Jungle Shark: Short Stories by Steven Loton Page 2

  “Yeah, yeah I know,” said Jack, feeling a pain in his gut. “You got a cigarette?”

  The player sighed and ran off. As Jack was leaving the pitch, a man in a long coat was standing on the sidelines. As he approached, Jack saw his face beneath the hat. It was the sports agent, ‘Arry, the bastard.

  “What do you want, ‘Arry?” asked Jack. “I paid my debts; I don’t owe you shit.”

  “Firstly, you do still owe us, but we don’t want it back.” He checked his wrist watch. “Come in for a meeting.”

  “Meeting, eh?” enquired Jack. “Sounds like business talk for bullshit talk.”

  “We been watching you, Jack, you still got it.”

  “Don’t waste my time,” said Jack, releasing a blob of spit onto the grass.

  “You got better things to do with your ‘time’, Jack?”

  “No.”

  “Then come in,” said ‘Arry pulling open the top on a twenty-box of cigarettes. Jack took two, slipped one between his lips and slid the other behind his ear.

  “Okay, okay.” ‘Arry lit Jack up. “Hey, lend me a ten.”

  The next morning, Jack woke up with a hangover and some stubble across his face. He scratched his belly and stood, wondering what the hell happened last night. The phone rang, and he found it under the couch.

  “Yeah?”

  “Jack, you were supposed to be here at eleven,” said the voice on the other end. “There’s a car out front waiting for you. Get in it.”

  Jack peeled the curtain back and took a peek. There was a limo parked on the corner. It was a stretch, white, with blacked-out windows. Class.

  Jack shaved, showered, dressed and went down. He made sure the neighbours were watching before he climbed into the limo. Jack looked for the booze in the booze cabinet. Drinks cabinet. No luck. The limo started up, and the engine sounded like a cat purring. It pulled out, drove through town, and twenty minutes later it pulled up. Jack reached into his pocket to tip the driver. No luck there either. He signed his name on a napkin instead, grinned, handed it to the driver and then got out. The limo drove off, as the crumpled napkin came flying from the driver’s window.

  Jack found the office on the third floor. He walked straight in without knocking. Johnson shot up and clutched his chest like he was having a heart attack.

  “Hell Jack, don’t you knock?” he gasped.

  “You’re expecting me artchya?”

  “Siddown siddown, son,” he said pointing to the chair.

  “‘Son’, shit we’re almost the same age.”

  Jack took the seat across from Johnson. Sat beside him was ‘Arry, the agent. The office was humid and stuffy. A window needed cracking. Or somebody needed a shower.

  “Let’s cut to it, Jack…” said Johnson.

  “Wait,” said Jack raising a hand. “Let’s hear some bullshit first. Pour me a drink, light me a cigar, flash some cash, show me some bullshit before you get serious.”

  “We haven’t got time for that now, Jack,” insisted Johnson. “Let’s talk business. We’re in a relegation battle. It’s a dog fight. We need at least ten points to stay up. It’s never been done before.”

  “So, sign some young star, from the continent,” said Jack glancing around for a sandwich or something.

  “Shit, Jack, the transfer window is closed. Do you even keep up with the newspapers anymore?”

  Jack looked up at the ceiling. A spider was upside down.

  Johnson continued, “We been watching you, Jack, you still got it. All you need is to get your fitness back up.”

  “I don’t know, man,” said Jack, scratching his head. “You got a drink, beer or something?”

  “’Fraid not, Jack, you’re off the booze now,” insisted Johnson. “Smokes too. No drugs either. You’re clean.”

  Jack rocked back on his chair as if hugely offended, then he stood up, sharply.

  “OH, AM I, HUH? AND I GUESS WOMEN ARE OFF THE MENU TOO, HA?”

  “Women are fine, Jack.”

  Jack sat down. “Well okay then,” he said, relieved.

  “You got a woman, Jack?” A hint of doubt was in Johnson’s voice.

  “No,” said Jack, slipping off his shoe and scratching his toe. “But I was just checking.”

  Finally, ‘Arry spoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “We got the contract drawn up.” He slid it across the desk and in front of Jack. “Four thousand per week, Jack. Three months work. You’ll be a rich man.”

  “A millionaire?”

  “Not quite,” said ‘Arry shaking his head.

  “Then I want five thousand per week.”

  “Don’t get greedy, Jack.”

  Jack stood up and walked toward the window. Looking out onto the city, he said, “Now it’s six thousand.”

  “We don’t need you that bad, Jack,” said Johnson picking up the phone and dialing. “The deal is over. Dead.”

  Jack spun on his heels. “Don’t be hasty now. It’s a deal, four thousand per week. Now let’s crack out the champagne and celebrate.”

  Jack did a little dance on the rug.

  “’Fraid not, Jack,” insisted Johnson, placing the phone receiver down. “You got training now.”

  There was a training kit waiting for Jack in the changing room. He got changed and jogged out onto the pitch. His teammates were already out there. They were all tall and lean. They seemed excited about something, but Jack had no idea what. One with no hair and bushy eyebrows came running up with his hand out.

  “Hey, Jack, join in, we’re running drills.” He jogged off toward some tiny cones on the grass. “Come on, man.”

  “Yeah yeah, I’m coming,” said Jack, walking over.

  Jack joined in the training session, but they moved the ball around too fast. They were all fit, healthy and bursting with energy. For them, running was fun. They ran while smiling. It was too much for Jack, whose heart felt like it was about to explode from his chest. He lacked energy and desire. In his mind he was still fit, still a champ. But the mind plays tricks.

  Two hours later, the team were in the changing room. Jack stepped into the fancy shower. His whole body ached. He pressed a button, and hot water powered down onto his head. He felt amazing beneath the warm water, and any fears he had quickly dripped away with the water. He stepped out and toweled off.

  Saturday’s game arrived, and Jack was on the bench. The team was 1-0 down with fifteen minutes left of the ninety. The manager, Robbie Carriage, waved Jack over. Jack stood up and jogged over. Robbie pulled Jack in and spoke into his ear.

  “Jack, there are ten thousand fans here.” He glanced up at the stands. “I’m putting you on. I have faith in you, Jack. Don’t make me look bad, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Jack facing the ground.

  “Now get out there and play just behind the front two.” He patted Jack on the back. “Hang in there looking for space and let a few shots off, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The board went up, and Jack got subbed on. There was a chorus of boos as he stepped onto the pitch. Jack waved at the fans. The crowed were on his back already, goddammit. He had had a career of fans being on his back. They never let up. It was a constant battle. He jogged into the center circle and hung there, while the ball was out wide with the left back. Then the ball was whipped into the box, but a towering defender easily headed it. Then the ball was at Jack’s feet. He played a little one-two, got it back, stepped over and hit a thirty-yard shot with his left foot. The ball flew into the top corner. The crowd were stunned into silence. Jack raised his arms, but he didn’t want to waste his energy celebrating so he just walked back to the center circle. The opposition’s support booed loudly. The final score 1-1.

  A few months passed, and Jack was getting into a rhythm. He now showed up to training on time, his cardiovascular had improved and he was able to run drills with the rest of the team. He had scored nine goals in the league and two in cup competitions. The team was three points clear from relega
tion and into the Rumbelows Cup final. Life was good. Jack got a bonus and even started signing autographs on match day. He was no longer on the bench, and he got a run starting in the first team. It stayed like this for a few weeks then Jack’s form suddenly dipped.

  ‘Arry found Jack in the pub on the corner of Vine Street. Jack had one woman under each arm and was wearing a button-down Hawaiian shirt. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth and a little straw trilby hat on his head.

  “Jack, let’s talk,” said ‘Arry sitting on a stool.

  “Pay the ladies so they can leave.”

  Tammy stood up and jerked her head back. “Hey we’re not prostitutes, ya know.”

  “Really,” said ‘Arry, “can you spell it?”

  “No, but what’s that got to do with anything?” she said with one hand planted on her hip.

  “Okay then, just leave.”

  But nobody moved. Jack flipped his wallet and threw out some notes on the bar. Tammy’s hand reached out and snatched the cash.

  “Let’s pick this up later, ladies,” said Jack, smiling.

  Tammy swallowed her cocktail before leaving. Lyn just walked off giggling at nothing.

  “How’s training going, Jack?”

  “Shit, we’re out of relegation, and I’m hot property again.” He slapped ‘Arry on the back. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “You haven’t scored in five games,” said ‘Arry, nodding at the barman for a drink. “You’ve been missing training. You’re back on the booze.”

  “Like shit I am.”

  The barman laid a pint of larger down in front of Jack.

  “That’s not mine.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Jack; you got the final next week. It’s the biggest game of your career. If you impress in that game, you may get another contract for next season.”

  Jack took a slug of the pint just as the barman laid ‘Arry’s drink down.

  “Relax, I got this,” insisted Jack.

  “I hope so.”

  ‘Arry took a tug of his beer then exited the bar. Jack was alone. Suddenly he felt down, morose, depressed even. He shook his head, and then looked around. Is this what life was? Some small highs and many lows? Jack’s mobile rang twice. It was Tammy, the prostitute. He let it ring out. Maybe ‘Arry was right. Maybe he should pull it together. He didn’t want to be a loser for the rest of his life. Jack thought about his father. A great man, according to his mother, but really he was a huge turd. A total waste of space. Jack’s father had been constantly angry at home. Outside of the house, he was kind and friendly to the neighbours and to the postman. He even pretended to like animals and small children. But behind closed doors, he was a mean son of a bitch. He drank all night and beat Jack regularly.

  Jack made it home, lay on the bed and tried something that he had never tried before. He clasped his hands together and prayed. He prayed for a friend. A good soul in his life. Some kindness, some love. Then there was a gentle knock on the door. He sat up excitedly. Maybe it was a long-lost family member or a good friend. His prayers were answered. Good was good. He opened the door. Tammy was standing there in her micro skirt and high boots.

  “Jack, you still owe me five hundred. I want my dough,” she said, jabbing out her hand.

  “Please not tonight, Tammy,” he said shaking his head. “I paid you already. I have training early tomorrow.”

  “Training, ha,” she laughed. “Don’t be silly, you’re finished. I should find myself a young footballer. You know, one time I made it with Dwayne Pooney. He pays on time, and he’s class on the pitch.”

  “He couldn’t lace my boots,” snapped Jack.

  “Neither can you, old man.”

  “Watch it, Tammy,” he said angrily. “I’ve been saving up my sperm for weeks now. It’s a boxer’s technique. I’m on edge, I can blow.”

  “You couldn’t blow a balloon.”

  “You certainly can. I can vouch for that.”

  Tammy slapped Jack across the cheek. Jack smiled.

  “Not even in my top ten, baby. Now remove yourself.”

  Tammy stormed off down the hall. She rang on all of the neighbours’ doors and screamed continually until the elevator arrived. She climbed in, and the doors closed. The neighbours had all come out from their homes, and Jack apologised. He went back inside, climbed into bed and had a good long, deep sleep. That would be the last time he attempted praying.

  Jack spent the next week waking up early and getting a jog in before training. There were some good-looking females on his jogging route as well as some not-so-good-looking ones. Jack used to slow down and stretch when he saw a looker and speed up when he saw a non-looker. Training went well that week. His touch was always there, but he was building up his cardio once more, just like the old days. Jack felt like he was back.

  The Rumbelows Cup final arrived. Three p.m. kick off. The team was in the changing room, before the game. Nerves were setting in among the younger players, so Jack stood up.

  “Listen, fellas” he tapped his boots against the wall to get their attention. “Listen up. I‘m the senior player, so I should give you kids a pep talk. I know you’re nervous.”

  Jerry looked up, “I’m not.”

  “Okay,” Jack continued, “you may not be, but the others are.”

  A voice came from the shower room. “We’ve been in finals before. Nobody’s nervous. Hey is there any crap paper out there…?”

  Jack strolled around the changing room leisurely. He had no pants on.

  “This is the final, lads. We need to show guts and strength. We need to close in on the ball quickly when we lose possession. We need to break quickly when we have the ball, and most importantly, we need to get the ball to me in and around the area.” Jack paused. “ARE YOU WITH ME, BOYS? GET THE BALL TO MY FEET.”

  Then the manager walked into the changing room. “Sit down, Jack,” he commanded.

  “Wait a minute I’m giving a captain’s team talk.”

  “You’re not the captain.”

  “Maybe I should be,” said Jack dragging on his pants.

  “Don’t be stupid, Jack, You couldn’t captain a rubber dingy boat.”

  Jack sat down, and the manager gave his team talk. Frankly, Jack thought it was pretty useless. But he was starting, so he laced up his boots and jogged out with the rest of the team. He did some warm-up exercise while sucking on a Lucozade bottle.

  The game kicked off, and the crowd roared loudly. Jack stayed just behind the top two strikers. He picked up the ball and laid it off. It got intercepted, and some jeers rang out. Few minutes later, he picked it up again and laid off another bad pass. Damn. He didn’t want to get into a bad rhythm. Football was like that. A few bad passes, and your mind wanders. Suddenly, the opposing team went up the other end, and a cross flew into the box. There was a scramble, and the ball rolled into the net. One down when halftime came, and there was another team talk from the manager.

  “Well, boys, that was a terrible half. I don’t like to name names but Jack, you really were a pile of shit out there.”

  Jack stood up. “Hey, I didn’t let that goal in. I’m not a defender.”

  “It’s lucky for us you’re not.”

  “I can’t get into the game where I am. You need to put me up front,” he said pointing at the manager. “Manage me for Christ’s sakes, man. You have the classiest player this country has ever seen at your disposal, and you’re letting these two arseholes play up front.” Jack glanced at Jerry. “No offence, Jerry.”

  Jerry grunted.

  “YOU WANNA GO UP FRONT, OLD MAN?” screamed the manager.

  “If you ask nicely, I may just do that.”

  “Okay, you got twenty minutes to show me what you got. Don’t mess this up.”

  “Last time I made a mess was when I was five in my pants.”

  The second half kicked off, and Jack drifted up front with one man behind him. The ball got sprayed out wide, and a cross swung in. Jack jumped, got a head to it. The ball
darted through the air and rattled off the cross bar. A giant defender cleared it far up the pitch, and then he jogged to Jack.

  “Mate, you’re shit,” he hissed.

  “That’s original.”

  “You’re still shit.”

  “So is your mum.”

  The ball was up the other end, and it fell to their striker. He drilled it into the net, and Jack’s team were two down. Jack looked at the manager just as the manager glanced at his watch. The game kicked off again. Jack touched it once, put it through the defender’s legs, dropped his shoulder, touched it left and hit a twenty-five-yard shot with his left foot. The ball fizzed of the grass and flew into the bottom corner. Jack ran off, pulled his shirt over his head and celebrated.

  Somehow, that crowd started to chant Jack’s name. It had never happened before. It gave him some gas. Made him feel good. The crowd was toying with his emotions. His whole career they had hated him. But sports fans were fickle. All they needed was some reward, and they could turn. After all, they paid money for the seats. Why shouldn’t they be rewarded?

  The ball was drilled low across the middle of the park. It was picked up and swung across toward the corner flag. A cross looped in, got headed out. Jack saw it coming on the edge of the box, and as the ball dropped he peppered a half volley straight into the top corner. Jack skidded along his knees in celebration, and the team jumped all over him. He was on fire.

  The game continued to move at pace, and Jack’s lungs were fading. The other team got an equalizer, and he looked up at the clock. Eight-five minutes. The game was drawn at 2-2. He bent over to inhale and exhale. That felt good. Then the whistle blew. His team had a corner. Jack jogged into the box slowly. The corner was whipped in with pace and swerve. Jack saw the ball curling into the box. It was just behind him. Jack turned, jumped and hit a bicycle kick volley. The net rippled behind him. Hat trick. He peeled off and tore his shirt off, swinging it above his head in celebration. The team saw out the final few minutes until the whistle blew. Game over. They won the cup. Jack was man of the match.