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THE TIN BOY

Tale of a Scottish Football Misfit

iUniverse, Inc.

CHAPTER 1

FINAL KICK AY THE BAW

Govan Stadium, Glasgow Blue Crew n Glasgow Green Machine derby match, nil-nil. There's a minute left oan the clock but it'll probably be five or six; there's been a few casualties n the ref's had his hand in his poacket mair than a pervert wi Parkinson's sittin' stage side at a strip club.

It's ma first appearance fir the "big team" albeit as a late replacement fir Rodrigo Alvarez, oor young South American striker. Ah don't know how he lasted as long oot there. Those green n white bastards had been studdin' the hell oot ay the wee tanned fella's ankles n calves every other minute ay the game. Wankers. Peckin' away at him like a woodpecker oan an oak tree. Fair play tae wee Alvo though, keepin' the heid n gettin' oan wi the job at hand. None ay this divin' pish wi the weeman either like a lot ay these Latin types. Nope. Set ay baws oan him like a couple ay water melons. Fae the dugoot ah could hear the hatred echoin' in the screams ay oor fans every time "they" drapped the wee chap.

"Ya dirty hackin' bastard."

"Fir fuck's sake ref."

"Git that cunt aff."

Ah agreed wi aw ay it, but the weeman just goat up, dusted himself aff, even managin' a smirk tae appear oan his face that only riled them up mair.

Alvo wis a great advert fir the game, n loved the badge oan the front ay oor blue strip as much as he loved his ain wife; a wee Argentinian hottie by the way, skin as smooth as a billiard baw, lips oan 'er that wid've pished themsels laughing at Angelina Jolie's efforts, n ah had nae doubt she shat rose petals intae the bowl at their massive hoose in Bothwell. There wis even a rumor goin' aboot that he'd kissed the club badge mair times than his burd's juicy lips. That's how much he loved Glasgow Blue Crew Football Club.

Resilient the wee fella might've been, but the final tackle fae that bam McCluskey wid've been enough tae drap Brock Lesner the enormous Ultimate Scrappin' gorilla. The gaffer – big Walter Wallace – wis oot the dugout like a greyhound efter a fake rabbit. Ah thought the boss wis gonnae run right ontae the field n lamp the cunt himsel, but he stopped right at the edge ay oor team box beside the sideline, givin' the linesman whit fir. Half the crowd wir goin' mental but the other half wir a bit quiet, worried even. It wis a bad wan, n their wis nae doubt wee Alvo wid be spendin' mair than a few weeks up in the stand; his knee wis gubbed.

The lads in the luminous orange jaickets wir awready halfway across the field in the direction ay the Polisland Road end, stretcher in their hands. The ref had his hands full anaw, but wis gettin' right in aboot things, breakin' up a few scuffles, but he had pointed tae the penalty spot and there wis nae changin' that.

The gaffer finished givin' the linesman an ear bashin' n turned roon, his vision zoomin' like lasers right intae ma eyes, nearly burnin' a hole in ma retinas. He shouts.

"BILLY, TRACKIE AFF, YIR OAN WEEMAN."

Ah nearly asked him fir a few minutes so ah could shake aff the boner he'd jist gave me. Ah'd always dreamed ay gettin' oan the park fir any game never mind a derby match, n ah wis instantly excited. Fortunately ah wisnae too blessed in the troosers department so ah figured naebody wid notice ma rager.

Trackie tap n bottoms wir aff rapido, swifter than a wee virgin gettin' his gear aff efter hearin' the words "fancy yir Nat King."

Ah git tae the edge ay the field right beside the gaffer jist as the boys in orange are carryin' wee Alvo aff. He's awright, hands in the air wi his thumbs stickin' up. The crowd's goin' bonkers.

"THERE'S ONLY WAN RODDY ALVO," begins tae blare aw aroon the stadium.

Ah can tell the wee fella's in agony, but he's tough as a burnt sirloin. He's ma hero in case yi hadnae figured that oot by noo. He even manages tae give me a high-five oan the way by.

"Git intae them Billy Boy," he says. "Nice hard-on by the way."

He might be fae South America, but he's fair taken tae the Scottish lingo.

The gaffer glances doon at the wee bulge in ma shorts n starts shakin' his heid, tryin' tae keep a straight face, stayin' focused oan the task at hand, but ah could see he wanted tae start pishin' himsel.

"Ah'm jist a wee bit excited gaffer. Don't worry, ah'll no let yi doon."

"Yi better no, you're takin' the penalty Billy."

Ah nearly shat masel, n wi the blink ay an eye ma stonner wis away.

"Nae bother gaffer," ah said wi a wee wink.

He winked back, slapped me oan the back n aff ah toddled towards the penalty box.

The ref handed me the baw. Ma hands wir shakin' like a battery hen n ah wis feart ah wis gonnae drap it, but a few deep breaths sorted me oot.

"In through the nose, oot through the mooth," ah kept tellin' masel.

Ah placed the baw doon oan the spot. It sat up nice. Good start weeman. Ah took five steps back, ignorin' aw the shite I could hear comin' oot the mooths ay their manky fans. The big German fella, Helmut (an appropriate name if ever there wis wan) in goals fir they dobbers wis starin' me doon wi his Neanderthal face that wis jist designed fir a job oan the radio.

"Don't even acknowledge him weeman," ah said tae masel.

The ref gave a short peep oan his whistle. The fans ached wi anticipation. Ah hopped forward. Hopped? Whit the fuck? Ma right leg swung like it wis tryin' tae kick a school bully's bawbag intae the tap corner. Ma right leg? Ah'm a leftie. Swing n a miss. There's a massive gasp fae the crowd. Ah faw oan ma arse. Where the fuck's ma leg?

* * *

Ah bolt upright. Ah'm sweatin' like a Catholic priest under investigation. Ah'm in ma maw's hoose, in the spare room, no at Govan Stadium. Ah don't play fir the Blue Crew. The bed sheet underneath me is soaked. There's a big sweat ring aroon me that looks like the chalk ootline where a deid body used tae be. It's a weird shape though, missin' a bit. The only realistic part ay the dream wis ma right leg, gone fae jist below the knee. Reality comes floodin' back, n ma previous joy turns tae tears, again.

CHAPTER 2

TOES

Dreams, or should ah say, nightmares, wir almost a daily event. They wirnae always at night either. They'd sneak up oan me at any moment, even noddin' aff oan the bus or somethin'. That happened a few weeks back. Ah'd been at ma physiotherapy session. It'd been a tough wan, knackered me oot. Oan the way hame I must've dozed aff, heid probably bouncing aff the windae as well as the noddin' up n doon. Ah was in another world, back in Afghanistan, right before the incident. As soon as the explosion went aff ah bolted upright, lettin' oot a roar, ma whole body drippin' wi sweat, laughter echoing fae aw the seats ahint me. Ah ignored them, didnae even turn roon. Ah don't sit near the front ay the bus any mair if ah can avoid it. Noo ah git as close tae the back as ah can.

Yi hear ay folks losin' a leg n think tae yirsel, "ah don't think ah could deal wi that." They're right anaw. Ah'm strugglin', n ah don't jist mean in the physical sense. Naw, ah'm strugglin' upstairs, in the nut. It's killin' me. Why me? Ah keep askin' masel that. The next person that says, "mibby it was jist meant tae be," is gonnae git ma prosthetic leg firmly inserted in their arsehole, sideways. If God's plan fir me wis tae have ma leg blown aff while servin' ma country then he's wan sick bastard. That's why ah've given up oan religion. Load ay pish in ma mind noo.

Ah need tae stop feelin' sorry fir masel though, accept that there's nae goin' back n jist git oan wi things. Isabel is really helpin' a lot; she's ma physiotherapist. She's helped me so much wi the physical side ay things, but she's been an absolute star wi the emotional side anaw. She's goat six toes oan each foot. Showed me. Whipped aff the Reebok trainers n white ankle socks right in front ay me. Ah wondered whit she wis daen. Ah'd jist been complainin' tae her aboot bein' aw self-conscious wi people starin' at me aw the time, n havin' an ex-girlfriend who'd obviously been repulsed wi ma leg. Ah kinda stopped talkin', wondering why she wis takin' aff the socks n shoes, but partly hopin' the rest ay 'er gear wis comin' aff anaw (see, ah'm a total dreamer). Next minute she's sittin' back in a chair in the wee gymnasium, feet in the air wigglin' toes at me. It took me a wee while, coontin' in ma heid. Wan, two, three, four, five, SIX! Whit the fuck!

"Holy shite," wis aw ah could say.

"See, you're not the only one who's a little different, Billy," she replied, givin' me a wee smirk n a couple ay raised eyebrows.

"Better tae have twelve toes than eight."

"So, you'd rather have three legs than two?"

"Yi know whit ah mean. Ah'd raither have two full legs."

She jist let oot a sigh n shook 'er heid at me.

"The point is this, Billy. Most people have ten toes. I have twelve. Would you have known I had two extra if I hadn't shown you?"

"Of course no."

"OK, so by the time I am done with our sessions here, nobody is going to know you have a prosthetic leg. You might have the very slightest of limps, but it'll be under the leg of your trousers most of the time, like my toes under my shoes and socks. People who don't know you will have no idea about your leg. You'll blend in to society just like everyone else."

Isabel wis great. She made aw the sense in the world. Ah hadnae been wrang aboot ma ex-girlfriend Charlotte though. The cow dumped me right eftir ah goat back fae Afghanistan. Bitch ripped ma heart oot.

CHAPTER 3

THANK YOU TRIP TAE THE HOSPITAL

Ah hated people tryin' tae help me, especially the wans that knew aboot ma leg. Ma maw wis a different story but. She could dae whitever she wanted tae spoil me. See, ah knew she jist loved me. She wis feelin' sorry fir me like everbody else, but maws are jist different, n that's the end ay it. At twenty-three ah felt ah wis a wee bit auld tae be livin' wi Maw, but ah wisnae ready tae be back oan ma ain. Ah loved the wee touches; extra blanket oan the bed, slippin' a hot water bottle under the sheets afore ah called it a night, n always makin' sure there wis a good stock ay Irn Bru in the fridge – ma hangover cure ay choice. Ah couldnae cook worth a fuck anyway, n she did the finest fried breakfast yi could feast yir eyes oan.

"So physio's aw done, but yir payin' Isabel a wee surprise visit then?" said ma maw, givin' me a wee smile as she flipped over the rashers ay bacon in the fryin' pan.

"Aye, she's done wonders fir me. Ah jist wanted tae say a wee personal thanks. Ah don't think ah said enough at the end ay ma final session."

"That lassie's fantastic. Ah can hardly believe how she's transformed yi," said Maw, almost spacin' oot a wee bit, like she wis reflectin' back tae the beginnin'. Her eyes started fillin' up.

"She's the best. Ah don't know whit ah wid've done withoot 'er. And you of course Maw. Ah mean, ah don't know whit ah wid've done withoot you anaw. N when a say Isabel is the best, ah mean she's the best other than you, of course," ah said, backpeddlin' like fuck.

Maw jist laughed. She knew whit ah meant.

"Wid yi like me tae come wi yi the day?" she said. "Mibby ah could git that Isabel lassie a wee bunch ay floowers."

"Naw, it's OK Maw, ah'll pick 'er up some chocolates n floowers masel afore ah git tae the hospital. Ah appreciate yi wantin' tae give yir regards, but ah really want this tae be a personal thing. Anyway, ah really dae have tae learn tae stand oan ma ain two feet" ah said, givin' her a wink n a cheeky grin.

She laughed oot loud this time. She loved it when ah made jokes, particularly wans that wir tae dae wi the injury, but 'er eyes wir still glassy; she knew it wis still a brave face ah wis puttin' oan, n a mechanism ah used tae combat the depression.

* * *

Ah lapped up the remains ay tomato sauce n saft egg yolk wi the corner ay ma pan breed toast, washin' it doon wi a wee swally ay coffee n ah wis done.

"Home run as usual, Maw."

"Anytime son, yi need tae keep yir strength up."

She gathered up ma empty plate fae the kitchen table, dunked it in in the basin ay soapy water, a quick couple ay wipes wi the wet cloth, n ontae the same blue plastic dish rack she'd had since ah wis a wee boy.

Ah goat up slowly n gave 'er a cuddle afore ah headed oot tae the hospital. She wis like a python, squeezin' the life oot me like ah wis a rabbit or somethin'. She wisnae cryin', but ah could still picture her tears bouncin' aff ma shoulders like they had durin' previous embraces.

"Ah'll see yi when ah git back, Maw."

She gave me that resigned nod, knowin' a trip tae the pub fir a few pints oan ma ain wid be oan ma agenda afore ah made it back tae the hoose.

It was a nice mornin', fir early September anyway. The sun wis tryin' tae peek its heid oot fae ahint a big grey cloud shaped like the continent ay Africa that looked like it wis dyin' tae spill its guts doon oan everybody, but fir noo it wis behavin' itsel. Ah jist hoped it stayed that way until ah made it ontae the rid forty-four bus.

Ah limped ma way doon West End drive n hung a right ontae Bellvue Crescent. There wis barely a limp anymair, ah jist felt it wis worse than it wis n obvious tae everybody that ah wis hidin' somethin'. The street was quiet other than a wee auld man in a tartan bunnet walkin' his little Jack Russell. The dug was starin' me doon, lookin' at ma face, then doon at ma leg, then back intae ma eyes as it squirted oot a yellow stream ontae the bottom ay a green lamppost. Ah hated they wee fuckers n their Napoleon complex. If it could've talked ah'm sure it wid've made some comment aboot havin' three mair legs than me.

Ah needed tae chill oot a wee bit. Ah wis gettin' angry wi everythin', wi the world in general. Ah mean, whit wis the point in gettin' mad at a tiny dug takin' a leak? Efter aw, who wis ah tae be mouthin' aff aboot a Napoleon complex. That summed me right up n that wis afore ma accident. Aw five feet seven ay me always tried tae be tough n compensate. Toughness wis like ma Ferrari for they rich guys wi small cocks. It had only goat worse when ma real handicap had kicked in, but it wis time tae chill oot noo ah wis a hunner times better than ah had been.

Ah took the left up the lane towards Cardinal Newman school, readin' the graffiti oan the fences oan each side, statements aboot who loved who, various emblems ay the local "B-Hill Boys" gang, n fitba-related religious bigotry like "FTP," aimed at annoyin' the Catholic pupils ay the school (ah was surprised naebody had scored it oot awready).

A group ay rowdy teenagers kicked a baw aboot the ash park. There wis aboot seven or eight ay them. Wan ay them wis quite the player, runnin' rings roon aw the others. They wir the wans makin' aw the noise, no very happy wi their skillful pal.

"Pass it ya wee wank."

"Greedy cunt."

"Smell yir maw," said the last wan that goat nutmegged, holdin' his middle n index fingers under his nostrils as he now stared at the back of the fourteen year old version ay Willie Henderson. They clocked me, went quiet real quick, checkin' oot ma leg. They knew who ah wis. Ah felt like the Western villain who'd jist burst through the wooden swing doors ay the saloon, everyone silent n stoppin' whit they wir daen, including the piano player.

"Yi've got some good skills weeman," ah said, fightin' ma inner thoughts tae tell them tae stop lookin' at ma fuckin' leg.

"Thanks Billy," said the wee fella.

Ah thought aboot stoppin' n talkin' fir a bit, but just kept goin'. Ah didnae need any sympathy talk and ah definitely didnae want tae miss ma bus.

A sprinkle ay rain started. Nothing major, jist enough tae be annoyin'. Ah hurried as best ah could, over the railway bridge at the back ay the Busby Sports Centre, then up ontae the main road. Three people wir sheltered in the clear Perspex bus stop so ah knew ah wis still in good time fir the forty-four.

A young couple holdin' hands didnae even acknowledge me as ah got tae the stop, too busy gazin' intae each others eyes, nae doubt wishin' they were auld enough tae own their ain hoose (well, bedroom really). Ah wis sure the young boy wis hopin' the back seat wis gonnae be free so he could slip his young blonde burd a wee sneaky finger or mibby git her tae rub his baws, even if his jeans had tae act as a temporary barrier.
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE TIN BOY by Brandon Wilkinson. Copyright © 2013 Brandon Wilkinson. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
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