Head Cases

By Mark Raymond

Most weekends, all across North America, parks and recreation facilities are filled with children from the age of four and above,
playing soccer. Likewise, on the sidelines, their parents and immediate other family members are screaming and shouting at the participants to do better than they could possibly achieve, all punctuated with unsubtle criticism of the opposition.
The expansion of youth soccer can be traced to the mid 1990's. This means that we now have a generation of parents who actually played the sport. The difference is that today, those parents now have just enough experience and knowledge of the game to be would be coaches, despite not actually being asked to do so. Perfectly well adjusted professional people who during the week may make important business and life decisions, feel the need to shout irrational and asinine comments at children and the referees trying to facilitate the game.
Our tale takes place with this as a backdrop to a relationship that begins with two students in London and follows them through a tumultuous relationship that continues in North America where they marry and have a daughter.
Their daughter turns out to be genuinely talented at soccer.
Their differing attitudes to youth sports, along with his career in the money markets which involves him entertaining clients multiple times a week in the bars and restaurants of New York city, sends their marriage to breaking point.
It takes a traumatic event in their lives to bring focus back to their relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667809762

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1

The ambulance stood motionless and silent in the middle of the soccer field at the U.S. National team training facility in California. The red and blue flashing lights on its roof announcing that it had been pressed into service. Its tires had marked its route to the center circle on the immaculately maintained playing surface. The grounds man responsible for the field’s pristine condition stood some fifty yards away behind one of the goals. His thoughts were conflicted. His primary concern was the beating his precious playing surface was taking; his secondary was that he hoped the young girl was going to be okay. Probably nothing. He grumbled to himself. She’ll probably stand up and start running around again in a minute. It’ll take a week to get that surface back to normal.

To the rear of the ambulance, behind its open doors, the paramedics were attending to Lizzie’s unconscious body. Lizzie, can you hear me? The question was asked repeatedly. A large group of people stood in a circle around the stricken player. All but three of them were women. None of them displayed the typical worried expression that the paramedics were used to seeing. There was no maternal instincts manifest here. They were mere observers, professional athletes who had seen it before. They treated the obvious concussion as an occupational hazard. They knew that eventually the ambulance would leave and they could continue practice. Some of them had broken away into groups and were talking soccer tactics, one of them being the individual responsible for the current scenario.

The paramedics worked on their patient. She slowly regains consciousness; she squints in the bright sunshine that hurts her eyes. The paramedics are busy asking her questions…seventeen in all. They attempt to ascertain the severity of the injury. Her answers are confused and gibberish. She cannot tell them the correct date, where she is or what she had for breakfast. Having established that it was relatively safe to move the patient they loaded her onto a gurney, and into the back of the ambulance. The sirens whooped into life as the ambulance took off for the emergency room, leaving a fresh set of tracks on the field. The grounds man sighed and waited for his opportunity to repair his damage to his field.

Chapter Two

A steady rain fell in west London onto the rugby fields of St Georges University. A few spectators huddled under umbrellas, but the rain went unnoticed by the thirty individuals playing in an intensely contested game where the St.George’s first XIV entertained their rivals from St.Andrew’s.

In the scrum, two packs of players, strained every muscle for every inch of opposition territory they could claim. The process involved stretching every sinew as the front row locked shoulders with the opposition. Rain mixed with sweat and mud as the two rival teams battled out this oldest and most traditional of sports, the parent of the NFL and soccer alike. No pads or hard helmets were worn; occasionally a band of tape around the head and over the ears afforded some protection from a cauliflower ear. This proved fruitless in many cases and the scarring of the cartilage was frequently on display as a badge of honor. The two team’s uniforms were now indistinguishable, as the mud had caked both teams from head to toe.

The game ended with St Andrew’s running out eventual winners. Both teams returned to the changing rooms and a heavy steam rose from the communal showers. All clothing discarded into a large hamper where a challenge lay for the laundry. Both teams stood naked together in the showers singing x-rated songs at the tops of their voices.

Finally clean, they all retreated to the student union bar to drinks copious amounts of beer. To them, it was a perfect Saturday afternoon.

Barry Grindrod stood at the bar, four pints in, still able to stand without swaying and able to have a reasonable conversation. The bar itself was an ornate structure, carved from oak, with colorful beer pumps on the bar itself, and rows of mid priced spirits on glass shelves behind the serving area and in front of a mirror. The bar may have been fairly elaborate but that couldn’t be said for much of the rest of the room. The linoleum floor was cheap but functional. Many a beer had been spilled in the throes of celebration and cleaning a carpet regularly would have been much too impractical. Better a bucket and mop.

The walls were adorned with aging photographs of various varsity sports teams from days gone by. A glass trophy cabinet stood in the corner that by some miracle had survived the more boisterous celebrations, unscathed, through many years.

Barry had earlier played his part in the scrum and was now enjoying the fruits of the victory. As per tradition, they were joined at the bar by the losing team and all battles, grudges and other ill-harm wished upon the opposing team during the game were put to one side as they stood together in celebration of their sport. 

The bar was predominately male but for three or four women. Of which two were the girlfriends of home team players, who would soon be making their excuses to extrapolate themselves from this testosterone filled occasion, and one had traveled with the visiting team. And was basically trapped in this brutish gathering without a viable means of transport home.

It was the latter that Barry had been casting glances towards for some time. The four pints had fueled his bravado and he wandered across to where she was sitting alone at a small round table towards the corner of the room.

  Can I get you a bevy?

I’m sorry? Kelly Charmer’s accent betrayed her American nationality immediately.

Oh, an American Lass, would you like a fresh bevy?

A what?

A drink, would you like a drink?

Why didn’t you say that?

I did, don’t you understand English?

She sighed, I assure you I understand English perfectly, and that wasn’t it

Kelly had endured more than enough of the occasion and was more than ready to leave. She was in no mood for socializing.

Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Said Barry

Kelly looked down at her jeans, I’m not wearing knickers. The confusion being that in America, knickers were the plus fours that golfers might wear. In England the same meant ladies underwear.

In that case I definitely want to buy you a drink. Barry smiled broadly.

‘I don’t think so, anyway I already have a Campari and soda, and I think you’ve had enough for one evening, you’re drunk"

Sweet’eart I’m just getting started, are you on your own?

None of your business, but if you must know, I came with that guy over there, he played in the scrimmage earlier. She was hoping this would be enough to put off the unwanted approach by this somewhat gruff individual.

‘Oh you mean that little lad over there that just got a serious beating all over the park? And it’s called a friendly over here, not a scrimmage. What kind of word is scrimmage anyway? Why can’t you Colonials use the proper word? You’re always making up new expressions for something that has a perfectly good word already."

Kelly stared at Barry,

‘Just, please go away."

And deprive you of my old world charm? You’ll be missing a special evening.

At that moment a group of similarly drunken students started singing,

Four and Twenty Virgin’s went Down to Inverness!

"Excuse me, duty calls, don’t go away, I haven’t finished with you yet.’

He wobbled off, glass raised high, to join the drunken choir that had taken over the bar. Unlike the United States, the legal drinking age was eighteen, and, as such, universities in the UK had their own bars or student unions. Saint George’s was no different. They were usually the venue for post game celebrations for the sports teams of the school to entertain the day’s opposition. The rugby team took these celebrations to the extreme.

The walls were adorned with faded black and white photographs of various sports teams of a bygone age, sitting and standing in two rows with a trophy proudly displayed at their feet. It didn’t escape Kelly that there were no women’s teams on show. No such thing as the equality law in the U.S. known as Title IX* in this world. The whole room positively encouraged dreadful behavior by its, predominately male patrons. Kelly had made the decision that she would rather go to the bathroom in an open field rather that take her chances with the facilities offered here.

The final result of the game was ultimately forgotten as the home team began the serious business of entertaining their guests with copious amounts of alcohol, drinking games, appalling behavior and renditions of the most vulgar songs Kelly had ever heard. The interesting thing to her was that having witnessed a quite violently aggressive sport on the field, at no time was there ever any hint of it in the bar afterwards. In fact as they sang:

And when the day was over there were four and twenty less!

she noticed that the home team and the visiting team were all linked with arms around each other’s shoulders as if they’d known each other all their lives. It also didn’t escape her that during the game, not one of the rather large players ever argued with a call that the somewhat undersized referee had made. In fact, if a player committed a particularly nasty foul, it was quite comical to see the diminutive official lecture a sweaty, mud encrusted beast of a man twice his size. The guilty player looked down at the official with his hands behind his back, like an uncomfortable schoolboy.

This was somewhat alien to Kelly. She’d come from the world of soccer where referees were frankly fair game. Any call from the referee that was in the least bit debatable was met with hails of derision from both the crowd and the offending players alike, often disputing the poor man’s parentage. It’s remarkable that anyone would want to become a soccer referee given the abuse they would endure.

Kelly was a biology student spending her Spring Semester in London, studying at University College. She was in her junior year at Bloomsbury College in Pennsylvania Dutch country. She’d been recruited from her high school in New Jersey to play soccer there. After a very successful high school career, winning State championships and being elected to the All State first team, she went on to Captain her college team as a junior this past fall. Her third ACL knee surgery prematurely ended her soccer career. Up until that point, soccer had been her life. She lived and breathed it every day. Every practice and game was approached with the substantial passion that earned her the Captaincy at such a young age. Her high school coach was a bear of a man. An Irish American called Seamus O’Hara. He had once described high school soccer as a war, and Kelly was his tank commander.

When it was obvious she was unable to play again she became terribly depressed. Attempts to involve her in the program in some kind of managerial position just served to frustrate her. In the end it was suggested she spend a semester studying abroad. A friend had suggested London, where, at this time, there was little or no women’s soccer to speak of, certainly not at the level the United States had achieved. Along with the opportunity to witness the culture, it also meant she didn’t need to learn the language. Not something she particularly excelled at during her High School days. She chose University College in Surrey, a heavily wooded campus with in easy reaching distance of London.

Her friend Tristan had invited her to watch him play in the rugby match for St.Andrew’s. Tristan was a medical student who was desperately trying to impress her. She resisted his approaches, as it would be a short-lived affair. She would be returning to the States in three weeks and saw no point in developing something that was doomed to end prematurely. Not unlike her soccer career.

She’d never seen a rugby match and was intrigued. After the game she had to admit, she was impressed with the shear competitiveness of the sport; a game where teeth were frequently lost, noses were bloodied, hands were stamped on and every tackle was like series of individual brawls; all in the name of sport. It appealed to her competitive nature.

So anyway, my name’s Barry, I didn’t catch yours, Barry had wandered back from the group of singers and was not to be denied another attempt at hooking up.

I didn’t throw it replied Kelly sarcastically.

Lighten up, Love, I’m only being friendly said Barry

Kelly looked a little exasperated, Look, I’m really not interested; I just came to see the game and have a couple of drinks with Tristan over there.

What’s he got that I haven’t

Well, he’s in his final year of residency and will become a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons but more importantly, he’s not roaring drunk!

Really, perhaps he knows a procedure to remove that stick from up your arse He giggled at his own joke.

She emptied the remaining contents of her Campari and soda over his head. This bothered him less than you might think as some of the drinking games they played involved spilling most of the contents of their glass over themselves anyway.

Tristan, let’s go Tristan had walked over when he noticed the attention Kelly was receiving from Barry, who was by now nearing the staggering stage of drunkenness.

I’ll call a cab. said Tristan.

What’s the matter with your car? asked Kelly.

Are you kidding, I just drank three pints of lager, I’m well over the limit and feeling a little squiffy if I’m honest.

Tristan went off to call for a cab.

Why do you men always have to over indulge? There’s no half measures with you is there?

Three pints, what a light-weight. Barry muttered.

Kelly turned to follow Tristan.

Are you sure you won’t stay for another drink, Barry called after Kelly, it’s on me….quite literally

He laughed at his own joke again. Kelly stopped and there was a brief pause. She turned and faced Barry. Slowly the corners of her mouth began to turn up, and she was forced to smile.

There you go. I knew you weren’t as pissed off as you made out.

Don’t kid yourself; you’re really not my type.

I grow on people, said Barry

So does acne she shot back.

Ooh, spiteful. I’m willing to guess that you’re more attracted to me than you’re letting on. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to write my phone number on this beer mat. I’m going to be outside the Lion’s enclosure at Regent’s Park zoo, tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. If you decide to meet me there I’ll buy you lunch. I’m really quite charming when I’m sober.’ With that he wrote a number down and placed in her pocket book. It’s a number well worth having, I don’t give it to just anyone you know."

Why do I doubt that? She replied

Tristan hurried back in, hoping to find her alone having sent Barry packing. He was more then a little disappointed to see him still there.

The cab’s outside, are you ready? he said, slightly out of breath.

Sure, let’s go

As she turned to go Barry returned to the heaving mass of sweaty male singers. After a few paces he looked back just in time to see her passing through the exit, but not before she shot a glance back in his direction. Barry smiled to himself and joined in the singing,

It was on the Good Ship Venus……

……………

Tristan dropped Kelly off at her apartment. He leaned across to attempt to kiss her goodnight and met a raised hand to fend him off.

Oh please, Tristan, you smell like a brewery. Thanks for the ride

Good night Kelly, how about I buy you lunch tomorr………

The cab door slammed and cut him off in mid-sentence. Kelly walked up the stairs to the apartment she shared with two other girls who were out for the evening. As she reached in her bag for her keys she saw the beer matt with Barry’s number written on it. She let herself in and threw her keys and the beer matt on the dresser. It was nine thirty, too late to change and find her roommates, and too early for bed. She decided to run a bath and settled in for the night.

She lay back and reflected on the evening. There was something about Barry that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe there was an old world charm there after all. The fact that she was even thinking about him must mean something. Maybe she should give him a chance. She had nothing to lose; her flight back to the States was booked for three weeks time. She got out of the bath, admired her still athletic soccer player’s body in the mirror, and retired to bed. She decided that she’d take a bike ride in the morning, (running was out of the question with her damaged knee), and decide whether to take Barry up on his offer. She rationalized to herself; a day at the zoo might be quite pleasant.

Chapter Three

Barry Grindrod was born in Sheffield in the north of England, an unremarkable youth and son of working class parents. Average in academic intelligence, he made up for it in his affable nature and worldly acumen, a likeable young man.

He’d managed to get himself into university due to a combination of a deep desire to move away from home and a determination not to end up like his parents.  Every weekend in the workingmen’s clubs, playing bingo and listening to average musical groups, before heading back to the steel mill on Monday. Not that he was ashamed of his heritage; in fact he was very proud of his roots. But Barry wanted more and fear of failure fueled his desire to move on.

Studying did not come naturally to him, but his single mindedness had got him into Saint George’s University in London where he studied economics. His competitive nature and a love of sport had led him and his personality to the rugby club. Growing up in the north of England you chose one of two paths, football or rugby, never both. Barry chose the latter. The physical nature of the sport and the social aspect suited him well. He’d grown into a large adult, standing 6ft 1inch and 190 pounds. His ability to grow a full beard in four days made him look older than his twenty years. Time spent in the weight room had given him a muscular physique, although a thickness around the waist betrayed a growing fondness for beer.

He was finishing his final year of university and was thinking about a career in the financial world of the city of London. Playing rugby had allowed him to meet with a fraternity of people who would put him in touch with various individuals in the city and he was confident that as soon as he was done with school, the world of high finance would welcome him with open arms.

He rolled over in bed to face the nightstand where the alarm clock would tell him how much of Sunday he had left. He was awake but not yet brave enough to open his eyes. He viewed the inevitable hangover as some kind of occupational hazard or collateral damage from the previous night’s festivities. He opened his eyes but kept still in the bed, twelve o’clock noon. Not bad he thought. He sometimes had missed almost an entire Sunday after a particularly grueling Saturday night session.

He swung his legs out of bed and attempted to stand up. As he did so he prepared himself for the inevitable rush of nausea. It came and went and he steadied himself. He stood naked in the room, sniffed, scratched his buttocks and let rip an enormous fart.

Thank you very much. a female voice said dryly.

A puzzled expression came over Barry’s face and he turned around.

She was lying on her back on the other side of the bed, and had also not yet summoned the courage to open her eyes. She was less concerned for her physical wellbeing, more to avoid the reality of the situation, waking up again in unfamiliar surroundings and having to formulate a plan to get home.

Oh Lovely His female guest said sarcastically having ventured to open her eyes and was met with Barry’s full frontal nudity. He made a grab for his robe.

Hello….er Good morning….afternoon he stammered. Did we  …err?

Sort of, she replied, You fell asleep half way through.

Ah, sorry about that. He could feel the rumbling of an unborn fart in his lower intestine and couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of its outcome. He excused himself and made for the bathroom.

She rolled out of bed and put on the clothes she’d worn the night before at the rugby party. She knocked on the bathroom door.

Listen, I’m going to go

Okay. At that point the unborn fart was introduced to the world followed by the splash of its turdish afterbirth. He’d been wise to take the precaution of the bathroom.

She let out a heavy sigh Charming, she said to herself, and let herself out, muttering under her breath as to why she allowed herself to get in these situations.

Barry sat on the toilet trying recall the events of last night. He could remember up until about ten o’clock, after that it became a blur. He didn’t remember coming home with the girl he’d just spent the night with, but he did recall the brunette he’d met when he was still functioning with some normality, and before the shots of Tequila had seemed like a good idea. He smiled at the recollection. She really was quite beguiling. The chances of meeting her again were slim to none; he didn’t even remember her name.

He left the bathroom and went to make himself a cup of tea and a glass of Alka Seltzer.

He lived alone in a small apartment up one flight of stairs that he managed to pay for with a combination of Government student grants, money from his proud parents and a job delivering pizza on a borrowed bicycle. It was a typical student existence, living as cheaply as possible on macaroni with cheese, and beer. The apartment was about two miles from Saint George’s College in Hammersmith on the western edges of London. Close enough to the metropolis to enjoy the culture and ambience of the big city, but far enough away to avoid the high cost of rent. Despite his somewhat rough appearance, Barry was quite a cultured individual and would often visit the museums and historical landmarks the great historical city had to offer. He often wandered alone amongst the back streets and alleyways of historical London in his own company. He was also fond of Hemingway. The tales of deep-sea fishing and bullfighting appealed to him. Like Hemingway, Barry had a great appetite for life. He had every intention of seeing the world one day.

He put the kettle on and threw a teabag in a cup, poured some cereal into a bowl and tried to decide what to do with the rest of his day. He had a paper due this week but his brain was not yet at the point where it could function at the required level. He went down to pick up the Sunday papers from the front step. When he came back up he spread it out on the table, picked out the sports pages and left the business sections to one side.

Typical he said to himself. The whole paper was consumed with yesterday’s soccer results. Match reports, analysis, articles on coaches under pressure to produce results after a run of bad form, and the odd photograph of a soccer player’s wife draped on a beach with someone other than her husband. Her husband photographed in a nightclub with someone other than his wife.

Just as Barry was lamenting the absence of any rugby articles the strains of Madonna singing, Like a Virgin, touched for the very first time emanated from the pocket of his jeans.  Barry’s cell phone had burst into life. It was the practice amongst his rugby team to download ring-tones onto each other’s phones for their own amusement. Barry had left his with Madonna as he couldn’t be bothered to change it, and it also made him giggle at the irony whenever it rang.

Hello

I’m running a little late but I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, I’ll be there around one fifteen. The American female’s voice on the other end of the line dragged Barry’s memory back to the night before.

Err, okay he racked his brain’s to remember exactly what he’d offered. He certainly remembered her but couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. He focused his mind. It came to him. The zoo.

‘Take your time", he said. She hung up. Ordinarily Barry might have ignored the whole thing and gone back to bed, especially given his physical condition. But there was something about this girl that motivated him.

He remembered he’d written his number on the beer mat and something about one o’clock and the lion’s enclosure. He looked at the time, twelve thirty. He flew into the shower, dressed in the cleanest clothes he could find and was downstairs in fifteen minutes.

Hammersmith was only five miles from Regent’s Park Zoo. He could take the underground, but it was Sunday and they only ran the trains on a fifty per cent service. It might take forty-five minutes to get there. Buses would take even longer and he couldn’t borrow a bike. He decided to splash out on a cab. He couldn’t really afford it; he decided he’d skip a meal or something to make up for it. He hailed a cab.

Where to Governor? the driver asked cheerfully.

Regent’s Park Zoo, please

By far the quickest way around London was by black cab. The driver’s all had an intimate knowledge of every side street and shortcut in the greater London area. Even in the heaviest traffic they could negotiate London’s very complicated geography and have you at your destination within minutes. It came at a cost though. For some reason they insisted on striking up a conversation with you as if you should be interested in every opinion and philosophical thought that came in to their head. It also came in a broad cockney accent that, for someone from outside of London, might not have unreasonably thought was a foreign language.

D’you see the ‘ammer’s yesterday? Did you happen to watch West Ham United play soccer yesterday?

Cor, what a load of bollocks, fancy losing to a bunch o’ Muppets like Derby It wasn’t a particularly good display; I can’t understand how they could lose to the inferior competition offered by Derby County FC.

No, I’m more of a rugby man myself His Sheffield accent gave him away.

Northerner eh? Yeah, they like their rugby up there. You on ‘oliday down ‘ere then?

No I’m at university Barry hoped his short replies would deter the driver from further investigation. He needed time to think how he could make it seem as though he’d been at the zoo the whole time waiting for……what was her name???? Barry searched his memory of the night before, but came up blank.

Gor..blimey, one of them lay about students are you….ha! Just joking mate The cabbies Cheeky Chappy persona was wearing thin on Barry.

They arrived at