EXTRA TIME

(A GOALKEEPER'S TALE)

by

Ryan Lee

For one awful, hopeful moment as he tucked the brown paper bag into his jacket pocket, Ben Miller wondered if the men following him were from the newspapers. The headline flashed brightly in his mind - VETERAN KEEPER IN BOOZE SHAME - but then it occurred to him that the sort of pressmen who would be interested in him these days drove old Cortinas held together with football stickers. Unfortunately the only man he knew who owned a vintage Bentley was Frankie Goodwin.

The car cruised up to the shop doorway and stopped. Ben felt his gut tighten. He looked up and down the street but saw little animation other than the drizzle falling past a guttering street lamp He didn't want it to end this way, face down in a puddle in some inglorious windswept northern town with a bottle of cheap whiskey smashed inside his jacket.

The rear door of the Bentley opened and the Removal Man got out. He buttoned his overcoat and straightened his tie before beckoning to Ben with a boney finger. Ben went meekly, knowing there was little else he could do.

"Have you got it?" the Removal Man asked

"I need a bit more time," Ben pleaded. He tried to prevent his eyes from fixing on the ugly scar that zig-zagged down the Removal Man's left cheek but as ever he was perversely drawn to it."My youngest needed a new school uniform." Ben felt his heart beating against the bottle. It made a dull flat chant: drink-me drink-me drink-me."It set me back over a hundred quid, what with the shoes and gym pumps."

"Kids are fascinating," the Removal Man said."I could talk about them for seconds." He glared down at Ben - not many men could do that. Ben Miller, formerly with Spurs, Brentford and for the last twelve seasons (five of them as Player of the Year) the pillar of defence for Northern League Ritchmire Town, stood six feet three inches in his socks. The Removal Man was a good six inches taller."Thing is, Ben, I'm not to listen to any excuses." He put his hands together and cracked his knuckles. It made a sound like a bag of peanuts being crushed by a heavy foot."Maybe you should talk to Mr Goodwin."

Ben swallowed. His throat felt as narrow as a hypodermic needle and about as lubricated as a brick chimney."Can't I have just a few more days? Give me a week, eh? Just until the cup final."

The Removal Man laughed dryly."What sort of bonus are they paying to the winners of the FA Trophy these days? More then six grand, Ben? Because that's how much you owe."

"Oh shit," Ben moaned, and reached into his coat for the bottle.

"Save it," the Removal Man said."You'll need a good long drink when you hear what Frankie has planned for you."

**

It isn't the loan that cripples but the interest. In Ben's case the six grand had come about as the result of a gambling debt, a ridiculously small gambling debt in comparison. During the split with Angie, when his loneliness and the misery of an ailing career had settled on his shoulders like a pair of hulking vultures, he had taken solace in two things, drinking and betting. The booze was easy to handle at first. He laughed at any notion that he might one day be splashing the stuff on his cornflakes. The trouble was he was laughing to an empty room and frequently into a full glass. Before long he was driving all the way to Osbourne and even York so that he didn't become a familiar face in any one off licence, stockpiling the stuff because the thought of waking up in the morning without a drink handy was just too horrible to contemplate.

The betting problem crept up on him in a similar fashion. Ben had always enjoyed a flutter, a few quid on an each way bet and who cares if the nag comes in last? At first he would only spend what he had taken into the shop, usually just a fiver or perhaps ten if he was feeling particularly low. It helped to cheer him up, to take his mind off his loneliness and the pressures of the game. If he ended up a loser, which was more often than not, he could walk away knowing that he had only spent as much as most people spend on an Indian takeaway. The big problem came when he opened an account at a betting shop which was under the protection of Frankie Goodwin.

Events just gathered him in their tumble. Angie moved to Watford to be near her mother, which meant a long and expensive train journey every time he wanted to see the kids (the Fiat had gone with Angie and he could no longer afford the tax and insurance on his ageing Escort), necessary ground improvements at Cromwell Road were subsudised by a cut in players' match fees, and to cap it all the owner of the sports shop decided that opening on Sundays was no longer economically viable, which meant that Ben couldn’t make up the wages he lost by playing on Saturday afternoons.

When he tried to place a bet one day he was told by the manager of the betting shop that his account had been frozen. He owed just over seven hundred pounds, and there was a man in the back room waiting to collect it.

Not the Removal Man, not on this occasion.The man in the back room turned out to be quite a decent fellow by the name of Charlie Royal, an auditor of some kind, Ben had figured. Charlie gave a sympathetic ear to Ben's problems and then explained things the way they stood. If he took out a private loan to settle the betting shop account he could repay it in small weekly instalments, and what's more he could continue betting at the shop with a clean slate.

Meanwhile the team was riding high at the top of the league table. Ironically this was largely thanks to Ben, because despite putting away a bottle of whiskey a day he was playing some of the best football of his career.The team was going through a transitional period where most of the older players were being phased out in favour of the youth team hot-shots. Ben wasn't included in the list of old timers being put out to pasture. It was unthinkable. Ben Miller used to play for Spurs, for crying out loud. Ritchmire Town had only three ex-pros on the books and the other two had never made it higher than the second division. His experience was invaluable, and the inspiration he gave to the younger team members was the crucial factor in the Sherbets' current cup campaign. Next Saturday afternoon he would lead his side onto the hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium to face Gateshead in the FA Trophy final.Win, loose or draw, Ben Miller was the pride of Ritchmire, a local hero. His failed marriage, his addiction to alcohol, and the fact that he was into a gangster for the outrageously inflated sum of six thousand pounds meant nothing to the fans or the players who so idolised him - primarily because they didn't know.

If he could only buy some time he might be able to sort this mess out. Maybe after the cup final, with any luck, one of the national newspapers might be interested in his life story:MY LIFE IN FOOTBALL, BY BEN MILLER.

Well,I played sixty one league games for Spurs until I broke my leg, moved to Brentford for a spell and then got a job in a sports shop, where I have remained ever since.

How much was that worth? Not quite six grand in any case.

**

"Jack Daniels or Glenfinch?"

Ben was sitting in an armchair gazing at Frankie Goodwin's broad back. He felt like a child at a vicar's tea party, one slip of etiquette away from eternal damnation.

"I don't mind," he said."Anything.Jack Daniels is fine."

Frankie poured a large measure and brought it over.There was just the two of them in the room.The Removal Man and a couple of other heavies were in the kitchen. Frankie had told them to go powder their bollocks, which had made everyone laugh except for Ben. It had sounded too much like sinister code.

"The team's doing well in the league," Frankie said as he handed Ben the glass."When's old Blakie going to give Tony Squires a run out?"

Ben hesitated before reaching for the glass. He was sharp to the fact that Frankie was only lulling him into a false sense of security before springing some nasty surprise on him. He took a long sip; the liquid went straight to the spot but barely satisfied the craving."Wednesday, I think.If he shapes up well he'll make the Wembley squad."

"Ah, Wembley," Frankie crooned."Do you know something, Ben - I've followed the Sherbets all my life, but to the outside world Ritchmire doesn't even have its own team anymore. Once they'd dropped out of the league that was it. Gone. Up in smoke." Frankie went to his own chair and sat down, a grizzly bear in a suit."But not for us,eh? The folk round here have stayed loyal, even the kids who get spoonfed Manchester United at every turn wear the blue and white humbug just as proudly as old timers like myself. That's pride that is, civic pride." Frankie tapped his chest vehemently. Ben was trying to picture him in a Ritchmire Town shirt but couldn't quite see it."Now the glory days are back again.Wembley here we come, eh Ben? Drink up, plenty more where that came from."

Ben smiled weakly and drank his scotch.

"The local bookies are giving odds of three-to-one against a Gateshead victory," Frankie noted off-handedly."Nobody takes it up of course, because the Sherbet's have got it in the bag. Right, Ben?"

Ben nodded cautiously and licked his lips. Frankie laughed at the hungry look in his eyes and waved a hand at the bar. Shamelessly Ben went over and filled his glass from the Jack Daniels bottle.

"All the old ladies are having a flutter," Frankie continued,"dipping into the teapot to put a few bob on the Town. Makes for some interesting speculation, don't you think so, Ben?"

Ben gulped down half a glass of whiskey and quickly topped it up again.The Removal Man had been right - he needed a good long drink before he heard the rest of this.

"I mean, suppose the Sherbets lost? Someone would make a killing wouldn't they, Ben?"

Ben turned around.Frankie was watching him with those hard, unfriendly eyes of his.

"Yes indeed," Frankie said to himself."A real killing."

**

The morning, wet, cold and bright, brought a moment of hope, an island of sanity in an ocean of madness and chaos. Ben had dreamt the whole thing - not just the deal with Frankie Goodwin but every downbeat second of the last fifteen years. He was still at Spurs, the injury never happened, Brentford was just a nightmare, and where the hell was Ritchmire anyway?

He was waking. Cold sunlight drenched the bed. Ben opened his eyes and groaned.He tried to sit up and groaned louder still.On the bedside cabinet was the bottle of Bells whiskey he had bought at the off licence in Osbourne before Frankie's men had picked him up. There wasn't much left, just enough to splash on his cornflakes.

Twenty minutes later he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans.He looked longingly at the bottle but decided he could wait. Must wait. He had to straighten himself out.

The kitchen cupboards were virtually empty and the fridge had become a repository for nothing but Special Brew. Ben emptied all the change from the loose-change dish and counted it,sighing with misery and humiliation.There was less than two pounds, all he had until Wednesday. He dropped the change into his pocket and slipped on his shoes.

The cottage on West Gelder High Street was rented. He got a special deal on the rent because the owner was Jim of Jim's Carpets fame, the club's main sponsor. The shops were directly opposite. Ben noticed Mike Bronson, the parish constable, talking with Lamb Henderson outside the newsagents and thought about going back inside. Mike would want to pass the time of day and Ben wasn't sure he was up to it.

"Ben!" Mike called, raising his hand."Come and settle an argument will you!"

Ben cringed and crossed the road. Mike was lolling against the shop window with his fingers hooked in his belt, the sole of one boot flat against the glass. Ben had seen him cuff kids for much the same thing, probably illegal but no one round here was likely to report him for it. He was wearing that handsome, lazy smile of his and, as usual,looked more like a bored security guard than one of Her Majesty's constables.

"Tell this old git what the highest attendance ever recorded at Cromwell Road was," Mike said.

Ben tried to look interested."For a league match?"

"Ah!" Lamb said archly, jabbing his finger at Mike."Now I never said anything about football did I? All I said was that the Cromwell once held over forty thousand."

Mike's face withered."He's talking about that American evangelist who preached there that time." He glanced disparagingly at the old man."Three quarters of those people were standing on the pitch."

"So?"

"So I was talking about the terraces. The record attendance is seventeen thousand, for the cup game against Leeds when the Sherbets were in the old Division Three North."

"Knickers," Lamb scoffed."Twenty five thousand saw the friendly against Osbourne in 'thirty two. I know-"

"He was that soldier," Mike finished,winking at Ben."You alright,Ben?"

Ben smiled feebly."Bit under the weather."

"Right," Mike said."Celebration was it?"

"Celebration?"

"You look like a bad photo of yourself, all red eyes and shadow."

"Yeah, someone's birthday," Ben lied."Getting too old for it these days."

"Better rest up then," Mike said."Can't let us down on Saturday, Ben...whole district's counting on you."

Ben bought milk and a jar of coffee,which wasn't much of a breakfast but it was more than he had been used to these past few months.When he came out of the shop Mike and Lamb were arguing about boxing. Ben ducked out of their way and went back home. In the kitchen he made instant coffee and watched with horror and fascination at how badly his hand shook whenever he tried to lift the cup.

He couldn't face the training session, couldn't face all those eager, hopeful young faces knowing that come Saturday he would destroy their dreams. He wondered how he could live with himself after selling them out.

Ritchmire Coach Dougie Blake was distraught to learn that Ben had a flu coming on. He advised Ben to wrap up and sweat it out. Just to be on the safe side he would call in the afternoon to see how he was. Ben said there was really no need but the coach was firm. At two o'clock there was a rap on the door. Feeling ridiculous, Ben splashed water on his face and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before answering. Now that he was here Dougie didn't really know what to do. He was obviously fretting, Ben saw, and the guilt and shame he felt gave authenticity to his claims of a high temperature.

"Stick some of this in your tea," Dougie advised in his gruff Scots accent. He handed Ben a carrier bag, put his empty hands behind his back and shuffled uncomfortably. He was waiting for a sign, a ray hope.

"I'll be back for Wednesday," Ben said, and Dougie's face lit up with child-like happiness. When the coach had gone Ben opened the bag. In it was a bottle of Brandy.

**

Cup fever had gripped the town. Blue and white triangular flags were everywhere. Flags fluttered on lamp posts, stickers circulated the town on car windscreens, strings of decorative emblems spanned the pedestrian walkways in the shopping precinct, and above the town hall door was a blue and white humbug banner with the legend GO SHERBETS GO! printed across it. All the newspaper stands were selling the Wembley Souvenir Special featuring Ben Miller's dramatic last minute penalty save against Altringham in the semi-final on the front cover. A local brewery had produced a one-off blue ale with a creamy white head and beer mats wishing the Sherbets all the best for Wembley.

The town was under a bubble, a dreamy biosphere with an intoxicating atmosphere of pride and optimism. Ben ached to drink it in, to share with them the belief that, for a short but wonderful moment, a world of endless possibilities existed for them.

Instead he felt the traitor he was. On Saturday he was going to throw the game and burst their bubble. The worst of it all was knowing that they would forgive him. Never mind, Ben, we'll be back next year. He would still be a hero, carried on their shoulders when they should be scraping him off their shoes. And if they ever found out...Ah, the agony was just too much to imagine. All week long they came into the shop just to ask for his autograph, to pat him on the back and wish him luck, kids and fathers and grandfathers, pregnant women and old dears in blue and white bobble hats.

Those same faces would haunt his dreams forever. One thing he knew for certain was that the cup final would be his last game. He could never play football again, whether the truth came out or not. His heart just wasn't in it.

**

There was a terrific crowd for Wednesday's game; two and a half thousand saw the Sherbets beat Barrow three-nil to increase their lead at the top of the league. Tony Squires came on for the last twenty minutes and scored two late goals, dazzling the Barrow defence and setting the crowd singing We're the famous Ritchmire Town and we're going to Wem-ber-lee.

Ben packed his gear away and left while the rest of the lads were still singing in the showers. He walked home along the Old Ritchmire Road, sober and shaky, a miserable old dog reeking of illness and self-pity.

He arrived home and unlocked the front door but couldn't get it to open because the carpet had gathered behind it. He gritted his teeth and pushed. The carpet slid back a little and Ben squeezed through the gap. He shut the door behind him and turned on the hall light.

The body of a naked man lay sprawled across the narrow hall. Ben just stared at it, too shocked to react. The man's tongue was lolling obscenely out of his mouth, purplish black as if he had been sucking cough sweets, and his sightless eyes bulged back at Ben's.

"Don't worry about that," a voice said, and Ben almost went through the roof. He staggered back to the door just as the Removal Man stepped from the sitting room into the hall."I'll take it with me when I leave." He smiled sharkily and slowly rubbed his gloved hands together."Frankie just wanted you to see it.You get paid six grand for dropping the ball, which will be used to erase your debt, but don't go thinking you have a choice in the matter. Payment's due on Saturday. Get the message, Ben?"

Ben got the message.

**

The team were due to leave for Wembley on Friday afternoon. Ben had been given the day off work. At midday Mike Bronson called and offered him a lift into town, which Ben accepted.When he emerged from the house it was to find that the whole of the village had turned out to wave him off. Most were proudly waving flags and scarves and the local primary school kids had made a banner in art class that read GO BEN GO! Some of the blue paint had run but that didn't matter, it was still a fine banner.

"Good luck, Ben," Mike said,opening the Land Rover door for him."Don't forget the cup when you come back."

Ben looked at him, his eyes filling with tears."Ah, Mike," he croaked,"I don't deserve this, I really don't deserve this."

They drove into town and Mike dropped Ben at the stadium.A large crowd had assembled to cheer the team coach on its way. Some five thousand fans were making the journey to London but most of them wouldn't be leaving until the morning of the match. Ben used the players entrance and met up with the rest of the squad in the bar. He hadn't touched a drop since finishing the last of the medicinal brandy, so when he was told to order a drink while they waited for the cases to be loaded onto the coach he stuck with orange juice. Overhearing him, young Tony Squires ordered the same.

"Are you sharing a room with Gary?" Ben asked him.Gary Hook was Tony's partner up front, another of the youth team hot-shots.Both were just eighteen, Tony a bricklayer's apprentice and Gary a clerk for a travel agent.

"We haven't sorted the rooms out yet," Tony said. His awe of the (local) legendary goalkeeper was touchingly obvious.

"Fancy bunking up with me then?" Ben asked."We could run over a few tactics, then get pissed and bother the chamber maids."

The young lad beamed and nodded keenly."Yeah, cheers, Ben."

The cases were loaded. The team used the dressing room to change into their Wembley suits and then went outside to meet the fans and to pose for the press.

"Give us one of Ben and Tony!" the photographer from the Ritchmire Chronicle called."Stand there, that's it!"

They paused by the coach door, two faces of the greatest game on earth - the young hopeful and the old campaigner.

Hero and villain, Ben thought. He glanced at young Tony, felt the pride and passion radiating from the young man like energy, like fire.

An ocean of blue and white parted to let the coach through. Ben was staring morosely at the backs of his hands while beside him Tony had his face to the window like a child on his first outing.

"Look at 'em all!" he gasped."I never even knew so many people lived here!"

John Maughn, team captain and an ex-pro with Halifax and Tourquay, leaned over from the seat behind and tapped the young striker on the shoulder."Wait until we come back with the cup, Tony, then you'll see something to remember."

They all believed it too.They all believed they were going to win the cup. And why shouldn't they? This was Ritchmire's dream team, the best squad of players since the second division glory days of the late thirties. And Ben Miller, veteran keeper and five times Player of the Year, was about to turn their dream into a nightmare.

Once on the road he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. It was a long journey and at some point he actually did nod off, though his slumber was fitful and disturbed by images of weeping faces and dead men with black tongues.

They reached the hotel in Bedfordshire, paid for by the local radio station, unpacked and then assembled downstairs for a team briefing followed by a light training session at a sports centre in Luton. The evening was spent quietly relaxing at the hotel, playing snooker and cards or, in Ben's case, sitting alone in silent contemplation. He was thinking about his family, but especially his son, Luke. He had arranged to take them all out for a meal on Saturday evening, Angie as well as the kids, but he knew he would never go through with it. How could he look his son in the eye only hours after throwing the biggest game of his life?

He went to bed at nine o'clock and was still awake when Tony returned at ten thirty.

"I hope I get a game," Tony said as he was stripping off his clothes."Man, I hope I get a game. Do you think I'll get a game, Ben?"

"I don't see why not," Ben said. He propped himself up on one elbow and waited for Tony to turn around."It's not everything you know...winning I mean. What I'm saying is, don't feel too let down if we lose."

"We have to win," Tony said soberly."I'll never be back here again, Ben. My dad reckons this is the only chance I'll ever get to play in a big match."

"And what do you reckon?"

Tony shrugged.Suddenly he looked older, resigned,and that frightened Ben more than anything Frankie Goodwin could do to him."I reckon I'm going to be a bricklayer, Ben."

**

At breakfast on Saturday morning the mood in the Ritchmire camp was somewhat subdued. Nerves were starting to take a hold, and the worst affected seemed naturally to be the younger players.Tony Squires made it down for breakfast but excused himself before the orange juice was poured. Nobody saw him again until the team talk at ten, when he emerged sheepishly from the lavatory looking waxy and drawn.

The final team selection was announced.Ben was first choice goalkeeper of course, but he was pleased to see that Tony had been named amongst the substitutes.

"Congratulations," he said as they left for their room to change into their Wembley suits."You've made it."

"Sub," Tony corrected."Might not get a game unless we're winning easily or getting thrashed, and I can't see either happening." He glanced quickly at the toilet door and gave a sickly grin."Hold the bus, Ben."

Twenty minutes later they waiting anxiously by the coach in their blue blazers with gold buttons. Nobody spoke much, though those who did have something to say seemed eager to approach Ben. He wanted to address them all, to give a speech that would get the hearts pumping and turn the nerves to adrenalin, but he would have felt such a hypocrite.

As they were boarding the coach a receptionist from the hotel rushed out and asked if there was a Ben Miller in the party. If there was he was wanted on the phone. Ben went into the lobby but hesitated before taking the call. He thought it might be Luke ringing to say good luck dad, I'm the proudest little boy in all the world. That would have just about finished him off, he reckoned.

It wasn't Luke anyway - it was the Removal Man.

"We're all rooting for you, Ben," he said."Don't forget that now."

**

It was ten minutes to three, and everyone from West Gelder who couldn't make the trip to London had assembled in the Straw Man to hear live commentary on the game on a ghetto blaster with eight speakers. Mike Bronson was sitting with Amanda Padgette and Lamb Henderson. Lamb was wearing a blue and white flat cap, which was about the strangest sight Mike had ever seen.

"Ten minutes to kick off!" Sharp Needles called from behind the bar. Everybody knew that, listening to the radio and all, but Sharp was hell-bent on providing his own running commentary."The players are in the tunnel! They're being interviewed by the radio man!"

"Shut your fat trap!" Lamb barked.

"John Maughn is letting Ben lead the team out!"

They all knew that.Mike looked at Amanda,who was laughing helplessly, and caught the giggles.

"Can't you arrest him?" Lamb asked seriously.

"Shush now, he's interviewing Ben Miller! He's asking him what it feels like, and Ben's saying-

**

"Like a dream come true, Eric." Ben had to shout into the microphone in order to be heard above the noise of the crowd.Wembley Stadium was only half full but they were singing like a crowd ten times their number. It was deafening, awe-inspiring."I've played in some big games in my time but never at Wembley before."

Eric was nodding vigorously. Eric was a good stick, one of a dying breed of partisan commentators."And can the Sherbets really win the cup, Ben?"

Ben smiled distantly."We'll all do what has to be done," he said.

That was it.The time for talking was over. The teams were led out into the arena for the obligatory ceremonies, then it was gloves off (gloves on in Ben's case) and let the battle commence.

Ritchmire started well.The tight passing game they had played all season quickly unsettled Gateshead and had them running round in circles,wasting energy and generally looking silly. In the tenth minute Andrew Blackburn found a gap and knocked a cross into the penalty area. John Maughn rose and headed against the crossbar.Back in his own penalty area Ben fell to his knees in frustration,his fists clenched, and had to remind himself that he was here to lose.

The goalkick was poor. Steve Sams picked it up on the halfway line and found Gary Hook on the wing. Hook took it past one, past two, and found Keith Dalaney on the overlap. As Delaney took it to the line,Gary Hook went racing into the centre; the cross came in-

Gary Hook with a diving header, and Ritchmire were in the lead.

Ben raised a salute to the goal scorer as the teams took up position for the re-start. He felt quite ill with dread.

Gateshead came straight back at them. A long cross from their number eleven caught Ben by surprise and shaved the far post.

"Wake up, Ben!" John Maughn yelled, and Ben thought: you aint seen nothing yet, John.

Ten minutes of constant pressure by the Gateshead attack resulted in an equalising goal. Ben dropped for it but the ball slipped under his arm and bobbed into the back of the net. He gazed up from the mud and saw the heartache and joy that is football. The Gateshead players were running over to their supporters, arms out in a celebration ritual they probably rehearsed, but Ben's team mates looked devastated. A few of them had their hands on their knees, their heads hung low, and poor Gary Hook was ready to buckle under the weight of disappointment.

"Heads up!" John Maughn screamed."Come on, you pansies, get them heads up!"

He collected the ball from the back of the net and gave the rising Ben an encouraging thump on the shoulder as he took it back to the halfway line.

If only motivation was all that was needed.

A second Gateshead goal came on the fortieth minute.Clearly the Ritchmire keeper was to blame for this one. He went up for the corner, caught the ball but let it slip out of his grasp, and a grateful Gateshead player stuck out a toe to give his team a surprise lead.

If the equaliser had rocked Ritchmire's confidence the second Gateshead goal threatened to put it beyond repair.The Ritchmire players stood around the penalty area in stunned silence. All bewildered eyes were on Ben Miller.

"It slipped out of my hands," Ben explained. Most of the players turned away in disgust. John Maughn shook his head and went to collect the ball.

"Pull yourself together,Ben," he said as he passed."You're letting these people down."

Dismay turned to disaster on the stroke of half-time.John Maughn went in for a crunching tackle on the Gateshead centre forward and brought him down on the edge of the penalty area. A direct free kick was given and John was booked. What's more the Ritchmire captain dragged himself to the sideline with a knee injury.

The free kick dipped over the wall and bobbled at Ben's feet before trickling over the line. The ref's whistle sounded the break and Ben made a dash for the changing rooms in fear of his life.

The fight he was expecting never happened. The team traipsed into the dressing room and bunched together at one end like survivors pulled from a wreck, leaving Ben alone to stare at the mud on his gloves. Dougie Blake was absent and the team was lost without him. The silence, an awful shellshocked silence, lasted almost ten minutes before John Maughn started to argue quietly with the physio, Peter Bennett. Peter wanted John to come off but John said he would play on crutches if he had to.

"Ben?"

It was Tony Squires handing out the oranges and Lucazade. The look in his eyes was more than Ben could take.

Dougie Blake appeared with just a few moments of the break remaining.Everyone stopped what they were doing and gazed expectantly at the big Scot.

"I went to look for something," he said."I meant to read it out this morning but I forgot. Seems more appropriate now anyway. I writ it down-" He went searching through his pockets like Columbo, firstly for a scrap of paper and finally his reading glasses. He lifted his head and caught Ben's eye, and for a split second Ben was certain that Dougie knew everything.

There was silence as Dougie read what was on the paper.

"When the one great scorer comes to mark against your name, he asks not whether you won or lost but how you played the game."

Dougie took off his reading glasses and slipped them back into his pocket. He looked suddenly embarrassed and yet stronger than any man Ben had ever known. He folded the scrap of paper and put that away too.

"Right lads," he said."Go play the game."

**

John Maughn hastily reorganised the team while Gateshead waited impatiently for the kick-off.The second half started well, with Alwin Jones pushing out from the centre of defence and John Maughn dropping back.Gary Hook took up a winger's position and scared the living daylights out of Gateshead every time he got the ball.The crowd sensed a renewed spirit of courage and determination in the Sherbets and lent voice to every attack.

Sixty minutes gone and Ritchmire were awarded a corner. Dougie Blake came off the bench with a number card in his hand. Ben looked over and saw young Tony Squires stripping out of his tracksuit. His heart cheered.

It was Roy of the Rovers stuff from the moment Tony's studs sank into the Wembley turf. He headed in from the corner, his very first touch of the ball, and charged the full length of the pitch in order to embrace his keeper.

"We can do it, Ben!" he screamed.There was elation and rage in his voice, fire in his eyes and magic in his feet, and Ben Miller wanted so much to believe in him.

Sustained pressure brought an equalising goal just ten minutes from time. A cross from Gary Hook and Tony was there to neatly sidefoot the ball into the back of the net. The crowd were delirious. Ben leapt up and swung from his crossbar.

The score was three-three, and there were just three minutes left on the clock. A Gateshead counter-attack left Ritchmire exposed at the back. Ben came off his line far too prematurely and was made to look a fool as the Gateshead attacker clipped the ball to his left and then dashed behind him to pick it up again. Ben fell on his back and twisted over in the mud. He could only watch as the Gateshead forward tapped the ball into the goal-

-and John Maughn, appearing ghost-like from nowhere, stuck out a foot to clear it off the line.

The stretch had hurt the captain badly. He could barely stand for the resulting Gateshead corner but somehow, from somewhere, he found the strength to drag himself up and organise the defence.

Ben went up at the near post. He did his level best to deflect the ball into his own net but a miss-kick by a Gateshead player gave Ritchmire a sudden break.

Tony Squires picked up the ball and found Gary Hook on the wing. The long one-two left Tony in acres of space with only one defender and the keeper to beat. He could have tried a long shot but instead he took it into the box, tried to go past the defender and was brought down.

There was a moment of nothingness when nobody was quite sure what was happening.The whole of Wembley was suspended. Forty thousand lungs were waiting to exhale.

The ref was pointing to the spot. Ritchmire had been awarded a penalty with less than two minutes of normal time to go.

Ben turned away in horror, his hands over his ear. His death warrant was virtually signed, sealed and delivered. He couldn't bare to watch, couldn't bare to watch, had to watch, had to watch...

He turned back to the action in time to see Tony Squires being stretchered off the pitch.John Maughn was lurching back towards Ben's goal, waving frantically.

No, not waving...beckoning.

"He's broken his leg!" John shouted when he was still some thirty yards away. He limped up to the goal line and gripped Ben by the shoulders. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat and he looked exhausted to the point of collapse."No one'll take it, Ben!" he gasped,"too much pressure on 'em!"

"You take it," Ben said, feeling a sudden bolt of panic."You take it, you're the captain."

"Look at them!" John screamed, pointing up the field. Ben looked and noticed how none of the Ritchmire players were prepared to stand near the ball. They were either milling around with their hands on their hips or sitting on the grass. All were facing the stands, not even daring to look at the ball.

"My kicking leg's gone." John turned back to Ben, his eyes wild with desperation."You're the only one with the nerve to take it, Ben. Please,don't let us down now."

Ben began the longest walk in his career. The goal seemed to grow larger and the ball smaller, and yet he knew that nerves were irrational at this point. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to lift the ball over the crossbar and into the section of Ritchmire fans behind the goal. Then in extra time he would make the error that would give Gateshead victory. His debts would be cleared and maybe, just maybe, he could start all over again. A new town, new life. London, the kids, Angie even...anything was possible.

"Ben!"

A shout to his right.Tony Squires, stretchered on the sideline, was propped up on his elbow, left thumb raised.

Ben rolled the ball on the spot and looked towards the goal, at the sea of anxious faces behind it.

"Come on," the referee urged, leaning in close."Take it now or lose it for time-wasting."

Ben closed his eyes.He wanted to see Frankie Goodwin's face or the Face of the Removal Man, wanted to hear that sinister warning blow through his mind like cold breath - Get the message, Ben? - but instead the face he saw was the face of Dougie Blake, and the words he heard were these:

When the one great scorer comes to mark against your name, he asks not whether you won or lost but how you played the game...

**