DING-A-LING-A-LING – playtime! Against a background of ritual, rhythmic hand claps, the cry would go up: “Four-A take Four-B!” Immediately followed by: “We are the boys who make no noise, huh-huh, huh-huh-huh!”
We were Kings Road Juniors big shots now. We owned the playground. Oher kids instinctively parted before us, like the Red Sea, parting for Charlton Heston in Ten Commandments.
Our leader wasn’t Moses, though. It was Caddy, 4-B team captain, leading the charge up the dangerous, rough-gravel slope, grapefruit-sized plastic match ball proudly raised aloft.
“Reight, then,” Caddy said, officiously reciting the rules. “First to twenty wins. If there’s no winner, we carry on tomorrow. We’ll be Leeds, anyway. Messrs Sprake, Reaney, Cooper, Bremner, Charlton…”
Confident as ever, 4-A captain, Rosey, quickly gate-crashed his rhetoric.
“Ar, I know. And Hunter. And Lorimer. And Clarke, Jones, Giles, Gray and a partridge in a flipping pear tree. We’ll be t’ tarn as usual and will be doing our talking on t’ pitch.”
Kids on both sides started picking which player they were, inciting a spate of maungy disputes. The school building was at the bottom of the yard, distinctive with a quartet of decorative towers, resembling upturned ice-cream cones, dominating classrooms either side. On the left was the cowshed, an extensive under cover playing area, site of countless boisterous games of tigs, British bulldogs and finger, thumb and rusty bum. A gently arcing redbrick perimeter wall finished things off. With ball catching wire netting on top, goalposts were roughly chalked into the brickwork intervals along the same length.
Seventeen aside, the match kicked off with its usual gusto, Tarn and Leeds going at it like hammer and tong, ball chasing, pushing and shoving, barging straight through anyone who dared stand in the way. Girls playing whip and top dove for cover. Hula-hoopers and ball jugglers instantly surrendered, while other year matches scattered in the face of the unstoppable stampede. As for the noise, well…it sounded like the gates of hell had been flung open, a screaming cacophony of non-stop bawling and full-on guttural roars. As the lead player dribbled a route through a forest of legs, he’d mouth a running commentary on the match, playing out inside his head.
“And it’s Murphy to Bettany. Bettany to Earnshaw. Earnshaw crosses. Loyden intercepts, turns and shoots and…”
The boy’s shoe flew off, clearing the netting, disappearing into the overgrown garden behind, a plot so unkempt local army cadets had recently mooted using it for jungle training. Mrs Ripley whistled from underneath her blue rinse, hailing the boy over. Poor old Oughty, he was for it now.
“Brand new Wayfinders an’ all, miss. Me mam will go mad if I don’t get it back. Have you seen Wayfinders, miss? They’ve got wild animal footprints on the sole, miss, and a compass inside the heel, and if…”
Heard enough, she sent him packing to go and find it. Down to sixteen now, 4-A were soon a goal down as well. Then again and once more. A whole avalanche of net-busters followed. Trailing 9-5, Rosey suddenly went down like a sack of spuds, ripping his knee to pieces, necessitating a round trip to matron for gravel removal, iodine antiseptic and sticking plaster in that order. When he returned, it was 12-10 to 4-B and a volley from Hamstead suddenly reduced the deficit to one.
“Stop it!” Mrs Ripley shouted, whistling like a boiling kettle. “Stop it, boys!”
Bremner and Loyden were having a right old dust-up, rolling around on a hopscotch grid near the outside bog. Boys engaged in a game of see who could pee up the wall highest immediately ran out to see what all the fuss was about. Ball confiscated as punishment, the match was on the verge of abandonment.
Until Caddy made an undercover trip to work his magic upon scary headmaster, Ibby, eventually returning with the ball proudly raised aloft once more. To the tune of Jesus Christ Superstar, both teams ubiquitously began to sing: “Stevie Cadman, superstar. Carries a handbag and wears a bra…”
Final score: 20-19 to 4-B and Oughty found his Wayfinder. Ding-a-ling-a-ling – playtime over!
