Roy Peterson grabbed his pint of beer and crossed the busy pub to join his friends. The place was packed. Everyone was here for the same reason he was, to watch the football game on the big screen. He took a swig of lager and sighed. This was the life. There was nothing better than the football. It was everything. They called it the beautiful game and it was just that. He lived for having a few beers and spending time with his friends, the lads. 

‘Here he is!’ one of his friends called as he approached. Roy grinned, alright boys? The beer and the banter flowed. Roy always prided himself on his quick wit. He was the funny one of the group, the comedian, the one who told the jokes. And his jokes were always at someone else’s expense. He was the king of banter, ribbing everyone about the slightest thing. Nobody was safe and nothing was off-limits. When one lad had started piling on the weight, after too many pints of beer and late-night kebabs, Roy had been the first to mock and sneer. Carl had laughed along, but Roy had sensed he’d touched a nerve. Not that Roy was bothered, it was just banter, after all. It was just messing around, and if you couldn’t take a bit of banter, then you didn’t belong in the group. It was banter, and as far as Roy was concerned, real men could take a joke. 

The following week, Carl had declined the offer of another beer, opting for a diet cola instead. Roy had stared at him in surprise. 

‘A diet cola, Carl? Have you heard yourself? What kind of feller drinks a diet flipping cola on a lads’ night out? Have a pint, like a real man, you melt.’ Roy said.

‘I’ve gone on a diet.’ Carl admitted, his cheeks burning red. 

Roy almost choked on his beer.

‘A diet? Carl, mate, real men don’t diet.’

Carl shrugged, and agreed to the pint of beer.

As Roy returned from the bar with a fresh round of drinks his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen. When he saw his wife’s name, Lara, he swore. What did she want now? She knew he was out watching the football. Could the woman not give him a moments’ peace? 

‘Yes?’ He answered.

‘Hiya, love. My mum’s not feeling well, so I’m going round there tonight. I’m bringing Jane too. I just didn’t want you worrying if you got back and we weren’t home.’

‘Okay.’

‘Have a good night, hun. Enjoy the game.’ Lara said.

‘Thanks.’ Roy said and hung up.

There was always something. Was it too much to ask to be left alone to support his beloved Rovers? Lara would be asking him to miss a game next. Carl had missed a home game last year, because his wife had gone into labour. Roy had mocked him for it for weeks after that. When his wife, Lara, had given birth to their daughter, Jane, Roy had been on the way to the Rovers ground to watch the game. When Lara’s sister had called him to say Lara’s waters had boke, and she was taking her to the hospital, Roy had told her to give her his love, and to keep him posted. It turned out to be a glorious afternoon, Rovers beat City 3-1 and Lara gave birth to their daughter. 

One evening, Roy was watching a Premier League football game at home, when Lara joined him on the sofa. She had that look on her face, she wanted something. 

‘Roy, you know Karen is forty in a few weeks?’

‘Who?’

‘Karen, my sister, she’s having a birthday party on Saturday 28th.’

‘I won’t be there.’ Roy said.

‘Rovers are playing, eight o’clock kick-off. I’ll be at the match.’

‘Couldn’t you miss it, just this once? This is important, family stuff.’ Lara said.

‘And this is football.’ 

He stared at her in complete disbelief. She really didn’t get it. He couldn’t just miss a home game. Football was his thing. Important stuff? This was the Rovers, what was more important than that? He couldn’t believe she was actually asking him to miss the game. 

‘Fine,’ said Lara. ‘I’ll go on my own.’

‘You do what you like, love.’ 

Roy’s eyes returned to the match on screen. Lara shook her head, and picked up the paperback book she was halfway through. Roy hollered at the TV set that a player was clearly offside. 

One Sunday afternoon, Lara was reading and Roy was glued to the sports channel. A scream came from the garden, where Jane was playing. Lara tossed her book to the floor and rushed outside.

She returned moments later, with their daughter. The girl looked distraught and in pain, clutching her arm. 

‘She’s fallen off her bike.’ Lara said. ‘She might have broken her arm. We really need to take her to the hospital.’

‘You will have to take her.’ Roy said.

‘What? Why?’ 

‘The match is about to start, Rovers in the semi-final.’

Lara shook her head, snatched up her car keys and helped Jane towards the front door. As she was closing the door, she heard her husband muttering to himself, unbelievable. 

When Lara returned two hours later, with Jane’s arm bandaged up, Roy rushed to meet them in the hallway. 

‘How did you get on?’ He asked.

‘It’s just a bad sprain, nothing broken.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Roy said. ‘And Rovers won 4-0 so they’re through to the final. Isn’t that fantastic?’

‘Yes, Roy, that’s fantastic, just fantastic.’ Lara said, her tone cold and flat.

A few weeks later, one Monday morning, Lara called Roy at work. It was unusual that she called him during the day. If they needed each other at work, they tended to communicate by text. Most afternoons, Roy would text to ask what they were having for tea.

‘Hi, love. You okay?’ Roy asked.

‘It’s my mum. She’s really not well. They’re taking her to hospital. I’m on my way there now.’ Lara said.

‘Hope she’s okay. Give her my love.’

‘I will.’ Lara replied.  

That evening, when Roy came home from work, Lara was at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, an untouched supermarket sandwich on the table in front of her. She looked upset and in shock.

‘How’s thing? Any news on your mum?’ he asked.

‘They are doing all these tests. All they can say for now is that she’s very poorly. They’re not even sure she will pull through.’

The words brought the tears once more. Roy hugged her, telling her everything would be okay. When he came downstairs from getting changed, Lara pointed at the football shirt he was wearing.

‘You aren’t going to the game, are you?’ she asked.

‘I mean, I might as well. There’s nothing I can do for your mother, is there? I’m not a doctor.’

Lara was tempted to say, that he could be here for her, and for her mother, for support, but she said nothing. Nothing, she was reminded yet again, came between her husband and the football. 

‘I have to go.’ Roy said. ‘The lads are expecting me. Give your mum my love.’ 

Lara didn’t respond. Whistling the anthem to his football club, Roy left. 

Lara’s mother was discharged from hospital early the following week. She was diagnosed with something long and unpronounceable and given medication. When Lara got home from settling her mother back home, she looked tired and upset. Roy turned the sound down on the Spanish league football game on television. 

‘Did you get your mum sorted out?’ he asked.

‘Yes, she’s happy now she’s home.’ 

‘That’s good, love. You must feel better now, eh?’

Lara said nothing, giving Roy a look he couldn’t quite read. Finally she spoke.

‘I’m going to bed.’ 

The following evening, Roy went to the pub, he ordered a pint of lager and a double whiskey. He took a large gulp of beer, hoping the alcohol would help with the shock. The match on the pub screens was just getting underway as he found his friends at the usual table. When they saw the expression on his face and the whiskey chaser, they asked him what was wrong. He sipped at the whiskey and explained how Lara had tackled him that morning, saying his obsession with his football club was over-the-top, childish and frankly ridiculous.

‘I told her, I’m not the only one into football. All the lads are Rovers fans.’

His friends were quiet, letting him get it off his chest. 

‘She said nobody is as obsessed as I am about the game. She says that, like it’s a bad thing. I’m Rovers ‘till I die, I take pride in it. Is that so unreasonable?’

‘You do take it a bit far though, Roy.’ Carl said.

‘Come off it, Carl. You need to step up and back the Rovers a bit more. You call yourself a fan?’ Roy scoffed.

‘So what happened then, with Lara?’ Carl asked.

‘She said, if my mother would have died, and Rovers were playing, would I have still gone to the match?’

‘What did you say to that?’ 

‘I just said, her mum pulled through, so it doesn’t matter.’

‘Roy, mate.’ Carl sighed.

‘She kept pushing me, asking me, forcing me. She asked if I’d have missed her mother’s funeral if Rovers were playing.’

‘Tell me you didn’t-’

‘I just said, you get a say when the funeral will be, so we can plan around the game. At that point she burst into tears. I said to her, I feel like you’re making me chose between my football club and you. She screamed at me, well, maybe I am.’

Roy downed his pint, the cold beer feeling good, and carried on.

‘I just said, I’ve loved Rovers since I was a kid. I told her it wasn’t fair for her to ask me to choose her or the Rovers. She stopped crying then, gave me this look, and then she told me, I had made my decision. And then she left.’

Roy looked to the group, for support, for agreement, to tell him he was right, to back him up, to concur with him, that Lara was being unreasonable asking him to decide her or the football. While the others avoided his gaze, Carl shook his head. 

‘It’s football, mate. It’s not real-life. It’s a hobby, an interest. A bit of passion is great, but don’t ever make the mistake of thinking it’s real. Do you really think that lot,’ He pointed to the Rovers team on the screen, coming out onto the pitch. ‘give a damn about you and your life?’  

Roy knocked back the last of his whiskey, and headed for the door. As the match was getting underway, he reached for his mobile phone. He had a call to make.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom