Flash Fiction 1st Place: Let’s Talk About United by Julia Paillier

Winter 2022

Tim and I follow you out of the church to the pre-recorded strains of Glory, Glory Man United. Your anthem.

“We did him proud, mate,” says Uncle Bob later, when we gather in The Swan. He pumps my hand, gripping it with sausage  fingers, soft, pink flesh oozing around his signet ring.  “Bloody proud. Not a dry eye in the place.”

The lads are working on it, he says. Seeing about a plaque in United’s memorial garden because you deserve it better than anyone he knows.  “Lived for the game, your dad.”

“It’s true,” I say.

2020

Sitting in a corner of the residents’ lounge, in grey sweatpants that balloon at the calves, you are smaller than I remember; someone has parted your hair too low and stubborn strands stand to attention, refusing to lie down. You look at me unseeing, confused, crumpling into your wingback chair like a cornered child.

“Dad?”  

I watch you frown, grope frantically for recognition, accept defeat with a grace I didn’t know you had.

“Dad, it’s me, Jonathan.”

Swift to the rescue, a woman in a maroon tunic comes over, stoops protectively at your side. “Know the names of all them footie players, don’t you though, my lovely?” She throws me a wink. “He’s been showing us his scrapbooks – what this one doesn’t know about the Red Devils isn’t worth knowing eh?” She lowers her voice. “It’s a funny thing, memory. Don’t let it upset you, cock.”

2000

I push open the door of the snug, hit by the rush of heat after the freezing uphill walk from the station. Tim follows me in. From your usual place, you nod in our direction, then glance around, embarrassed, tapping your fag packet on the scratched wooden table.

This wasn’t in the script, I know. A son doing some daft made-up course at a uni down south and, to cap it all, playing for the other team.

We sit over pints of lager at a table in the corner, and the silence hangs heavy and awkward until you break it with “United’s giving it some welly this season, eh lads?”

1990

Down the reccy on Mill Road, heart pounds, boots thud, nerve fails. Come on, soft boy. Missing yet another chance to tackle, I swallow my spit and watch you turn, disappointed, from the sideline, your broad back hunched against the biting wind.

1980

Saturday afternoon, after the match. When your key scrapes in the lock the room goes still, save for the thumping beat of Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall’.

Mum puts down the washing she is folding. Fear is the smell of her cologne until we hear you whistling as you hang up your coat. 

Your kisses fall on us like little blessings.

King of the world, you scoop me up. I ride exalted on your shoulders. Remember this: today, together, we are champions.