1.36 - The Half-Time Team Talk

36.

Jane in goal, alert in the D, the white, painted curve that defined the area where she was allowed to handle the ball. Six Beth Heads on patrol. Six rumbling, trundling forts forcing City players to go sideways and around. Tower defence on easy mode. The Maginot Line. None shall pass.

Beth defaulted to the right-hand side, where she'd been playing, but I moved her into the centre so that her aura would envelop everyone.

City passed the ball around for a couple of minutes but as the timer ticked down to 00:00 they started taking potshots. Weak, inaccurate, easily blocked, easily saved. It stank of desperation. Their coach was getting agitated, but mostly swallowed her feelings - she'd sort this mess out at half time.

When was the last time one of her matches had gone this badly? She'd have to give a superb half-time team talk.

And to keep things going, so would I.

***

As the timer ticked down into the last twenty seconds, I spoke to Jackie. "Half-time speech. What should my vibe be? Churchillian? Technocratic? Funny?"

Jackie considered these choices. "5 minute break, isn't it? Let them switch off for a minute. All nice and calm." He rubbed his mouth. "Then it depends what you want. What mental state do you want them to start the second half in? You could pump them up but that might cost you in the last 10 minutes of the match. You might try to keep them cool-headed, but if City get a couple of quick goals, you might not be able to regain this intensity they've got now. There are always trade-offs."

I hadn't heard the buzzer, but the half had ended and the team was gathering in our area. "Good half, my dudes. Take it easy for a minute." They sat on chairs, or on the floor with one leg extended. Ziggy went round making sure they all had energy drinks and stuff. Just trying to be useful. Being supportive. He was strangely unconcerned about Lula's ankle. The referee came over and checked on her, which I thought was nice until I realised it was a scam to get some half-time refreshments. She left with an energy drink, an orange, and a couple of triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She put them by her holdall then went to see what she could rustle up from City.

Soon enough, it was time for my speech. I glanced over at City's coach and she was going bonkers, slapping her hands, pointing at certain players, doing little hand-squiggles. If she was going down the high-energy route, it felt right for me to be more theoretical. More abstract. More intellectual. And quite right, too. This was a university team.

Pleased that the right answer had come to me, I sucked in a lungful of air and felt the whole lot get expelled as a powerful hand slapped me on the back.

Astonished, I turned to see Mr Yalley in his ill-fitting, off-colour suit. My eyes were drawn to his neck - it was very sweaty. He began babbling in his language, which Wikipedia says was probably called Akan. I say babbling - it was more like haranguing. The ladies looked a bit taken aback, and I glanced at Jackie, wondering if he'd have my back in case I needed to drag Mr Yalley away from the scene. I suspected the older man, despite being a good Christian and all that, could have absolutely battered me.

The Ghanaian paused, and his daughter, trying to look as small as possible, squirmed out from behind him and spoke. She was the centre of attention, now, as we all tried to understand what was happening and why. And she really, really didn't want the job.

"Um. Sorry about this. I've never seen him like this. Um. Sorry."

"What's going on, Kisi?" said Beth. She was perfectly relaxed. I got a hint of a vibe that this kind of thing happened to her a lot, and I didn't care for that feeling.

"Um. He's complaining about the taps."

"Excuse me?" said Anna.

"The taps. In the bathrooms."

"The faucets?" asked Lula. "In this gym?"

Mr Yalley understood English much better than he spoke. He made a kind of tsk noise and patted Kisi on the shoulder. "Speak it," he said. "Say."

Kisi looked up at the ceiling and said, "When I came to this country - this is my father's words, you understand? When I came to this country I knew there would be things I wouldn't understand. The 5 o'clock tea. Cricket. The TV show with the robots who can't go up the stairs. What's scary about that? But I never expected the taps. One is for the hot water. One is for the cold water." She paused to let her father speak some more.

I looked over at Sandra, the Man City coach. She was still very animated, but was giving tactical instructions, now. The City kids were rapt. Something big was going on. The contrast with our team talk was... hilarious. Ours was light on the motivating and the tactics and surprisingly heavy on the plumbing.

"But," said Kisi, "the water comes out of separate holes. You cannot wash your face with warm water. It must be freezing hot or - oh, I've messed that up. He's still talking. I'll skip forward. This great empire, this great nation, and these are the taps. Surely, I thought, it is merely an eccentric situation unique to this one house. It can't be everywhere like this. But it is. The taps? They are confounding."

There were many things that were confounding about this speech. One, that it was happening at all. Two, what's wrong with our taps? I'd lived in the UK for 22 years and never given them a second thought. Presumably, British taps were the best in the world.

Mr Yalley shook his head, spoke, and his daughter translated. "Many other things are strange here. My daughter would not like me to list them - too right I wouldn't! - but one of the strangest to me is sports. Life is so tough. Raising a family is such a struggle. Living as a good Christian is so hard. Who has time for frivolous hobbies? For chasing a ball? But cut this country and it bleeds sports. Mr Best said my Kisi could be a football player. I do not wish to stand in her way. But it is such a purposeless pursuit. I told her that life is short and time is precious and she may serve God and her community in other ways. Follow the example of her brother." Mr Yalley's eyes narrowed and he swallowed. "Kisi dragged us here this evening to make us watch the sports and I do not remember being so surprised by anything in my life. Maybe the taps. Yes, this is second to the taps. The kick in the beginning." He pointed to Lula. "How you rallied around her. The speed of the play. The quality. Watching you compete has given me a rainbow of emotions. I am sweating. The tension is barely tolerable. My wife cannot watch. I could not watch the last five minutes." He laughed nervously, and pulled at his collar. He put his hands on his daughter's shoulders. "How do you have the courage for it? I was wrong. You are not frivolous. You are not a hobby. You are a team. A tribe. A nation. Captain,“ he said, saying the word in English while leveling his gaze at Beth, “if you will accept my daughter into your community, into your Beth Heads, I will be most proud."

Well, that took a turn. Kisi's voice had become more and more uncertain as she had translated. There was a major, major wobble on the word proud. But I knew Beth would ruin the moment by complaining about the name and pointing out that Kisi would have to go to uni to join them, that Mr Best hadn't intended Kisi for this.

Beth stood tall. "Kisi Yalley. If you want to join the Beth Heads, there's one thing you need to agree to."

Kisi's eyes shone. Join the Beth Heads? Really? "What is it?"

"On Wednesdays, we wear pink."

"Okay."

Beth gestured. "Hug it out."

Kisi laughed and entered the hug. When it ended, she wiped away tears.

Beth eyed Mr Yalley. "Sir, please leave Kisi here for the second half. We will take care of her. She is one of us, now."

A few words were mumbled somewhere, then they grew louder, were taken up by more of the players.

"One of us. One of us. One of us!"

Before long, all the Beth Heads, including their new mascot, were jumping around shouting 'one of us'. It was electric. Forget careful calibration of their emotional state - they were pumped. A rainbow of emotions was about to be blasted out - hot and hot - from all the taps.

The referee blew her whistle and the entire squad invaded the pitch. A couple of City kids actually fell over. The referee started counting the number of players on both teams and, overwhelmed by the noise and the fuss, deemed everything in order. Lula made her wait. Beth pushed a couple of the surplus Met Heads to the side of the pitch and the second half could begin.

Mr Yalley slapped my back again. I smiled at him, but could just barely make my muscles move. I was drained. I flopped onto a seat, rubbed my face, and nearly missed the most extraordinary start to a half I'd ever seen.

---

Next chapter is nearly finished and I'm hoping to pick up the pace this week after a groggy weekend.

Thanks for all your support!