ Rob yelled as the two policemen wandered off. ‘City striker in goat abuse scandal.’

Jane looked up as the door burst open and the two men in her life entered. She didn’t look too pleased, not that either of them noticed.

‘Alright love?’ said Rob with barely a glance at her. ‘Useless twats got dicked 2-0. We'll never get back in the bloody Premiership at this rate.’

He only spoke out of habit, to make conversation. She didn’t care, he knew that. Football was his thing, his and Charlie’s. She wasn’t involved, at all. Never had been.

‘Yes, well while you've been enjoying yourself at football-’

Rob threw her a look. Surely by now his wife should have grasped the simple concept that they didn't enjoy football, no one outside of the top third of the top tier actually did. Like all true lifelong fans, they endured it in the hope that one day one of those all too rare short-lived periods would come along where they were actually allowed to ride the rollercoaster of success.

'-and I was out doing our shopping, someone left a message on the answering machine.’

‘OK,’ replied Rob as he sunk into his armchair. ‘I’ll get it in a mo.’

Jane threw a look of her own at him. One which suggested ‘in a mo’ wasn't an acceptable response. Instead, she walked over to the telephone and pressed the play button.

‘Rob it's Dave. Love the new fanzine. The goat thing is quali-’

‘Hey!’ said Rob as she hit the delete button. ‘That might have been important.’

The glare she threw him suggested that clearly didn’t really matter to her and he listened as the second message began.

‘Mr. Cooper, my name is Lee England and I'm a solicitor from Ellis, Alexander and England. I need to speak to you on a matter of some urgency. Would you be so kind as to call me on 0114 628565.’

If anything, his wife’s look hardened and Rob visibly sank into his chair as she walked over to him and handed him an official -looking letter.

‘This was on the mat as well. It’s from him, that solicitor. So what the bloody hell have you been up to now?’

‘Nothing,’ said Rob in a way which suggested quite the opposite.

She sighed. ‘I bet this is something to do with the bloody magazine.’

‘Fanzine. It's not a magazine, it’s a fa-’

‘I don't give a shit if it's a fanzine, a magazine or the yellow bloody pages,’ she said angrily. ‘That poxy thing has dropped us in more trouble…’

Rob studied the letter in his hand and then tore it open. It was simply a hard copy of the message on the machine.

‘Bollocks,’ he muttered.

Jane looked down at her husband and smiled to herself. He had received plenty of solicitors’ letters over the years demanding apologies or compensation for stuff he’d written in Wings of a Sparrow and had usually either thrown them in the bin or written something even worse in the next issue. But this was different. He obviously had no idea what it was he was supposed to have said or done and as a result, he’d already started to look slightly panicky. Sensing an opportunity to extend her fun for a few hours more, Jane took the letter and pretended to study it.

‘Well it must be serious,’ she said in a voice which sounded almost sincere, ‘otherwise why would they write and telephone?’

Rob snatched the letter back and stared at it, in the hope that it would contain anything that would give him a clue as to why Ellis, Alexander and England were so keen to talk to him. There was nothing.

‘The postmark’s Sheffield, so all I can think of is that it’s something to do with the poxy scum. That’s all I bloody need,’ he said.

‘You never know,’ said Jane, ‘it might be good news.’

Rob turned round in his chair and stared at her in disbelief.

‘Are you mental? When was the last time any bloody solicitor gave us good news? They’re bastards the lot of them. All they do is take, take, take - and then just when you think it’s all over, they screw you for a bit more. They’re nothing more than legalised villains.’

With a smug, satisfied grin, Jane turned away and headed for the kitchen, leaving her husband ranting and raving to himself.

With 36 hours until he could return the call, she was going to have a most enjoyable time.

Chapter Three

The red Fiesta backed out of the short drive and sped away. From the bedroom window, Rob watched it go and breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ he said before sending a silent prayer of gratitude to whichever nursing manager had given his wife an early start.

He had realised long ago that his obsession with United - and everything that went along with it - had been a source of much resentment on her part, and it had certainly worsened since he’d begun taking Charlie to games. Although that had at least neutralised the use of the guilt trip as her weapon of choice - now she only had his apparent selfishness, irresponsibility and immaturity to wrap around her own bitterness.

Not that she had any problem wielding these particular weapons of mass irritation. Oh no. But while he knew full well that the grief she gave him was merely a tactic to try and take the edge off of his enjoyment, he could usually handle it with ease. However, there was something about this business with the solicitor that was making him very nervous and amplifying the irritation she was causing him. So much so in fact, that if she’d said one more word about the legal profession he’d have happily throttled her - a situation not helped by the fact that he’d barely been able to sleep for the past two nights.

Even when he had finally managed to drift into something approaching sleep, he’d had a series of weird dreams, ranging from standing in the dock, with Jeremy Kyle acting as the judge, to being in a boxing ring with his hands tied behind his