Dead Ball by Tom Palmer (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

Danny nodded. But deep down he wondered if he was right. They’d soon see: kick-off was approaching.

FIRST HALF

The tension in the stadium was overwhelming as the players came on to the pitch.

Danny had been able to watch the fans arriving through windows in the back of the press area. English and Russians mingling and talking. The stadium was in a lightly wooded park, on the edge of the Moskva river. A good setting.

As more and more fans arrived you could see less and less green grass. Just red, white and blue – the colours of the teams. But most of the fans were Russian. And because he was so high up, Danny could see several groups of police – or soldiers – in buses, waiting for orders if there was any trouble.

Once the game had kicked off, Danny watched through the great glass window of the press area. He’d asked Holt if he could go and sit in the press seats, but Holt had said no. It wasn’t safe.

Danny accepted what Holt said. They’d got this far: there was no point in taking a risk. And it was fascinating watching the press from behind, talking into phones, typing their reports, making notes. But mostly – among the English reporters – sitting on the edge of their seats every time the ball went near either goal.

Russia were on top from the start. In the first fifteen minutes England barely got a kick. The Russian fans were singing and chanting – the atmosphere very intimidating. It was like the England players expected to lose. Very strange. Only Peter Day and Stuart Lane were having any impact at all.

A text from Paul arrived:

This is grim. P

Danny felt uneasy during the half. Part of it was the way England looked so second-best to Russia. But there was something else making him feel so funny.

What was it?

And then he realized: he should be commentating. To his dad. He was having a string of thoughts about the game and he wanted to speak them: like he always did at the football.

He pulled out his phone. He knew he was only meant to phone home if he had a problem. It would be expensive. But this was important.

‘Dad?’

‘Danny. Are you OK? Why are you phoning? What’s wrong?’

Danny smiled. ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine. Are you following the match?’

‘Yeah,’ Dad said, calming down. ‘On TV. Sounds like it’s not going too well.’

‘Is John Motson doing his stuff?’

‘Yeah.’ Danny heard his dad pause. ‘But he’s not a patch on you.’

‘It’s doing my head in.’

‘What?’

‘Not telling you what’s going on.’

Dad said nothing for a minute. Then: ‘Where are you?’

‘In the press bit.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Next to the VIP area.’

‘Is it good?’

‘Yeah,’ Danny said. ‘But I’m behind glass. It’s not as exciting as being in the West Stand at City.’

Danny heard his dad laugh.

‘Oh no,’ Danny said.

‘What?’

‘Russia have got a corner. Aren’t you following the game?’

‘Hang on… right. It’s a corner now. We must have a delay.’

Neither Danny nor his dad spoke as the players got into position for the corner.

Danny watched in silence as the ball was lofted from the corner flag into the England box. He saw McGee come out too soon for it and flap at the ball, then he saw the ball catch his hand and drop into the six-yard area, losing all its pace.

A Russian was on to it in a second. Hammering it home.

One–nil.

Danny said nothing. He waited until his dad cried out.

‘No!’ His dad paused. ‘Is it a goal?’

‘Yep.’

‘Damn it. Sorry, Danny.’

‘I’d better go,’ Danny said. ‘This is costing loads.’

‘Call me later,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll give you the money. It’d be good to talk. After the game. Please?’

‘OK, Dad.’

Danny slipped his phone into his pocket. He watched the Russia fans leaping around, their flags swirling, their horns blaring. He looked at the VIP area too. The President of Russia was meant to be up there. Danny tried to see if he could spot him. And looked straight into the eyes of Dmitri Tupolev.

An action replay of the goal came up on a screen in front of the press area. Danny watched McGee go up, his arms raised to collect the ball, then – maybe – a slight nudge from one of the strikers, the ball falling to the other striker’s feet.

Danny felt that sinking feeling he got whenever his team let in a goal. Nausea. Exhaustion. Something like that.

‘What do you think?’

It was Holt, standing right behind him. Danny wondered how long he’d been there.

‘He got a nudge,’ Danny pointed out.

‘He dropped it,’ Holt said.

Danny knew what Anton was saying: McGee had let it drop on purpose.

‘He wouldn’t…’

‘Wouldn’t he?’

‘I just can’t… I don’t –’ Danny couldn’t find the right words – ‘believe it. But I don’t know any more.’

‘Let’s see how it goes,’ Holt said.

The first half became more and more frustrating.

The tempo was slower now. Russia – one up – were happier to play the ball around, not take any risks. They waited for England to attack, sat deep; then tried to attack on the break. But they never sent too many players up front.

Danny watched the England midfield trying to get a grip on the game. But although England had plenty of possession, there was nothing doing. The Russian defence was too deep now.

And when the ball came at the English defence the players looked edgy. Hacking the ball away instead of passing it. Fouling players and giving away needless free kicks.

Then things looked to be getting worse. Much worse.

With seconds to go in the first half, the Russians beat the English offside trap, leaving a Russian winger one-on-one with McGee in goal. McGee dashed out of his area to fling himself at the feet of the Russian.

For a moment Danny could imagine what he was going to do: bring the player down, concede a penalty, get himself sent off, end the game as a competition. If McGee did, then that was it: he was being bribed, corrupt.

McGee lunged