Read Online The Book of Fame by Lloyd Jones - Free Book Online Page A

gate; now the Scots looked to retaliate in a variety of petty ways.
    We heard that they planned to play a mystery formation against us. We heard they would not be awarding their players ‘caps’ as they did not regard the match as a ‘true international’.
    Thursday night we put our boots outside our door to be cleaned and found them in the morning stuffed with crusts of stale bread. We shook our heads. It would never happen at home.
    We spent the day looking over the city, visiting castles, fountains, busts, and stamping warmth into our feet.
    Saturday we woke to a freeze and news that the Scots had failed to protect the ground with hay.
    That would never have happened at home!
    Then the Scottish captain, Bedell-Sivright, in the company of an official, turned up at the hotel to suggest we call the game off as the ground was rock hard and possibly dangerous. So Billy Stead, Mister Dixon, Jimmy Hunter and Billy Wallace went off with the Scots to see for themselves. They found the ground was already packed with cold spectators. The crowd seemed to sniff out thoughts of abandonment in the Scottish pair, and seeing Bedell-Sivright prod the turf they began to chant—‘Play! Play! Play!’ We had no thoughts of denying them and after we said as much, Bedell-Sivright gave a stiff nod and marched away with the official. We shook our heads and pretended to be amused.
    But we knew, didn’t we, it would never happen at home.
    The noise of the turnstiles clicking over did give us pleasure.
    The Scots niggle hadn’t yet finished. They wanted 35-minute halves; we wanted 45-minute spells. Then the Scots insisted we provide the match ball, but of course we had not even thought to bring one to the ground. The Scots officials shrugged and sighed and looked lost. Jesus H! We shook our heads with disbelief.
    It would never happen at home.
    In the end, a shapeless ball was squirrelled up from a dusty corner under the stand.
    The game was late starting when one of the horses bringing the Scots’ wagon to the ground skidded on ice and fell over; there was a delay until another horse arrived, and because of this, there was no time for the traditional team picture to be taken.
    As the Scots were led out by a pipe band we noticed their boots had been fitted with ‘bars’ like those that ice skaters wear. We wore our customary studs—by the end of the game our feet were a mess of blood blisters.
    The Scots won the toss and kicked off. For the first ten minutes we were all over them like a mad dog’s rash. Fred worked the blind and Billy Wallace dashed over in the corner—but he was called back. The referee ruled the pass was forward. Fred stuck his hands on his hips and glowered. He’d never thrown a straighter pass. Moments later George Smith was clear, the line ahead, when the whistle went for another alleged ‘forward pass’.
    The referee strolled around like a farmer with his crook making his way through a herd, without hurry or urgency, and was seldom placed to appreciate the shape of our game.
    The Scots made little effort to attack. They either hugged the touchline or stood in the pockets of our backs. The penalties awarded us were ofno use. We couldn’t dig a hole in the ground in which to place the ball for a shot at goal. Billy Glenn, who was linesman, produced a pocket knife for Billy Wallace to dig a hole, but the Scots objected to the practice, so Dave Gallaher had to spread himself over the frozen ground to hold the ball upright for Billy to swing his boot through.
    The Scots played three halfbacks against us; that was the
mystery formation
. The bigger surprise came when they started the scoring—Simpson potting a field goal; the unshapely ball wobbled through the air and scraped over the crossbar. The Scots were up 4–nil and for the first time in nearly three months we were behind on the scoreboard.
    Minutes later, Billy Wallace lays on a lovely raking kick cross-field to find the Scots corner flag. Billy is admiring