Chapter 23: A proper stadium

The newspaper’s coverage was considerable. Initially, my heart raced as adrenaline was pumped into my bloodstream. I read the headline in the broadsheet and my spirits sunk - “Bisexual sports porn star fired over sexuality.” I was on the front page of the national newspaper; on page eight the story continued with a picture of me.

But the story was complimentary. It detailed my team’s popularity as footballers as much as the sexual forfeits and it highlighted equality issues with my ex-employer in that they discriminated against people of alternative sexuality.

My Twitter feed was dominated by messages of support, interspersed with messages of disgust. Betty repeated her offer of a pornographic collaboration and I began to seriously contemplate the offer.

I also had a job interview to prepare for, and the two gentlemen who interviewed me for a role with their software company were at pains to stress that if they didn’t offer me the position, it was not on the basis of my sexuality. “We are an equal opportunities employer,” he stressed.

“Sure. I didn’t leak my encounters to the press. That was my colleagues aghast at my treatment. I don’t flaunt my ... sexuality.” The elder man’s eyes narrowed; he was uncomfortable with me and I knew I wouldn’t succeed in getting offered employment.

For all the rhetoric, the company clearly weren’t comfortable; either it was the pornographic nature of my extra-curricular activities or my sexuality or both, but it was not because of a lack of skills that saw me rejected. I was well-qualified, if not over-qualified, for the role.

Training was far more competitive that usual, and I was just as combative; a weight had been lifted from my shoulder as the world had discovered the truth, and ferocious tackles were being played by everyone.

The showers were raucous; muscular bodies soaked as mud flowed from tired limbs. We felt ready. We were due a victory against AFC Kerlon and the coach communicated his tactics the following day.

We would play a 4-2-3-1 formation with myself and Ryan as the two holding midfielders. It felt so real. Playing in a proper league stadium – in a major town twenty miles away – in front of thousands of people.

The interest in the game had increased; tickets had sold out within hours of the news article appearing and the league had cheerfully reported that a cut of the sales would be split with each club; Woodford Wanderers stood to make a large five-figure sum from the game and more if we won.

We didn’t need any additional incentive to win; we had that already. The social media accounts of AFC Kerlon’s players was enough; they were acting like they had already won the trophy. I was excited on the morning of the game, nervous when I stepped onto the minibus. I wasn’t the only one.

A camera crew filmed us disembarking and we had a large changing room to ourselves. It was a world away from what we had in our league.

Immaculate, tiled floors; coat hangers and lockers and even a medical bench. It was impressive. ManLube had provided us with brand new kits; shiny and flawless in the harsh light of the clinical changing room, they hung on our pegs. “LOWTON 4.”

I had butterflies.

It was unreal. I tweeted a picture of my spot in the changing room. I didn’t know what else to do.

The next ninety minutes flew past; we trained on the pitch, we got changed, we had our tactical talk about AFC Kerlon and we had a talk from the referee. I felt like a spectator.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Ear-splitting and thunderous, ten thousand fans yelled as two lines of players ran onto the pitch.

I don’t remember the kick off; I can’t remember too much about the first ten minutes. Our coach told us to keep it tight and not concede and we didn’t. Every moment I was thinking about my position or the runs of the opposition. Every moment I was focused, disciplined and attentive.

Suddenly, I knew how the players felt who pulled on the jersey of their national team and played in a World Cup; every second counted: too scared to make a mistake and yet eager to be the magnificent hero.

I can’t deny I dreamt of lifting the trophy. It may have been silly, but at that moment in time it was a massive occasion. I didn’t see the crowd, or concentrate on them, just kept AFC Kerlon’s attacking players at bay with well-timed tackles.

It was 0-0 at half-time; we’d closed them down when they had the ball and Lee had rattled the post with a scorching volley. Woodford Wanderers were dominant.

The second-half started with the same high tempo; it was natural that both teams would tire. Dmitri’s scrambled goal gave us the lead and we celebrated like we had won the World Cup; their curly-haired forward equalised, before an 89^th minute corner was headed into our net by our full-back.

It was heart-breaking.

We poured forward and peppered their goal with shots of our own; Lee’s effort narrowly scraped the post and Dmitri had a volley cleared off the line. Seconds from the final whistle and our goalkeeper launched the ball into the box from a free kick. We all went up for it, and it bobbled free. For a split-second time froze; it was heading for me. I shaped to shoot, glancing up at the goal to see our opponents shaping to block.

One shot, that’s all we had. Five seconds. I was the last chance. I wrapped my leg around it and slashed at the bouncing ball. It bobbled to my left, away from the goal, and everyone, for Ryan to lash the loose ball against the bar and in.

It was an assist.

I’d made a colossal mistake that Ryan had finished on my behalf. My blushes were saved but I never cared that I had fluffed my lines. We’d equalised. We celebrated wildly, running to the corner flag and gesturing to our fans.

Only, the cup final didn’t end in a draw; it couldn’t do as there had to be a winner. The final whistle signified penalties and I was given the unenviable task of taking one.

We stood arms interlocked on the half-way line, watching Dmitri slam the ball into the net. He made it look so effortless. They followed; all eight of the first takers were successful.

And then it was my turn. The lonely walk, the butterflies, the clammy hands and the cool realisation that the world was watching. I puffed out my chest and glared at the goalkeeper. He looked big.

He looked like he could save anything.

My heart pumped as I firmly put the ball on the penalty spot, and took two steps back. The goalkeeper waved his arms about and moved forwards. Two, three steps forward as I started my run up. Towards the ball, towards me.

My shot was pushed onto the bar; I complained, pointing at the goalkeeper three foot from his goal-line, but the referee was unmoved.

How could he not see it?

How could he be so blind to the obvious infringement?

It all rested with our goalkeeper, staring at the taker; he pulled off a spectacular save to deny AFC Kerlon the victory. Only, the referee spotted an infringement; Hugh had strayed from the line. The lanky keeper had moved forwards inches and been spotted.

We yelled towards the referee but he couldn’t hear us, or care. No-one needed to tell me, but it was no doubt my objections that made him look for Hugh’s movements and it was my anger that had started the wheels of the injustice.

Our opponents didn’t make a second mistake; the ball was tucked away in the corner and the arrogant players streamed across the turf towards their fans.

Small margins. Wafer-thin.

We collapsed on the turf. We got medals to signify our runners-up spot but it was something I didn’t want. A reminder of my failure. We saw AFC Kerlon collect the cup and their captain hold it aloft.

The interview with the television personality made it worse; he confirmed what we all knew that the referee had made a mistake, but it made no difference. We were to be AFC Kerlon’s bitches for the rest of the day. Our forfeits expired at midnight and we returned to the changing room to cool down and have the briefest of showers.