Read Online The Playmakers by Graeme Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A

season wore on, the stitching had
started to unravel, making the procedure, which was the climax of
his engrossing act, all the more precarious. By the time they
reached Taunton, immediate action was required.
    “It’s been terrible, Will,” Hercules said to
Shakespeare, as he handed over the belt in the cluttered van.
    “I think I should be able to do something
with it,” replied Shakespeare, closely examining the frayed webbing
and picking at it with a fingernail.
    “I haven’t been able to lift with confidence,
you know what I mean?” continued the big man, his giant waxed
moustache twitching with anxiety.
    “I think I do.”
    “You’ve got to feel confident in my
game.”
    “I see.”
    “Otherwise, you never get the thing off the
ground.”
    “Right.”
    “I know blokes, some stronger than me -
farm-boys, that type - big enough to pull a stuck bull out of the
mud.”
    “Yes?”
    “But they can’t do what I do. Bring them up
on stage, and they go to water. They can’t pick up that bar.”
    “I’ve seen them.”
    And it was true, too, one of the highlights
of Hercules’ act was to challenge locals to a test of strength, and
in doing so, reassure even the most cynical that the round weights
were genuine.
    Peering from out of his van, Shakespeare had
witnessed many a strong young country lad, red-faced from
embarrassment as back-slappers pushed him forward, fail at the
first hurdle. Even though they sometimes rivalled Hercules in size
and bulk, they could rarely get the bar with its two dead-weight
orbs off the ground, much less over their head.
    “That’s because they don’t think about it,
they don’t have the timing, they don’t have the confidence,” said
Hercules.
    “Right.”
    That’s what life’s all about it, isn’t it,
hey? Three things. Thinking. Timing. Confidence.”
    Shakespeare, The New Shakespeare, that is,
looked up from the stitching with wonderment on his face.
    He was taken aback that such a simple but
potent philosophy on life could be presented to him by a man whose
success in matters seemed to be based more on things muscular than
cerebral.
    “Yes, yes! You are right, Hercules, you are
absolutely right!”
    “Aw, just call me Max. Hercules is only my
stage name.”
    “Max. Okay, Max it is then.”
    “Can you fix it?”
    Shakespeare peered again at the big man in
front of him. The mighty handlebar moustache flourished beneath two
high cheekbones. Above them sat a pair of brown eyes, which
sparkled, a tribute to the fellow’s fitness and good health. On
top, a thatch of glossy black hair matched the moustache in both
colour and flair.
    Shakespeare thought to himself how, out of
his traditional stage clothes of leopard-skin loincloth and
calf-high boots, and standing in simple trousers and shirt,
Hercules looked a true gentle giant.
    It was said that despite his size, he had
never raised a fist in anger to anyone, and that somewhere back in
London there was a wife and two children that he adored, and which
he supported by saving whatever he could from his displays of
strength on the road, and took back to his little family when the
opportunity presented itself.
    “Yes, I can fix it,” Shakespeare reassured
him.
    “Beautiful. Beautiful,” said Hercules. “I’ve
never felt confident at all since we were in that little seaside
village a couple of weeks ago, and I bent down, the belt started to
slip, and I couldn’t get a grip of my balls.”
    Shakespeare couldn’t help it. A glimmer of a
smile came to his lips.
    “And I let go of both of them.”
    The smile began to develop into a discrete
laugh.
    “And they rolled into the crowd and flattened
a little old lady!”
    It was too much. Shakespeare cast the belt
aside and burst into laughter.
    “What?” said Hercules, puzzled. “What?”
    “It’s nothing, Max, nothing.”
    “Oh, I see,” said Hercules, smiling as the
picture developed in his mind. “My balls!”
    “And the little old lady,” added