With Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)

‘Can I?’

There was a devilish glint in Jermaine’s eyes tinged with mischief Tapha has never seen before.

‘If you don’t trust your throw prowess, use your good foot,’ he replied softly so as not to scare off the would-be victim.

Jermaine nodded, crept stealthily up to a crouching cat washing itself, totally oblivious to what was about to take place.

One minute, it was washing its right paw; a split second later it was levitated in the air gravitated by Jermaine’s right foot.

Typical feline, it swerved in mid air, landed on all four paws and scurried off.

Jermaine blinked.

‘That. Was. Way. Too. Weird. You lot do this to pass the time?’

Tapha nodded.

‘Yeah, we do. What I didn’t tell you was we did it as kids, which makes you look real dumb.’

His best friend glared.

‘Is that meant to be funny, huh?’

‘Picture a grown up waiting up for Santa on Christmas Eve.’

‘I so hate you!’

Tapha held his stomach and laughed some more.

‘I really got a kick out of you kicking that cat,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘Would you care to do it again so I can get it on my phone?’

‘How about you bend over and I put my foot up yours, huh? Don’t worry; I will steady myself enough to get it on my phone.’

‘Wait till I tell Susan about this!’

They had come from the football pitch where they had undergone some light training to prepare for a football match tomorrow with a lot at stake, financially.

The boys had cobbled together D1, 000 and Jermaine and Tapha had muscled in with another D2, 000 each, adding up to D5, 000. If they win, the spoils, D10, 000, would be used to throw a picnic at Fajara beach or Senegambia beach, whatever beach tickles their fancy.

‘Jermiane, you will lead the attack with Raul and Tapha, you will anchor the midfield with Ebrima,’ Assan, who passes off as a player manager, stated at the end of training. ‘Dodou will run the left flank and Mbye will hold down the right flank.  Yous and I will marshall the defence and Mustapha and Badou will do the left and right back slots respectively. Bala will be in goal. He’s not in today as he got some business to handle in Brikama.’

He paused and wiped sweat from his brow with his whole hand, which Jermaine thought would have been more effective had he used his index finger.

‘Alieu, Lamin, Dawda and Ismaila will be on the bench.’

Jermaine raised a hand.

‘Any inner strengths of the opponent I need to know about?’

‘Yes, they have a centre half called Kebba. He is built like an out house and blessed about with the intelligence of a toddler. He is an Achilles heel for them.’

Jermaine netted his brows.

‘What of inner strengths?’

‘Again, Kebba. On his day, he would make Maldini look ordinary. He reads the game well but he got no pace. I like what I saw of you today so leave him panting.’

Jermaine grinned.

‘I will do my bit.’

‘If you must know, they beat us the last time so this is more like a revenge game for us. You are our secret weapon so we banking on you.’

‘Can handle that. What was the score the last time out?’

Assan hesitated.

‘It was one of those games when it all went pear shaped for us from the onset. We lost our keeper inside ten minutes and there was no reserve keeper to replace him. I stepped up between the sticks but it wasn’t enough.’

‘So what was the final score?’ Tapha pressed, holding back a grin. He knew Assan cleverly averting the question meant the score line was a drubbing.

And he was proved right when Assan sheepishly replied, ‘4-0. You all know I’m a defender not a goalie. Well, we’re going to set that right tomorrow.’

‘Yep, we sure will,’ Jermiane flicked at a sweat-soaked braid and used his England top to wipe his face. 

‘You’re going to enjoy the game tomorrow,’ Tapha told him as they made their way home. ‘A win goes a long way for bragging rights. So don’t shy away from a tackle to chasing everything. I damn sure ain’t finishing on the losing side.’

‘How often do you play these games?’

‘Whenever both sides could come up with the cash. Roughly, this is about twice a month. I must tell you these games are heated.’

That was when they saw the cat washing itself.

‘I can’t believe you talked me into booting that poor cat,’ Jermaine retorted. ‘You are so frozen!’

‘Get over it, mate. What next? Counselling?’ He led the way in the compound and almost collided into Tijan.

‘Easy, youngster, easy,’ his older brother told him. ‘When you get your own place, you can roll in how you like.’

Tapha sighed.

‘What was that?’ Tijan asked, keeping his face an inch from his baby brother’s, looking right into his eyes.

‘Nothing, bro,’ his brother replied.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he looked at Jermaine. ‘These guys play the blame game like it pays. Watch how you go tomorrow or you will forever be pilloried like you missed an open goal at a World Cup final deep into stoppage time with the scores at nil-nil.’

Jermaine grinned.

‘I plan to be part of a derby win. Coming to watch?’

‘Of course, I am. These games are closest to a league game we get around these parts.’

He winked at him and went through the gate.

‘Why is he always sweating you, though?’ Jermaine asked and Tapha grinned.

‘He still sees me as that little brother of his who wants to follow him everywhere he goes. He’s never taken me serious and he sure isn’t starting now.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Nah,’ Tapha shook his head. ‘It is his way of keeping me in check. Cool with me.’

Jermiane shrugged.

‘Can’t relate as I ain’t got a big brother. But I have a big sister whose head I love going upside of!’ 

Tapha laughed.

‘Bloody nutter!’

Jermaine headed to his room, undressed and carefully cleaned his boots ready for tomorrow. He was lacking match fitness and he hope he would have done enough to guarantee a win before he would get hauled off.

He was excited about the game as he never played with financial gains at stake before. All the kick-abouts he had been involved in were for the hell of it.

His mobile went.

‘How’s my son doing?’

Susan snorted.

‘He is fine, last I looked. You wanna know how his mummy is doing, too?’

Jermaine chuckled.

‘I guess she is fine. Did I forget to tell her I love her? Please tell her for me. Tell her I love her ten fold. Before you get to her, add another ten fold, okay?’

That loosened Susan up and she purred, ‘I love you too, baby. How’s your day going?’

‘Great, thanks. Just came back from football training. We got a game tomorrow with, wait for it, money at stake. I’ll be spear heading the attack so keep your fingers crossed.’

‘I will. Is it like a premier league one?’

Jermaine swallowed a sigh. He was about to tersely tell her how could he star in a league game like that? Could, say, ‘Raul’, fly to England and make the line up for Arsenal? Then he remembered Susan’s knowledge of the game could be bullet pointed on the back of a postage stamp with ample room left.

‘No, it is not a league game, babe. A team from the other end of the estate are up against ours. In simpler terms, say it is a team from our end against another from your mum’s end.’

‘Okay, I get it,’ Susan’s voice signalled boredom as Jermaine expected so he flipped the subject.

They talked about the weather and his mum’s visit the previous weekend.

‘Tapha was really happy to see her. So happy in fact he code browned her dress up.’

Jermaine laughed.

Code brown was their lingo for poo, code grey was pee and gargle was code bring-it-up- and-out.

‘My poor, poor mum. What did she do?’

‘Well, I borrowed her my gown, cleaned her dress for her and ironed it out. Oh, and she revealed something.’

‘What?’ the way she said ‘oh, and she revealed something’ coupled with the giggling in her voice perked him up.

He stood up and paced the room in his socked feet and boxers, head tilted and left shoulder hunched up to trap the phone to his ear.

‘What did she revealed?’ he asked again and she laughed.

‘Are you sure you wanna know, babe? Could be embarrassing for you if I spread the word.’

‘What word?’

‘Gosh, are you going to repeat every word I say?’ She laughed harder.

Jermaine waited her out.

‘You there, babe?’

‘Uh huh. Talk to me.’

‘Okay, she told me her grandson merely did what his dad previously did!’

He had to laugh.

‘So mum put me on blast like that, huh? Will get her back for that.’

So, you wanna buy my silence?’

‘That’s like trying to sweeten the sea, babe. If mum told you, she has told ten more people. All it needs is for some kid to do a me, if you want, and she would go, ‘awww, that’s right out of my Jermaine’s text book.’’

Susan laughed.

‘Those were her exact words. Oops, I gotta go. I’ve woken up the little master. Talk to you later. Love you’

‘Love you too.’

He took a long shower and stepped into a Sacramento Kings throw back jersey and halfway Rocawear jeans with Nike flip flops.

Tapha was sprawled on the sofa in the front room, working the remote, looking as disinterested as could be. He looked every inch a jobless Londoner bored to death with day time telly, Jermaine mused.

Tapha looked up.

‘What’s funny?’ he asked.

‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out,’ he sat down on the opposite sofa. ‘What’s on the box?’

‘Nothing worth watching. Brought any DVD’s with you?’

‘Someone told me I don’t need to pack books or DVD’s as I will be so busy doing stuff. Wonder who that was?’

‘Yeah, I wonder who that was,’ Tapha looked around, keeping a face so straight Jermaine had to laugh.

‘You’re such a fool.’

‘Whatever. There is a grilled chicken spot up on Kairaba Avenue. I fancy some. Wanna roll with me?’

‘Need I change or something?’

Tapha stared at him.

‘Is there anything I should know?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you think you going on a date with me?’

‘You’re such a fool,’ Jermaine said again.

They caught a taxi to Kairaba Avenue to Chicken Lickin,’ an eatery that had a card board cut-out of a life sized smiling chicken holding forth a steaming plate of, well, cooked chicken.

Chicken way too happy to be eaten, Jermaine thought.

The place was half full and they found a table at the far end.

Sisters With Voices’ 1992 hit, Right Here, was working its way out of the four speakers hoisted on the four corners of the place.

‘Good, back in time tune,’ Jermaine bobbed his head, his braids following suit as the waitress, a light skinned, slender girl, either finishing her teens or kicking off her twenties, came over and flashed her dental.

‘Good evening sirs and welcome to Chicken Lickin. May I take your orders, please?’

‘Yeah,’ Jermaine skimmed through the menu and looked up at her.

‘Why don’t you order for me, babe?’ he asked sweetly.

‘Excuse me?’ she blinked.

‘See, I’ve never been here before but you have. So I will let you do the ordering for us. Wanna know why? I like your smile and trust your judgment.’

The waitress’s smile lit up a watt more.

‘Thank you. I like your hair too. Is it all yours?’

Jermaine nodded.

‘Last I checked, it was. What’s your name?’

She giggled.

‘Ida. You?’

‘Jermaine. Nice to meet you.’ He offered his hand and enveloped hers.

‘Nice to meet you too, Jermaine. I will get you half grilled chicken, fried prawns and oyster with our very own coleslaw. We also have our very own fruit juice I would want you to try. I’m sure you will like it.’

She left to place the order and Tapha grumbled, ‘you helpless flirt.’

‘I’m just trying to get us top notch food and service. You don’t seem to get it, do ya?’

His flirting paid off as the order Ida recommended worked a treat.

‘Do what you do,’ Tapha downed his drink and stood up. ‘I enjoyed that.’

‘Anytime,’ Jermiane said. He paid the bill at the counter and asked for Ida.

‘She’s left for the day,’ he was told by a brown skinned lady, with a name tag that said Tida on it.

‘Okay, Tida. Give her this for me,’ he placed five D100 notes on the counter. ‘I will confirm it with her when I come in next time.’

‘I will make sure she gets it,’ Tida smiled at him. ‘You like her? Did she tell...?’

‘I like the service she provided, thank you very much,’ Jermaine cut in politely, smiling too. ‘Please see to it she gets it.  You have a good evening, Tida.’

He turned and sauntered out of the eatery, feeling her eyes boring into his back.

They caught a taxi home and straight to bed.

‘Be ready at eight,’ Tapha said and Jermaine nodded and grinned.

‘For the FA Cup final.’  

‘Jermaine?’ the urgency in his best friend’s tone brought him out of his room.

‘Yes?’

‘This is bigger than the FA Cup final, mate. This is up there with the World Cup final in these parts. Whatever you do tomorrow, don’t slack up.’

‘I hear you.’

By eight the next morning, they were having their breakfast of corn flakes and a tall glass of juice each.

‘Is it only me who is feeling twitchy?’ Jermaine asked, downing his drink.

‘Don’t know about twitchy but I’m nervous as hell. Losing two games in a row to those guys would wrench my insides out. I need to go back to London with a win. No, let me rephrase that. I have to go back with a win.’

‘Let’s go do it then.’

The rest of the team were already assembled at the pitch, doing a light jog.

They had on sky blue tops that read ‘Gui Gi FC’ in upper case italics with a finely painted baobab tree taking up the lower front of the shirt.

‘Guei Gi translates as the tree,’ Tapha explained as they wore their tops. His had 8 on the back and Jermaine was given 10 and was pleasantly surprised when given the captain’s arm band.

‘You sure about this?’ he asked Assan, who nodded, already covered in large sweat beats, a couple or so breaking free and coursing down his face.

‘Added responsibility. Let’s see how our visiting skipper can measure up.’

‘Will do my best,’ Jermaine slipped it on.

Their opponents, Janta Bii, which Jermaine reckons means the sun if the yellow painted sun on their white tops is anything to go by, were at the other end of the pitch doing their stretch ups.

With a dark-sanded pitch, their all white kits won’t look all white come the final whistle.

‘That’s the guy you spoke about yesterday?’ Jermiane pointed at a tall, sturdily built guy, roughly about 6 foot 6 inches, with shirt number 6.

‘Yeah, that’s Kebba. Make him wish he never met you,’ Assan replied.

It was ticking past 10.30 but the empty spaces by the side of the pitch that passes off as stands were already heaving steadily with spectators.

Jermiane noticed some even brought plastic chairs and benches.

‘I now get what you meant last night,’ Jermaine said, stretching, his braids tilted over his head. ‘Tell me though, why is the game played this early, somewhat?’

‘This pitch is booked the whole day, which means every half has been chipped to half an hour,’ Tapha explained, touching his toes. ‘We got the first booking and are lucky to do so. By two, the sun would literally be inside the back of your shirt. Nothing more energy sapping than that.’

Assan came over and handed Jermaine an envelope after they took a team photo. Rather than clasp his arms behind his back like his teammates, he chose to let them hang on his sides so the armband would stand out more.

‘This is D5, 000,’ Assan told him. ‘You give it to the referee before kick off. He gets D200 for his services so we take home D9, 800.’

Jermiane couldn’t help but like his brazen approach. He didn’t say, ‘we take home D10, 000 if we win.’ He simply said, ‘we take home D10, 000.’

‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘You do team talk?’

Assan shook his head.

‘We just pray and get on with it.’

‘How about we pray and do a team talk? Inspiration from both ends, to put it?’

Assan considered it and nodded.

‘Okay, let’s do it.’

They formed a circle, arms round each other; expect Yous, who sank on his haunches and led the prayers, which, as far as Jermaine was concerned, was a smattering of Wollof and Arabic. He wrapped up in two minutes and the team echoed ‘amen’ and rubbed their palms on their faces before Assan nodded at Jermiane, who cleared his throat and  pulled at a braid, realizing he’ s never given a team talk before.

Always a first time, he reckoned.

‘Okay, I will keep this brief as you are all fired up. I will not play in the next game against Janta Bii as I won’t be here and,’ he nodded at his best friend, ‘neither will Tapha. I plan to skipper this side to victory. Forget the money. It is about bragging rights, it is about pride, it is about being ten feet tall. I expect each and every one of you to step up to the plate. I don’t want to be known as the visiting skipper who skippered Gui Gi to a defeat. If you don’t want this victory as badly as I do, feel free to take off your tops and hand them to me. I will execute my role as well as yours.’

He waited, breathing deeply.

‘Good, we’re all pulling in the same direction. Now let’s go pull Janta Bii apart. Come on!’

He launched himself in the air and headed an imaginary ball, his braids all over the place.

Most of his teammates followed suit.

Tapha thought he looked like the muscular version of Michael Mancienne.   

‘Where did that come from?’ he asked his best friend who took a swig of water and shrugged, ‘I would be lying through my teeth if I said I knew.’

By now, the sun was high in the sky, beaming scorching rays down on all.

The crowd on the sidelines has thickened and almost all faces were glistening with sweat.

Jermaine handed the envelope to the referee who, reasons best known to him, chose to dress in a haftan and trainers.

Jermaine wondered how he could have free leg movement but chose not to ask him.

Working his way into the ref’s bad books before kick off is as asinine as it could get.

The guy must deal with money on a regular as he counted the money in both envelopes in seconds, extracted his fee and shoved it in his haftan pocket.

‘Each half is thirty minutes,’ he explained, looking from one skipper to the other. ‘The break is ten minutes. I expect a good game as usual and maximum show of discipline and sportsmanship from both teams. May the best team win.’

Jermaine nodded and took the other skipper’s hand.

‘Welcome to    The Gambia- after this game,’ the guy grinned and Jermaine grinned back. ‘Thanks now and after this game.’

He looked back.

Everyone was in place, faces shiny with sweat and rigid as masks.

Tapha gave him a thumb up gesture as the referee shrilled his whistle and the derby game touched off.

After quarter of an hour, Jermaine had to give credit where credit is due.

Janta Bii were good. Infact, they were brilliant. They kept the ball well and it was a task to get it back from them. They only reason they were not ahead was they preferred the Arsenal method: walk the ball into the net. Twice, they have been in a position to put one past Bala but chose to execute one more pass and thus give their opponents time to regroup and hoof it out of the danger zone.

Jermaine’s partnership with Raul wasn’t clicking as it did yesterday at training and Kebba spent the half constantly shepherding Jermiane into blind alleys.

It was like he never kicked a ball in his life before.

By half time, Janta Bii had run so much rings around them it was a miracle no one pulled a ham string.

Jermiane had never been so relieved in his life when the whistle went. He was sucking in oxygen via his mouth and nose, top clinging to him like he took a dip fully clothed.

They spent five of the ten minutes half time break getting their breaths back and the other five to a ticking off from Assan.

‘We are lucky not to be 4-0 down,’ he raged, still breathing hard. ‘We all played like we just got out of bed. We might as well give them the money and go home.’

He paused and blew his cheeks out.

‘Do you guys want this as badly as I do?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Let’s go out there and show each other how badly we want this.’

The second half kicked off as the first half did-with Jermiane and co chasing the game.

It got worse with the half only ten minutes old when Janta Bii earned a free kick on the edge of the box and Kebba, of all people, thumped it through the wall and into the top right corner.

The place heaved.

Spectators invaded the pitch and it took a full five minutes for the game to get underway.

Janta Bii, with their noses in front, sharply switched their game plan. Off went the Arsenal approach and in came the Bolton one. Tackles flew in; balls were kicked out with a passion and the whole team defended corners. Tempers flared when Yous took out a player with a pernicious tackle and got booked for it. Jermaine reckoned if he hadn’t been bulging with muscles, he would have been issued with a beating right there and then. Few minutes later, the same player carried out the same tackle on Tapha, who got to his feet and grabbed him by the throat. Players from both sides circled in and Jermaine, being skipper, had to maintain the peace. The melee ate precious minutes and he wondered if the ref would make it up in added time.

He was able to pull Tapha to one side and firmly told him, ‘we’ve got a game to win, mate. Keep your head for all of us.’

‘Will get him after the game,’ he muttered, breathing hard. ‘Plonker!’

The ref booked both players and made them shake hands.

Dodou and Mbye came off to be replaced by Alieu and Dawda, the latter latching onto a long pass, danced past the left back and burst into the box. He chose to cross than shoot but Kebba, who got lot of inches on Jermiane, was able to head it away for a corner.

 

Janta Bii’s anywhere-will-do game approach rolled on but it was easy to tell it was one they haven’t mastered well. Erratically defending a slender lead doesn’t always come off good. This was prophesied with ten minutes to go. Jermaine played a one two with Raul, managed to sell the dummy to Kebba for the first time all afternoon and unleashed a shot that ricocheted off the arm of a player in the box.

The ref pointed to the spot, which Janta Bii players, led by their skipper, protested in vain. They protested so much Jermaine feared blows would fly. Fortunately, it didn’t.

Who was going to take this crucial penalty so late in the day? Score and you will be a hero. Miss and you will be remembered as the guy who froze when it mattered.

‘You take it as you won it,’ Assan said.

Jermaine’s mouth was dry as he placed the ball on the spot and took steps back, hands on his hips, heart thumping away.

The whistle shrilled and Jermaine hesitated, ran up and placed it at the left post.

The keeper, all of 6 foot 3, stretched out and beat it out with both hands. But he didn’t have the reflexes to recover and prevent Raul from blasting home the rebound.

His teammates mobbed him, Jermaine not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Like Janta Bii’s goal, this one had a pitch invasion and took a bit longer to clear.

Now it was Janta Bi on the back foot but they held out till the final whistle for much dreaded penalties.

‘Okay guys, I need five of you to do the honours,’ Assan said and everybody looked at their boots.

‘What, you scared now?’

‘Not scared,’ Bala spoke up. ‘I’m just not good at taking penalties. I will save a few.’

‘Okay, Bala has given us the assurance. Any volunteers?’

He looked around and smiled.

‘Okay, you’ve made it easy for me. Jermaine, Tapha, Yous, Ebrima and Me. I will take the first one.’

Jermaine’s heart sank. He looked all set to protest but Assan held his hand up.

‘I don’t wanna hear it, Jermaine. Put it in the net for me.’

Penalties are nerve wrecking. Ask any football fan. Winning on penalties is more of a relief, losing on penalties is so cruel. Matter of fact, no team deserved to win or lose on penalties. Whoever invented deciding games from the spot needs a lynching.

Janta Bii, so slick and a dazzle to watch on the pitch an hour ago, showed they were human after all. Bala flapped out a penalty and another hit the upright with such ferocity the whole goal frame shook, in between Assan and Jermaine netting.

‘Gosh, it is like they allergic to spot kicks,’ Jermaine hugged Tapha after he took his and opted for the far corner again. The keeper must have thought he was going to opt for the other end and watched helplessly as it rippled the net.

‘Let me put them out of their misery,’ Tapha got up to take the third kick. He spoke too soon and saw his kick saved.

Janta Bii netted twice and needed their opponents to miss their last kick to take it to nail-gnawing sudden death.

Yous had other ideas, though. He walked up the spot with a blank look on his dirt-creased face, his dirt-streaked top clinging to him for dear life, accentuating his broad chest and V-shaped back perfected by hours in the gym, the responsibility of winning a derby game resting on his broad, rugby player-like shoulders.

With a frame like his, he should be scoring tries or donning gloves, Jermaine reckoned.  

‘Dolleh! Dolleh!’ Some sections of the crow chanted and he thought he saw a flicker of a smile passed over Yous’ face.

The whistle went and Yous paused momentarily to looked up at the sky as if in prayer, turned and looked at the frenzied crowd  before running up and bulleting his kick so hard it seemed to go through the keeper rather than past the keeper. How it didn’t burst out of the net was a mystery.

He stood tall and clenched his fists, his biceps doubling in size.  

Gui Gi fans invaded the pitch, hugging their heroes.

It was total pandemonium and it dawned in on Jermaine what this win means for these frenzied lot.

This is what victorious fans of derby games feel like, he thought.

Hours later, after a bath and into fresh clothes, they headed for the vous where all encomiums were heaped on him, to his utter embarrassment.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ he held up a hand. ‘You all need to cut it out. I gave a good team talk and that’s about it. Raul and Bala saved the day; Yous won it for us and you lot did the rest. Ebrima, you played like your life was at stake!’  

‘Well,’ Ebrima shrugged. Any movement he makes, his flappy ears follow suit. ‘I know what it feels like not to be able to walk through the other end of the estate after a defeat and I was determined not to experience that again. In an interview, Steven Gerrard said what drives him on in Merseyside derby games is to be able to show his face around after a game.’

‘Ebs, are you on anything?’ Assan asked innocently.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How can you compare the biggest derby game in Britain, not to mention the world, to an estate one? Besides, with ears like yours, you are more Prince Charles than Stevie G!’

Everybody fell about laughing, Jermaine included, but hoping Assan won’t grass him out…  

For comments and suggestions, please swing me an email at: chelseacrazy@hotmail.com.