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He sounded vague. “A few irons in the fire.”
“Look, you need a break, and I need your help, Jacob. You still interested in football?”
“I guess so,” he said listlessly.
“Come to the match with me Saturday. It’s a job, and I can pay you as an expert. ‘Football from the stands’ sort of thing. ‘The fan’s POV.’ It’s a new idea. And it’ll be really good meeting up with you again.”
“Okay.”
We met up just outside the grounds. Jacob looked drawn but had a big smile on his face when he saw me. I was glad to see him. We shook hands. You don’t hug one another unless you’re a footballer on the field.
“Tell me about Bristol Rovers. I’ve looked up something—founded in 1883, owned by some Middle East bugger, known as ‘the Pirates’ in League One, that’s the third tier of English football.”
“We call them the Gas.”
“Heavens, why?”
“The original team was based at Eastville Stadium, which was near the gasworks, but now we’re here at Horfield and the gasworks are long gone.”
“See how I need you, Jacob.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“Of course I do. You’re a mate.” And I ruffled his hair affectionately. “Come on. Let’s get some seats.”
Jacob looked horrified. “You can’t watch from seats. You’ve gotta be in the stands to really appreciate the game.”
So it was in the stands that we stood, amidst the sweaty hoi polloi, and cheered and groaned at the right moments, or at least when the others did, as I had no idea of what was going on. But Jacob was a fount of knowledge and explained the offside rule and why the referee must be totally blind not to have seen it when the opponents, Swindon Town, scored. I surreptitiously noted all this down and explained to a curious fellow stander that I was making notes for my son who was at home with a bad cold and was so upset at missing the match. At this the guy started telling me his views, which sometimes corresponded with Jacob’s and at others were diametrically opposed. So we swayed and chanted and raised the roof, except of course there wasn’t one when Bristol Rovers equalized.
“We were Football League Trophy finalists in 2007,” said my new friend.
“And in 1990,” added Jacob.
“That’s a long time back,” I said, which didn’t go down too well, as both of them thought it sounded like a criticism. Then Bristol scored again and all was forgotten in the general jubilation.
And that’s how it remained. Bristol Rovers 2, Swindon Town 1.
Jacob wanted to go somewhere else afterwards, but I explained how I had to go back to write up my/our story. I was genuinely disappointed, but it was a valid excuse. So I paid him £30, which he was very reluctant to take, but I told him the “story” was really his and he should be paid for it, not by me but by the paper. So he took it, and I wondered if he was really hard up but just too proud to admit it.
As we parted, I said, “Jacob, you’re my oldest and dearest friend. If there’s anything I can do or if you just want to talk, I’m here to listen whenever I can.”
He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder, but I swear there were some embryonic tears in his eyes as he wandered away.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Perhaps we can meet up,” I shouted at his retreating back, and he waved without turning around.
I phoned in my copy to the paper. “It’s a bit unusual,” said the editor, “but who knows, it might catch on. ‘Football from the Stands.’” He rang off.
Now I genuinely meant to meet up with Jacob, but in the middle of the day, my phone rang.
“Bristol Gazette,” I said.
“Look,” said a voice. “This Spanish do was a complete and utter washout. I’m flying back first thing tomorrow. Are you free, and if so, can we meet?”
“Lex! Of course I’m free, or if not I’ll make myself free.”
“My car’s at Heathrow, so I’ll pick it up and hopefully see you early in the afternoon. To save you hanging around, there’s a spare key with the woman next door. Just say ‘Lex expects’ and she’ll let you have it. If, as you say, you’re free, we can drive out somewhere and spend the rest of the day together.”
There was a pause, which I filled. “And the night.”
