GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2022/23
NICHOLAS PETTY
‘Lino has sat on his glasses’
LINO IS THE KIND OF GUY WHO TURNS UP ON A COLD SUNDAY MORNING TO RUN THE LINE FOR BROOKLAND FC, even though Captain doesn’t text him until late on a Saturday night, a text that gets later and later, it’s no more than a courtesy now, because even if Captain weren’t to text, Lino would still turn up. He hasn’t missed a game in six years.
Lino doesn’t get paid to run the line for Brookland FC. Not like Ref, who gets £50 per game. An accredited linesman is not mandated by the league. Typically, a sub runs the line for the opposition. Oppo Linos are inexperienced, biased, and cause arguments. Brookland FC is the only team in the league with a dedicated linesman. And he is fair. And he is dedicated.
Lino has all the proper officiating gear, including a regulation flag and an array of shirts, even the fluorescent pink shirt they use in the Premier League for abnormal colour clashes. The pink shirt is too tight for him. It makes him look like a scoop of strawberry fucking jelly, he once overheard Keeper say. Keeper, himself, is fat, fatter even than Lino, but the right kind of fat, tightly fat, the sort of fat that can be mistaken for muscle, or at least strength. Lino knows he is the wrong kind of fat, fat in all the wrong dimensions: his hips, his thighs. Fat that can’t be mistaken for anything else but fat. Lino doesn’t shower after the games because he’s rushing off, or has a shower-in-a-can, or some other excuse.
Lino wears glasses with photochromic lenses. He needs them to drive, shop, walk around, and of course to run the line for Brookland FC.
Lino suspects the team believe him to be a pervert or, worse, a paedophile. Once, he drove a junior player to an away game. Lino didn’t know what to say so they passed the journey without talking. He glanced at the boy every few minutes, to check he was okay, and sometimes the boy glanced back. Halfway through the trip, Lino realised he had been playing Smooth FM, a Barry White special. That’s the only occurrence Lino can recall that provides some basis for the team’s line of thinking. More likely it’s just the look of him in his pink officiating kit; or the fact he doesn’t shower; or because he’s obviously got nothing better to do on the weekend; or because he wears glasses with photochromic lenses, which he needs to run the line for Brookland FC. Lino is not a pervert and whole-heartedly not a paedophile.
Lino always parks on a residential road outside the ground so as to avoid the muddy ball hitting his red SEAT Leon, which he cleans every Saturday. Captain parks nearby. Today, they arrive at the same time. For as long as possible, and for no particular reason he can identify, Lino pretends not to have seen Captain, but they end up reaching the gates at exactly the same time. As they walk towards the breeze block changing rooms, Captain asks how’s life and Lino replies, it’s fine, and you? Can’t complain, Captain says. It’s in moments like these that Lino wonders if he has misjudged Captain. He’s not so bad off the pitch, depending on how you look at it, could be his real side. Either that or the opposite is true. Because when the whistle blows, Captain certainly can complain. He can complain about everything. His bad discipline infects the rest of the team, especially Keeper, who is basically lawless. Lino thinks Captain is a poor role model, but it’s not his place to say, and so he doesn’t. When they get to the clubhouse, Lino says good luck, but Captain doesn’t hear him over Keeper’s shouting.
Lino uses the officials’ changing room. It is cold, stony and about the size of a small garden shed, far too cramped for the wielding of Ref’s genitalia, a weekly appointment. Lino respects Ref on a professional basis. As professional as you can call whatever this is. Ref has officiated higher divisions in the past, once or twice in Conference North. A couple of times, Ref has complimented Lino on his decisions and general conduct. They are about the only compliments Lino has received in his time running the line for Brookland FC. Lino, not so much dreams, but imagines running the line for a proper game. The FA Cup final. Or the 3rd round of the Johnstone Paint Trophy. Truth be told, Lino doesn’t know why he wants to officiate a proper game. It would make him sick with nerves. But he does want to. Maybe because then Captain and Keeper would see him on TV and say, look, that’s Lino, way up high. Something like that.
Lino overhears today’s team-talk through the walls. It’s a big game. If Brookland win each of their last 6 matches, they will enter a promotion playoff. Typically, Brookland lose or draw every other game, and they lost last week, putting them in this situation, and before that they were in poor form, so Lino thinks reaching the promotion playoff is unlikely. But Captain and Keeper are confident of winning all six games. Their confidence is astonishing.
Lino faces the corner of the room to change, exposing the best of himself to Ref. He has to take off his glasses to put on his pink shirt. The stretchy material squeezes over his head and constricts his lungs. But it makes him feel strangely athletic. For a moment, before he turns and compares himself to Ref, who is tall and slim, and before he goes out and mixes with the players, he wonders if his diet is working and he is in okay shape. When he sits down he feels and hears a faint crack-crack.
Lino has sat on his glasses.
Lino comes out of the changing room. He can see the back of Ref’s head in reasonable detail – the patches of thinness, the clods of hair product – but beyond Ref it is a blurry sea of grey, green and brown, with streaks of Brookland white and Oppo blue. Lino squints into the distance. He can just about make out the shape of the squat roofs of the neighbouring estate and the rush of traffic on the bypass. Otherwise, very little. Ref turns and says he’s never seen Lino without his glasses. Lino tells him that he both forgot them and broke them, and Ref doesn’t bother asking: well which is it then? Ref says that a sub can run the line if it’s a problem. Lino says his glasses were more of a fashion statement anyway.
Lino knows all the flag signals. There aren’t many. Raise the flag, wave the flag. That’s about it. But Lino does them properly, with what he hopes is authority, or at least some kind of professionalism. His favourite signal is for a goal. It’s not just a signal, it’s a movement. He must point the flag at the turf and sprint all the way back to the halfway line. In that moment, when attention is focussed on the celebrations and almost no one is watching Lino, he feels light as air, like he could spread his flag and take off.
Lino holds the flag sideways above his head when there is a substitution, a pointless signal, rarely seen in the lower leagues. Keeper sometimes mimics the signal and gets a few laughs. But Lino has to do the signal. To not do the signal is to not be Lino. There are always lots of substitutions. Tar-filled lungs and hamstrings like dry elastic. Today, five minutes in, a vomit-inducing hangover. Everyone is laughing. At the hangover, Lino hopes. Keeper is up to something, but at this distance, Lino cannot see what.
Lino is used to complaints. The players complain about everything. But there is, Lino has learnt, a way to tell when the complaints are genuine. Escalatory complaints, grievance built on grievance, red-faced shouting, the ball picked up and slammed to the ground, the players advancing on Lino. Also, he tends to know when he has got it wrong. Today, without his glasses, Lino knows nothing. It doesn’t help that all the players are already matching shades of mud. Lino flags Captain offside and Captain complains. Lino flags Captain again and Captain slams the ball to the ground, Captain advances on Lino. Lino stops flagging Captain. Oppo shout, Oppo slam the ball, Oppo advance. Lino starts flagging again. More shouting. More slamming, everyone advancing on Lino.
Lino and Ref meet in the centre circle at half time. Lino’s flag hangs limply at his side. A loud bang from the estate. Ref takes a swig from his water bottle and says, they’ve got enough subs, you know. Lino wonders if his vision is clearing. It is not.
Lino is running Brookland’s back line for the second half, and they are under the cosh. There is action around the Brookland goalmouth, and, judging by the celebrations, the ball has gone in. Lino sprints to the halfway line, like a breath of wind. Captain emerges from the blurry far reaches of Lino’s vision, standing on the left wing. Captain spits on the ground and says, no need to look so pleased about it mate.
Lino sprints back to the halfway line for two more Oppo goals, and he tries not to look so pleased about it.
Lino has practically given up flagging. The complaints have gone so far that they have begun to subside. No one expects him to get anything right. Oppo Striker puts the ball in the back of the net, only to rule himself offside. The game has become a farce and Lino can’t help but feel it is his fault. Some of the Brookland players have lost their heads. Ref’s yellow flashes about. At one point, Oppo Striker plays a good through ball and Lino doesn’t flag. Keeper comes flying out, studs knee-high. Shouting. Fighting. This time, Ref’s red card flashes through the murk of Lino’s vision. There are no protests, not even from Keeper, who respects Ref. Ref has officiated higher divisions. Ref drinks and showers with the rest of them. But Keeper is coming over to Lino now. Slowly, splay-armed, splay-legged. That was fucking offside, Keeper says. Lino bows his head and says sorry. Keeper walks away, then stops, turns: useless prick.
Fucking nonce.
Lino stares at the floor of the changing room as Ref towels himself dry. That was atrocious, Ref says. Lino doesn’t know if Ref means the game, the loss, Keeper’s tackle, or Lino’s flagging. All of it, probably. Ref puts on way too much deodorant and leaves without saying goodbye.
Lino is halfway to his car when Captain stops him. There’s no way I’m letting you drive home with your eyesight, Captain says, you’ll end up killing some kids. Not deliberately, Lino says under his breath, before accepting Captain’s offer of a lift. As they walk to Captain’s car, Lino says, sorry about today. Captain grunts: Yeah, okay. Lino climbs into the front of Captain’s battered old car. It smells of cigarettes, damp shin pads, and Captain’s shampoo. Only when Captain starts the engine does Lino realise Keeper is in the back.
Lino lives on a one way system that is too much of a faff to drive into. Captain drops him at the turn-off. While he is texting on his phone, Captain says to Lino, thanks again. Lino says no problem, same time next week? Captain doesn’t respond, still texting, his mouth slightly open. Keeper claims it’s easy enough for him to walk from here and gets out too. Captain looks at Keeper, pauses as if thinking, then drives away.
Lino walks along the pavement and Keeper falls in beside him. The cloud has thickened and the day has darkened. Keeper asks Lino how long has he lived around here. Lino tells him six years. Six years, Keeper repeats, six fucking years. Keeper is walking too close. Lino cannot see an escape route because earlier he sat on his glasses. I want to ask you a question, Keeper says. Okay. Why do you want to be Lino? For a short while, Lino cannot think of a legitimate response. Eventually, Lino says it gets him out the house or something. Or something? Keeper says, or something? That’s right, Lino says, but he can feel the implication between Keeper’s words, and he can’t stop himself blurting the words: I’m not a paedophile, not even a pervert. Fucking hell, Keeper says, for fuck’s sake, fucking hell. He stops and laughs, then lays a hand on Lino’s arm so he must stop too. Lino can see the grubby stubble across Keeper’s chin, the red dryness of his cheeks, his small, dark eyes. Lino wonders if it will be a head butt or a bite. Or some kind of terrible kiss. Keeper smells of sweat and unwashed kit. It occurs to Lino, just for a moment, before Keeper briefly but violently squeezes Lino’s testicles and the thought is forgotten, that Keeper hasn’t showered either.
Lino sits in the bath. He wonders if Keeper is right about him in some way. If not a nonce, then something outsiderly, even sinister; that to be an outsider is by definition sinister. After all, Keeper had a point: who in their right mind would want to be Lino? It’s a question Lino cannot answer, or can no longer answer. In fairness, why does Keeper want to be Keeper? Why does anyone want to be anything? He sinks under the water and holds his breath for as long as he can.
Lino makes himself some fishcakes and eats on the sofa. Fishcakes are part of his attempt to get in shape but he can’t resist the ones that explode with creamy sauce. He idly watches football on the television. What a total waste of time this is, he thinks. He doesn’t know what, in particular, he is referring to.
There is a goal in the game on the television. It is a big game and it is a good goal. The players run to the corner to celebrate and the scorer makes a heart shape with his hands at the camera. The whole world, or some of the world, is watching the celebrations. Lino is not watching the celebrations. At that moment, he is staring down at his empty plate with a horrible feeling in his stomach. But if Lino were watching the TV, and if his eyes lifted above the hugging players, shifted up towards the blurry background, he would see – would be one of the few to see – another Lino, sprinting toward the halfway line, his flag pointing at the turf, as if at any moment, he could raise that flag and fly.
NICHOLAS PETTY is a British writer living in Utrecht, The Netherlands. His short story, 'It is Summer at Camp Pomodoro', was longlisted for the 2018/19 Galley Beggar Press SSP and the Sunday Times Audible Short Story Award. His fiction has also been published in the London Magazine, The Moth, Short Fiction Journal, and elsewhere.