Training a Champion

Luton were away at Plymouth and Carl’s lift let him down, so instead he took Ryan out into the park for a kickaround. He was so happy, holding on to his dad’s hand, with that simple happiness that shines out of their little faces. The door clapped to and suddenly the noise of the fan in the oven was the loudest thing. I was glad to see them go.

It couldn’t last. The cake was cooling on the side when they came in. Ryan toddled over to his jigsaws and started chewing on an edge-piece. Carl slung his jacket over the banisters and slumped on the sofa with a face like a heavy home defeat.

I knew right away how it was, but no, he had to tell me. ‘Can’t even kick the bleedin’ thing. Can’t hardly hold it, even.’

‘He’s only two, love,’ I said.

‘Sid’s kid’s three and he can take penalties. They do these little give-and-goes round the sand-pit.’

‘It’ll come,’ I said, handing him a Carling.

‘It won’t. You know as well as I do it’s a matter of aptitude.’ And he turned on Sky Sports, using Mr Chucklestonks as a cushion. Ryan watched him.

After a while of Carl watching the telly Ryan got bored, and came to ask for a glass of milk. I gave him a slice of cake with it. The icing wasn’t set yet, and it smeared round his face and made it shine again.

When he had finished I gave him another, and had one myself. We sat at the kitchen table in the quiet, grinning at each other with full gobs. ‘More,’ said Ryan, so I cut him a third slice, as big as the others, and put a glacé cherry on top. I stood at the window smoking a fag while he ate it. If Carl’s going to despise him anyway, I thought, to hell with it, why shouldn’t he be my special little fatty?