–Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken!
I’d done it.
–Fuck!
The best word. It wasn’t as loud as it should have been. They were afraid. They pillowed the shout. I didn’t though. I’d paid for it. He’d hit me right on one of the knobs of my spine. I couldn’t straighten. I couldn’t relax yet. It was over though. I’d made it. I unclenched my eyes.
–The word was made flesh!
I enjoyed the crunch of someone else’s pain.
Fuck was the best word. The most dangerous word. You couldn’t whisper it.
–Gee!
Fuck was always too loud, too late to stop it, it burst in the air above you and fell slowly right over your head. There was total silence, nothing but Fuck floating down. For a few seconds you were dead, waiting for Henno to look up and see Fuck landing on top of you. They were thrilling seconds—when he didn’t look up. It was the word you couldn’t say anywhere. It wouldn’t come out unless you pushed it. It made you feel caught and grabbed the minute you said it. When it escaped it was like an electric laugh, a soundless gasp followed by the kind of laughing that only forbidden things could make, an inside tickle that became a brilliant pain, bashing at your mouth to be let out. It was agony. We didn’t waste it.
–The word was made flesh!
Swish.
The forbidden word. I’d shouted it.
–From henceforth thou will be called Mickey.
The last one.
–Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken!
–Mickey!
It was all over now, we could get up from the fire; till next week. I straightened my back. It had been worth it. I was the real hero, not Liam.
–Ciúnas the Mighty will give you all new names next Friday, said Kevin.
But no one was really listening. He was just Kevin again. I was hungry. Fish on a Friday. We were supposed to use our names all week but we could never remember who was Gee and who was Shite. I was Fuck though. They all remembered that.
There wasn’t another Friday. We were all sick of being hit on the back with a poker by Kevin. He wouldn’t take his turn. He had to be the high priest all the time. Ciúnas had said, he said. It would have gone on longer if we’d all had a go with the poker, probably forever. But Kevin wouldn’t allow it and it was his poker. I still called him Zentoga after the others had stopped but even I was happy when it didn’t happen the next Friday. Kevin went off by himself and I went with him and pretended that I’d been up for him. We went to the seafront. We threw stones at the sea.
I ran out into the garden. The house wasn’t big enough. I couldn’t stay still. I did two laps; I must have gone real fast because I was back in the living room in time to see the action replay. I had to stay standing up.
George Best—
George Best—
George Best had just scored in the European Cup Final. I watched him running away, back to the centre circle; he was grinning but he didn’t look that surprised.
My da put his arm around my shoulders. He’d stood up to do it.
–Wonderful, he said.
He supported United as well, not as much as me though.
–Bloody wonderful.
Pat Crerand, Frank McLintock and George Best were up in the air. The ball was nearly on top of Frank McLintock’s head but it was hard to say who’d headed it. Probably George Best, because his fringe was flying out like he’d just swung his head to meet the ball and the ball looked like it was going away from him, not towards him. Frank McLintock looked like he was smiling and Pat Crerand looked like he was bawling crying but George Best looked just right, like he’d headed the ball and he was watching it going towards the net. He was ready to land.
There were hundreds of pictures in the book but I kept going back to this one, the first one. Crerand and McLintock looked like they were jumping in the air but George Best looked like he was standing, except for his hair. His legs were straight and a bit apart, like at ease in the army. It was as if they’d cut out a photograph of George Best and stuck it onto another one of McLintock and Crerand and the thousands of little heads and black coats in the stand behind them. There was no effort on his face. His mouth was only a little bit open. His hands were closed but not clenched. His neck looked relaxed, not like Frank McLintock’s; it looked like there were pieces of rope growing under the skin.
There was something else I’d just found out. There was an Introduction on page eleven, beside the page with the George Best photograph. I read it, and then the last bit, the last paragraph, again.
–When I was first shown the manuscript of this book, I was especially pleased to see how the records and statistics had been integrated with the general narrative—
I didn’t really know what that meant but it didn’t matter.
–The book certainly represents the happiest marriage of education and entertainment I can ever recall. You will enjoy it.
And under all that was George Best’s autograph.
George Best had signed my book.
My da hadn’t said anything about the autograph. He’d just given it to me and said Happy Birthday and kissed me. He’d left me to find it for myself.
George Best.
Not Georgie. I never called him Georgie. I hated it when I heard people calling him Georgie.
George Best.
His jersey was outside his nicks in the photograph. The other two had theirs tucked in. No one I knew tucked theirs in, even the ones that said that George Best was useless; they all wore their jerseys outside.
I brought the book in to my da to let him know I’d found the autograph and it was brilliant, easily the best thing I’d ever got for a present. It was called A Pictorial History of Soccer. It was huge, much fatter than an annual, real heavy. It was a grownup’s sort of book. There were pictures, but loads of writing too; small writing. I was going to read all of it.
–I found it, I told him.
My finger was in the book, where George Best’s autograph was.
My da was sitting in his chair.
–Did you? he said.—Good man. What?
–What?
–What did you find?
–The autograph, I told him.
He was messing.
–Let’s see it, he said.
I put the book and opened it on his knees.
–There.
My da rubbed his finger across the autograph.
George Best had great handwriting. It slanted to the right; it was long and the holes were narrow. There was a deadstraight line under the name, joining the G and the B, all the way to the T at the end and a bit further. It finished with a swerve, like a diagram of a shot going past a wall.
–Was he in the shop? I asked my da.
–Who?
–George Best, I said.
Worry began a ball in my stomach but he answered too quickly for it to grow.
–Yes, he said.
–Was he?
–Yes.
–Was he; really?
–I said he was, didn’t I?
That was all I needed, for certain. He didn’t get annoyed when he said it, just calm like he’d said everything else, looking right at me.
–What was he like?
I wasn’t trying to catch him out. He knew that.
–Exactly like you’d expect, he said.
–In his gear?
That was exactly what I’d have expected. I didn’t know how else George Best would have dressed. I’d seen a colour picture of him once in a green Northern Ireland jersey, not his usual red one, and it had shocked me.
–No, said Da.
–He, a tracksuit.
–What did he say?
–Just—
–Why didn’t you ask him to put my name on it?
I pointed to George Best’s name.
–As well.
–He was very busy, said my da.
–Was there a huge queue?
–A huge one.
That was good; that was right and proper.
–Was he in the shop just for the day only? I asked.
–That’s right, said my da.—He had to go back to Manchester.
–For training, I told him.
–That’s right.