FanFic 9 of 2006
This one's for _rabia_- she wanted a TCP about someone using mutant powers to hinder their local sports team, rather than help (or at least, that's how I read her request- sorry if I got things wrong).
At the same time, I must apologise to bittertwist. Your "X-Movieverse Gambit Road Trip Story" is currently "in development", to quote Hollywood. I've got ideas, they just won't come out.
One final thing, for any folk who wonder what a "TCP" is, it stands for "The Common People", and they usually center around angsty teenagers killing themselves when they find out they're mutants people born without mutant superpowers in the Marvel universe or those folk born without strictly "useful" superpowers in the same. If that kinda thing floats your boat, there's a lot of them archived at http://www.subreality.com/tcp.htm- check 'em out, and feedback the authors if you liked anything.
'Cuz, um, feedback is good, folks.
On that note, on with the fic!
*
Walking along Shoreham Street on my way to the ground, I've got a good feeling about this match.
Oh, they can say football's crooked, and they can say that the players are overpaid, or not as good as they were thirty years ago...
But I don't care. It's a feeling like nothing else, you know? Twenty thousand of you- thirty thousand of you on a good day- cheering fit to wake the dead, all wanting the same thing- victory- all that passion, all that emotion, all that aggression...
I hand my ticket over and head through the turnstiles. I've been coming here for- what is it now, fifteen, twenty years?- and it still gives me chills, hearing the crowd buzzing with anticipation. It's like...
I don't honestly know what it's like.
All I know is it sends the hairs on my arms up on end and a shiver down my spine.
And this season...
This year, we've got it right.
The ball's going in the right place, the team's playing like men possessed, the other matchday results are going our way...
For the first time in years, we've got a chance of winning the championship.
And it's like nothing on Earth.
I look at my watch-time for a beer and a piss beforehand, plenty of time before kickoff.
Drinking my beer I examine the faces around me- happy, smiling, anticipatory... it's fantastic how a simple game- a game that, when you come down to it is really just twenty-two blokes kicking a ball around a muddy field- can untie so many people. I see black, white, Chinese, Indian- it's like everyone in the city's decided to say "bollocks" to division for the day.
And like I said, it's like nothing on earth. Today Bramall Lane, this otherwise insignificant area of an otherwise unremarkable industrial Northern English city-
It's a place where dreams come true.
Beer finished, I head to the gents'- wouldn't want to miss anything, right?
Whilst having my piss I whistle softly under my breath, and am amused to hear it repeated back to me by at least two, three other blokes at the trough. It's like... a secret code, or something. Shaking myself off and zipping back up, I give my hands the usual cursory rinse under the taps and head out to my seat, wiping the excess water off on my jeans.
The stadium's just about full, and the announcer's reading out the day's squads. Soon be time for the players to come out- soon be time for kickoff.
Soon be time for liftoff.
*
And, as it always does, it comes down to the last minute.
0-0 until ninety minutes in, and then a silly foul leads to the ref awarding Palace a free kick.
This is how it always happens, I think to myself- this is what happened last time, back in 1997.
Crystal bloody Palace are going to ruin everything for everyone.
I clutch my programme tight, concentrating all my efforts on the pitch, just the same as the other thirty-thousand people in the stadium.
If we can just will the ball to go the other way...
Forty yards out and it's still rising when it hits the back of the net.
The small group of Palace supporters cheer like they're the ones who've won the championship.
Their goalscorer runs the length of the pitch, leaping and capering like a madman.
*
The mood in town is ugly tonight- there's been fighting in the streets, cars set afire, the lot.
Sheffield's a warzone.
I sit safely at home, drinking a can of lager, watching it on TV, a small smile on my lips.
An "anti-mutant hooligan element" have gone on the rampage, it seems, in response to Crystal Palace's winning goal against Sheffield United earlier in the day.
Their goalscorer, it turns out, is suspected of being an unregistered telekinetic, in breach of the government's Anti-Mutant Act of 2001.
And incidentally also in breach of the Illegal Use Of Unregistered Mutant Powers (By Professional Footballers) rule, which the FA hurriedly introduced to the Beautiful Game shortly afterwards after intense tabloid pressure.
Crystal Palace are in a lot of trouble, and it looks as though the FA might reverse the result and give United the championship anyway.
I switch the TV off with a blink of my eyes and smile.
Even if they don't, I've still come out on top- betting on United to lose in the 90th minute won me a lot of money.
They say winning isn't everything.
I say it's the only thing.
*
At the same time, I must apologise to bittertwist. Your "X-Movieverse Gambit Road Trip Story" is currently "in development", to quote Hollywood. I've got ideas, they just won't come out.
One final thing, for any folk who wonder what a "TCP" is, it stands for "The Common People", and they usually center around angsty teenagers killing themselves when they find out they're mutants people born without mutant superpowers in the Marvel universe or those folk born without strictly "useful" superpowers in the same. If that kinda thing floats your boat, there's a lot of them archived at http://www.subreality.com/tcp.htm- check 'em out, and feedback the authors if you liked anything.
'Cuz, um, feedback is good, folks.
On that note, on with the fic!
*
Walking along Shoreham Street on my way to the ground, I've got a good feeling about this match.
Oh, they can say football's crooked, and they can say that the players are overpaid, or not as good as they were thirty years ago...
But I don't care. It's a feeling like nothing else, you know? Twenty thousand of you- thirty thousand of you on a good day- cheering fit to wake the dead, all wanting the same thing- victory- all that passion, all that emotion, all that aggression...
I hand my ticket over and head through the turnstiles. I've been coming here for- what is it now, fifteen, twenty years?- and it still gives me chills, hearing the crowd buzzing with anticipation. It's like...
I don't honestly know what it's like.
All I know is it sends the hairs on my arms up on end and a shiver down my spine.
And this season...
This year, we've got it right.
The ball's going in the right place, the team's playing like men possessed, the other matchday results are going our way...
For the first time in years, we've got a chance of winning the championship.
And it's like nothing on Earth.
I look at my watch-time for a beer and a piss beforehand, plenty of time before kickoff.
Drinking my beer I examine the faces around me- happy, smiling, anticipatory... it's fantastic how a simple game- a game that, when you come down to it is really just twenty-two blokes kicking a ball around a muddy field- can untie so many people. I see black, white, Chinese, Indian- it's like everyone in the city's decided to say "bollocks" to division for the day.
And like I said, it's like nothing on earth. Today Bramall Lane, this otherwise insignificant area of an otherwise unremarkable industrial Northern English city-
It's a place where dreams come true.
Beer finished, I head to the gents'- wouldn't want to miss anything, right?
Whilst having my piss I whistle softly under my breath, and am amused to hear it repeated back to me by at least two, three other blokes at the trough. It's like... a secret code, or something. Shaking myself off and zipping back up, I give my hands the usual cursory rinse under the taps and head out to my seat, wiping the excess water off on my jeans.
The stadium's just about full, and the announcer's reading out the day's squads. Soon be time for the players to come out- soon be time for kickoff.
Soon be time for liftoff.
*
And, as it always does, it comes down to the last minute.
0-0 until ninety minutes in, and then a silly foul leads to the ref awarding Palace a free kick.
This is how it always happens, I think to myself- this is what happened last time, back in 1997.
Crystal bloody Palace are going to ruin everything for everyone.
I clutch my programme tight, concentrating all my efforts on the pitch, just the same as the other thirty-thousand people in the stadium.
If we can just will the ball to go the other way...
Forty yards out and it's still rising when it hits the back of the net.
The small group of Palace supporters cheer like they're the ones who've won the championship.
Their goalscorer runs the length of the pitch, leaping and capering like a madman.
*
The mood in town is ugly tonight- there's been fighting in the streets, cars set afire, the lot.
Sheffield's a warzone.
I sit safely at home, drinking a can of lager, watching it on TV, a small smile on my lips.
An "anti-mutant hooligan element" have gone on the rampage, it seems, in response to Crystal Palace's winning goal against Sheffield United earlier in the day.
Their goalscorer, it turns out, is suspected of being an unregistered telekinetic, in breach of the government's Anti-Mutant Act of 2001.
And incidentally also in breach of the Illegal Use Of Unregistered Mutant Powers (By Professional Footballers) rule, which the FA hurriedly introduced to the Beautiful Game shortly afterwards after intense tabloid pressure.
Crystal Palace are in a lot of trouble, and it looks as though the FA might reverse the result and give United the championship anyway.
I switch the TV off with a blink of my eyes and smile.
Even if they don't, I've still come out on top- betting on United to lose in the 90th minute won me a lot of money.
They say winning isn't everything.
I say it's the only thing.
*