Fic: Newcastle United 4/6 LoM Football AU

Jun 18, 2009 14:45

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United
Chapter: 4/6
Author: amproof
Wordcount: 3951 this chapter, 24,936 overall
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril
Notes: Inspired by an idea mikes_grrl put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible. Finally, huge thanks to my beta karaokegal and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers lady_t_220 and siluria. I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: 1.1 1.2 1.3



Sam moved to the front of the room. "There's no smoking in here."

The room was instantly quiet. The man with the cigarette took a long, slow, inhale. "Since when?"

"Since the non-smoking in a public place act."

"Never heard of it." The man was built like a bull-dozer. He stood with his head down, as if preparing to rush up the aisle and head butt Sam. Someone at Sam's side coughed quietly. He turned and saw a floppy haired young man smiling nervously at him with a hand outstretched..

"Chris Skelton. Uh, just wanted to say, you know, uh, welcome boss."

Sam stared at him. "It's 'guv'." One thing he was damn sure about-he wasn't going to dream himself a demotion, not after all the time and money he'd put into his management degree and the hours and years of experience earning himself a corner office.

The remnants of whispering stopped completely. Suddenly all eyes were on him. "Boss, I..." the young man was truly nervous now, and the not-quite-ginger one had put his cigarette out on the tabletop. "I don't think you should be saying that," Skelton finished.

"Chris, get back here. Don't want you standing too close to a nutter. Might rub off on you." The big man waved the cigarette stub. Chris loped towards him, head down, and sat.

Sam looked around. There were twelve men in the room, which was enough for a side and a spare. If this was the team, they were missing two men at least, either substitutes or players.

"I want you all to know that if anyone wants to talk about Mark, we'll arrange counseling."

There was a pause.

Finally, a blond at the front table raised his hand.

Sam pointed at him. "Yes. What's your name?"

"Skittles, Boss. Er. Who's Mark?"

Sam blinked slowly, as if this would be sufficient to reprogram the situation. As a group, they stared blankly back at him.

"Alright. That's enough." His hands flew up of their own accord. "Who are you people? Where is my team?"

"We're here, boss,where you asked us to be." Skelton said.

This was met by a derisive snort from the gingerish man.

"And where, exactly, is that?"

"At Maine Road. Where do you think?" the man said.

"Maine Road doesn't exist. Hasn't since 2003." Sam charged down the aisle of tables towards him and leaned into his face. The man put his arm up, hand outstretched and aiming for Sam's neck.

'Come on," Sam said. "Just try it." He bent down, eyes narrowed, breath echoing in his ears. "Wake. Me. Up."

"Ray. Don't." Skelton whispered, tugging on the other's shirt, and looking even more worried. There was a clatter in the hall, and as a whole every man in the room froze, apart from Sam. He was still leaning over this one called Ray, but when even Ray straightened and sat back, focused on the door like the rest of them, Sam turned around.

A man large enough to make the doorway look like it had been cut just so he could fill it stood there with hisarms crossed over his ample stomach, watching.

"Well?" Sam said, looking right back at him, "who are you supposed to be?"

The beast stepped forward and yanked him away from Ray. Sam's feet did not touch the floor as he was hauled to the front of the room.

"Gene Hunt. I'm your manager. You're my new transfer. Team captain, assistant manager, like."

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so," he snapped. "I didn't complete my badges in record time to assistant manage under a Neanderthal.."

Hunt spun him around and slammed him against a chalkboard. It skittered across the floor. "I'll have your arse on a platter if you think you can come in here acting lord of the manor on my turf. You'll do as you're told. Are we understanding each other?" His face was right in Sam's, exuding waves of whiskey with each breath. Sam turned his nose away.

"Yes," he said, figuring that agreement was the best way for release.

"Good." Hunt squinted appraisingly, but let him go.

Sam fixed his shirt. "Alright. Tell me this. What year is it?" He didn't bother hiding the sneer in his voice. Maybe if he could get this bastard to throw him a bit harder he'd snap out of this hallucination.

"It's 1973. Almost training time. You've got fifteen seconds to get your arse out on the field and start showing what you've got, or I'm going to start knocking heads." He turned and aimed his shouting at the rest of the players. "That goes for all of you. Out. Now."

"I don't know who you think you are..."

Hunt slammed his fist into Sam's stomach. Sam bent forward, gasping, as his forehead pressed against Hunt's shoulder. "I told you who I am. Now get out of my sight. I don't want to see you again unless it's on the pitch practising. Move."

He shoved Sam away. Sam reeled around and caught himself on the table. It hurt. And he was still here. As he watched, the men stood, Skelton and Ray among them, and began to file out. Sam read the name on the back of Ray's shirt. Carling. Hunt grabbed a skinny man by the elbow as he passed. "Oi, what are you doing here, Knowles? Don't recall you could play with the grown-ups."

"Tripper is out sick, Guv." Knowles fidgeted, obviously wanting to reclaim his elbow but not daring to. "They sent me up to replace him."

"You clear it with our subs?"

"I...they told me to..."

Carling stepped up to the kid's rescue. "It were my decision, Guv. Tripper went out last night. Allergic reaction or sommat. You know how he is. And we've had Prokofiev out already, which puts Smith and Early on the pitch, so I thought it best to bring a youngster up to cover, just in case, like."

"Good thinking, Raymondo. Initiative. I like it."

"Thank you, Guv."

"Now move your arses."

"Yes, Guv."

Carling and Knowles scuttled out.

Skelton hovered alongside Hunt. "Uh, Guv?"

"What, Chris?" Hunt rolled his eyes and sighed down towards the fidgeting man.

"Uh, maybe the boss ought to see the team medic, like." He used 'like' as if he were consciously echoing Hunt's speech pattern, a baby bird learning through mimicry how to grow into a hawk. He whispered in Hunt's ear, though Sam heard every word from his position against the table. He rubbed his thigh. "They say he's got concussion," Skelton continued.

Hunt glanced at Sam. Sam stopped rubbing and glared. Hunt turned his attention back to Skelton as if he had never looked at Sam at all. "Medic's busy with Keens at the moment. Don't know what they put in the water round here. You lot are dropping like a bunch of nancy flies. Take him to see Cartwright." Gene nodded, as if that was the end of it, and then, noticing the team still hovering around the hallway, barked, "Pitch. Now!" Eleven men scattered like squirrels.

Skelton was quiet as he led Sam down a set of stairs. "I remember playing at Maine Road," Sam said.. "This is where my dad brought me, too, when I was a kid. I remember when they knocked it down."

Skelton tapped Sam's arm. "It's still open, boss." He talked to Sam as if he were crazy, or a child. Quiet, careful, and with ears wide open.

"Of course it is," Sam said, returning the tone exactly. Skelton picked up the pace to get to the nurse's office.

Cartwright was there when they arrived. "They said you'd be down. Hello, again." She smiled pleasantly.

"Hello," Sam said. He looked around. There were too many metal poky things for his tastes.

"You two know each other?" Skelton said. He evidentially had no problem with poky things as he started touching everything within reach.

"We met this morning," Cartwright said. She gently grabbed Skelton's hand and lowered it away from the shelves.

"Oh," he said.

"Chris, head out to the pitch. I'll be there in a few minutes," Sam said when it became obvious that Skelton would be perfectly happy to stay where he was.

"Right. Your kit's in the locker room." Skelton nodded with a cheerful confusion.

"My what?"

"Your kit," Cartwright said. "You can't very well play without it, can you?" She smiled again. Sam was rapidly getting the idea that she thought he was brain damaged.

"Who said I'm playing?" Sam stuck his chin out, a challenge to them both.

"Team Captain, aren't you?" Chris was still in the doorway. "How hard did you hit your head?" Skelton concern seemed to have blossomed into honest worry.

Sam's bravado wavered under their double stare. "I..." Hunt had said that, hadn't he? Captain and assistant manager... Sam had skipped over the captain part of it and only heard the demotion. "I haven't played in a long time."

"You played last week. It was all over the news. Your last game before you transferred. I have to say, you might have done us a favour and not done so well. Would have helped us immensely if you'd held back on one of those goals," Cartwright said.

"Naw, the boss won't ever. He's in it to win, right Boss?"

"Chris, hurry on, the others are waiting." She sounded like a mother hen, but he scuttled off with a final glance towards Sam. Once gone, Cartwright turned her attention on him completely. "Would you mind sitting up here for me?" She patted a wooden table cleared for the purpose.

He ignored the motion. "What's your name?" There was something about her that reassured him. A quiet intelligence in her eyes, perhaps. If he could get anyone to see reason, she was his best bet.

"You know my name."

"Your first name."

"It's Annie."

"I'm Sam."

"I know. I need you up here, Sam." She patted the table again.

Sam hopped up. "I don't know what's going on. I think I might be losing my mind." He squinted and leaned away as Annie shined a light in his eyes.

"Oh, you're fine. You just had a knock in the head. You haven't even got concussion. Just being a whiny baby. Probably missing your friends and all. Well, you can go round and see them tonight. They're not far away, are they?"

He pushed her prodding hand away from his neck. "I think they are very far away, Annie. I don't know if I'll ever see them again." He got up and started for the door.

"Not done with you yet," she said.

"You said I don't have concussion, what else do you need to do?"

"Sam-if you need to talk to someone..."

"Go to the club shrink, I know."

"The what?"

"Oh. Right. I guess you don't have one of those in 1973."

She patted his arm. "Go work it out on the pitch, Sam. That's where all that confusion belongs. Play ball. It makes a man feel good."

Sam snorted. "Thanks for the advice." He turned and started out. "Annie...?"

"Bottom floor, outside the door marked 'pitch'."

"Thanks."

As it turned out, he remembered where to go once he had started. He could not classify the feeling as he ran down the staircase, turning automatically and knowing to take the third door on the left, not the first or second. It was deja vu intermingled with experiencing something completely foreign. When he reached the door marked 'pitch', the entrance to the locker room was beside it. Inside, as promised, was a row of lockers. One had a door open, and there he found his kit. He took it out and looked at it. Blue. Good. The club colour, at least, remained the same. That was mildly comforting. He removed his jacket, shirt, and trousers. He looked down at his pants. They were florid brown boxer shorts. He stood for a moment, staring at his midsection.

The corduroy trousers he could handle, and the flowery shirt, and even the Cuban heels. But there was something disconcerting about suddenly discovering that he was wearing pants that he had never seen before. It was a violation, of a sort, though he could not think how he had been violated as he had no one to blame. He was tempted to compare it to waking up from a blackout drunk on the floor of a stranger's bedroom wearing someone else's pajamas and not knowing how he came to be undressed in the first place, but he knew it wasn't that. He should be grateful, he supposed, that his subconscious had deigned to dress him at all.

There was a jockstrap in the locker. He said a silent prayer of thanks that it was in the original packaging. He tore it open, stripped down, and put it on. It was a little snug. Low self-esteem, he wondered-his subconscious thinking he was smaller than he was. He pulled the kit shorts on as quickly as possible. The shorts-they were short. Not the thigh length he was used to, not at all. His pale as snow legs got excellent exposure in these. The shirt wasn't much different, cotton instead of mesh, a bit loose and long-sleeved, but a shirt was a shirt. He strapped the shin guards on next. They were heavier than he was used to. Socks, then boots. He hung his clothes up and closed the locker door.

How long since he had played a game? Three years, not including the five-a-side games his mum forced him to play every year at her company social. Mum, she would be around. Maybe he could... No. He couldn't.

There wasn't a damn thing he could do except what Annie said-play ball.

The pitch at least looked like a pitch. He stood on the edge of it, looking up into the empty stands. He tried to remember where he and his father had sat that day they had watched ManCity go up against United.

"You going out there or just going to stare?"

"What?" Sam looked at the player standing beside him in the doorway. "You must be Keens."

The man stuck his hand out, grinning around a mouthful of something. "Aye. Dorian."

"Doc clear you for training?"

"Right as rain." He took a bite of biscuit, which he was holding in his other hand. Sam recognised it from the old lady's tray.

"Good biscuit?"

"No one makes them like Mrs. Raimes."

"Mrs..." Something niggled at his brain. What were the chances there'd be a Raimes here? He shook the thought away. If he dwelt on it, he could have anything here, couldn't he?

"Boss?"

"All right. Go on then."

Keens ran onto the pitch. Slowly, Sam followed. The team was engaged in various stretches in front of the goal. Carling was smoking again, performing some type of acrobatic feat of bending forward while he grasped his ankle and arched it behind himself, all the while puffing on that cigarette. Skelton was jogging in place, looking as if he was trying to knock himself in the head with his knees. Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled them over. They came, and as was the case with his own side, he instantly distinguished the young from the veterans by how quickly they responded. Chris and the goalie all but bounded over, then the middle few came, not dawdling, but not in so much of a hurry, which left Ray and Keens.

"Right," Sam said. "'We didn't get to do introductions earlier, so we're going to go around and you can get out your names and your positions, if you don't mind."

"Chris Skelton, winger, wingback", Skelton said. His eyes were shiny, as if he were pleased to have a task that he could do.

The middle section said their names. Sam smiled and nodded, trying to remember them, but they slid from him like sand through his fingers. The important bit was that he was learning who got what position. When it came down to it, they all had names on the backs of their shirts anyway.

"Ray Carling. Fullback," Ray said.

"You're a fullback?"

"Aye. You think something's wrong with that?"

"No. Just thought you might be a forward is all, the way you enjoy rushing people."

"I'm a fullback." Ray looked as if he would get in Sam's face again, so Sam moved on before Ray could prove Sam's point. "And you, Keens? What do you play?"

"Mid-field."

"Right. O.K. Well, I'm Sam Tyler. I'll be your team captain, and your assistant manager, I guess. I'm..." he was about to tell them where he was from and his history, but stopped. If they didn't think he was crazy before-oh hell, they definitely did. Crazy enough, then. "Glad to be here," he finished. No one looked particularly convinced. Sam cleared his throat. "Now, let's run through some exercises and we'll see if everyone is playing where they should."

A young boy ran over with a bag of balls.

"Here, sir," he said. He looked about 13 years old.

"Thanks, son. What's your name?"

"Andrew, sir. I'm on the under-14's team."

"Well done, Andrew. You helping us out today?"

"Yes, sir. The guv sent us over because I did all right in our match yesterday. I busted me opponent's head."

Sam's smile froze. "Well, Andrew, we're going to try to avoid that kind of footballing now, alright?"

The boy looked confused. He shoved the balls towards Sam. "Here you go anyway, sir."

"Thanks."

The kid trotted off and Sam dumped the balls out. "Right. Who was on goal?"

"The bloke in the goalie shirt," Ray muttered.

Sam ignored him. He addressed the goalie. "Sanders, was it?"

"I'm defense," The man who actually was Sanders said. "That's Harker."

"I'm substitute goal. Since Tripper's out sick." The man in the goalie shirt spoke.

"Thank you. Harker, position, please." Sam gestured towards the net.

Harker nodded and ran over to the goal.

"Ok, we're going to line the balls up, and if you could just queue up over here, we'll practise running and aiming. Just very simple. Run, kick, goal. Harker, you'll want to stop the ball."

"What else would he do?" said Carling.

Harker grinned. "Ready, boss." A man who ignored Carling? Sam found himself taking a liking to the keeper.

Keens raised his hand. Sam was sure he didn't want to hear what he had to say. "What?"

"This is not a realistic exercise."

"I'm sorry?"

"When are we ever going to kick a ball that is not already in motion? What's the point of this?"

It's for aim."

"So you say. But really, what's the point? The people who need to aim can do it, the rest are just there for support."

"Aren't you an attacking midfielder?"

"Yeah."

"So, then, isn't it your job to aim? At the goal?"

"This is a waste of time."

"Duly noted. End of the queue, please." Keens shuffled off.

The team queued up. Sam took up position near the end, praying that once he got to the front, he wouldn't embarrass himself. The easy exercise was more to ease himself back into play than for them. He was certain that the players could handle it. However, as they began and the first one missed, and the second tripped over the ball, and the third hit it well over the goal, he began to wonder. When, at last, it was his turn, he sailed it nicely into goal. Harker caught it easily. Keens came up next and pounded it in with a perfect left foot.

"Not bad for someone complaining so much," Sam said.

"Never said I couldn't do it." Keens ran back to the end of the queue, tossing his response over his shoulder. Andrew began running around gathering up the balls.

Sam ran them through the exercise three more times. The last two, he stood at the head of the line and offered coaching on form with varied and (mostly anticipated) effect. Finally, he gave up.

"Andrew, set the orange pylons out. We're going to do some obstacle runs."

Skittles raised his hand. "Do we have to?"

"What do you mean, 'do we have to?'"

Skittles shrugged.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and counted slowly from ten. "Either you feel like playing football or you don't. You are a footballer. It is your job to always feel like playing it. Acceptance is key."

The man backed off, mumbling something about nutters taking over.

"Ball." Sam held his hands out, and Harker tossed him the ball. "Right. Line up. Dribble the ball around the cones, then pass it to the next person on line. Got it?"

"Uh, boss?" This was Keens coming towards him with his hand over his stomach. "I'm not feeling so keen. You mind if I skiv off?"

"You said the doc cleared you."

"He did, but..."

"He does look a bit green. Should sit it out," Carling said.

"Carling-I said practise continues."

Ray drew himself up a bit. "Look, I'm trainer here, and I think I know this lad a bit better than someone who's just wandered over from the Reds." He turned and spat on the ground, making no question of the foul taste mentioning United had left in his mouth.

"Is it always a fight with you? Let it go.

"If he says he's not well..." Ray stood square against him.

We're doing this exercise. Keens. You're first." Sam dropped the ball at Keens' feet and stepped back. The man glared at him but began to guide the ball around the pylons. He had a light touch and moved like a dancer. Sam watched, wondering why it was always the jackasses who were the most talented. He passed the ball on to Harker, who tripped over his own feet as he rounded the first cone.

"Sorry-not used to this fieldwork."

"It's all right. Give it another go." Sam patted his shoulder.

Instead of agreeing, Harker pointed. Sam turned, following his finger as the team raced past him to the other end of the pylons.

"Right. What are you lot plotting?" Sam's words died as he trotted over and saw that they were not in a huddle, but rather bent over Keens, who was flat on the ground, gritting his teeth against convulsions that wracked his body and forced tears from his eyes.

"Chris go call the paramedics." Skelton looked up.

"The what?"

Sam yanked him away from the sight. "The... Oh, just go fetch the medic."

"Right boss." Skelton took off running.

Sam tore his shirt off and shoved two men out of the way.

"What are you doing with that?" Carling said.

"I'm going to put it in his mouth so he doesn't swallow his tongue. He's having a seizure."

"He's not. Just had too much to drink."

Keens' eyes rolled back in his head. "That look like too much to drink to you?"

"For him? Yeah."

Keens gagged.

"Fine. Give it here." Carling snatched the shirt from Sam and stuffed it in Keens's mouth.

"Don't choke him, Carling."

"I'm not. He's alright."

Carling and Sam stayed on either side of Keens's head, and after another minute he went still. Sam pulled the shirt from his mouth. No one said anything for a moment.

Then Carling opened his big mouth: "If you'd have let him sit out when he'd wanted to, we wouldn't have had any of this."

Sam got up and stood there in his vest, kit shirt crunched in his hand, and didn't answer. Keens just laid on the grass and stared up, glassy-eyed.

fanfic, lom, footie fic, soccer au, fic, episode1:newcastle united

Previous post Next post
Up