Rancid odours burst forth as the men unzip their bags and begin to change. Boots hardened, studs swaddled by cakes of last week’s mud, damp socks unrolled over hairy calves. The goalkeeper strips to a chorus of catcalls, his belly a pink sack glazed in ginger-white fur.
The captain tosses shirts from a gym bag, the greys in his stubble ablaze as morning sunlight invades the changing room.
‘Anyone heard from Smithy?’
‘His head’s probably halfway down a toilet.’ The centre-back massages beetroot cheeks and blinks through bloodshot eyes. ‘Last night was epic.’ He pumps his fists in mock-trance until a t-shirt slaps his down. His cackle becomes a whooping cough and he spits a knot of phlegm to the floor.
The captain wrestles the armband up his sleeve and claps for attention. The men rise, their metal studs clipping the tiles like a shower of shells falling from a gun.
‘Remember, talk to each other out there,’ the captain commands. ‘It’s not a fucking library, you hear me?’
The goalkeeper nestles his gloves under an arm. ‘And no pansy tackles, or you’ll be getting an earful from me. Stick your foot in like a man or I’ll stick mine where the sun don’t shine.’
Slaps on backs, guttural roars. ‘Come on!’
The smell of muddied grass, clouds of icy breath, a rock-hard ball bobbling over pockets of churned turf. The keeper lights a cigarette behind the goal, squinting into the winter sun, while the centre-back leads a session of half-hearted stretches.
The captain crouches over the pile of bags on the touchline, stares at his phone.
‘Give her one from me,’ the keeper shouts, grinning behind a cloud of smoke.
The captain drops to his knees.
‘What is it? Last night’s kebab coming back up?’
The smiles quickly slide from the men’s faces. A few jog over, the others following at a walk.
‘Smithy’s missus.’ The phone hangs limply in the captain’s hand. ‘He killed himself last night.’
The men stare in silence as the opposition run onto the pitch, yawping and braying.
The keeper drops his cigarette and stamps it into the grass. ‘But he never said nothing.’
The men shake their heads and gaze at the crushed cigarette, the tendrils of smoke dissipating into the air.
No one cries, no one says anything. It’s like a fucking library.
Tomas Marcantonio is a fiction and travel writer from Brighton, England. His work has appeared in places such as Okay Donkey, X-R-A-Y, and Ellipsis Zine. Tomas is currently based in Busan, South Korea, where he splits his time between writing, teaching, and getting lost in neon-lit backstreets. Find Thomas at @TJMarcantonio
