"Nicholas Royle - The Cast" - читать интересную книгу автора (Royle Nicholas)

reason and you can tell when you know someone that well. You see it in
their eyes, that subtle glaze. Sometimes she smelt different. She took to
eating mints.
But the thing was, I loved her. I really did. When I could see she was
lying it hurt me. I was glad she'd come to watch the game because I knew
she wasn't actually that keen on football. It meant something to me that
she would be standing there.
Zsa had to wait outside while we went in to get changed. "I'll walk
around," she said, leaning slightly towards me and not sure whether to
kiss me or not. I felt a bit awkward in front of the lads and said, "OK.
See you in a few minutes. We're on the top pitch." I ducked unnecessarily
through the doorway.
The changing room was half full. Voices bounced off the walls. Taunts
about professional football teams and the weekend's fixtures were tossed
from man to man, across the bags and boots and shirts sitting in the
middle of the floor. "Hi Cat," someone said. My nick name, after Peter
Bonetti. "All right?" I answered, dumping my bag and squeezing between two
bodies to get my arse on the bench. In the corner a discussion was going
on. The subject was girls and what you would do if you found out someone
was cheating on you, and as always in the changing room the exchanges were
made at full volume.
"I'd give her an extremely hard time then find out who he was and go and
twat him," said Tim, a stocky Geordie who could outplay most of the
opposition but always kept the ball too long and ended up losing it.
"I'd be so angry I wouldn't know what to do." This was Tommo, a gangling
centre forward who looked impressive and nimble on the ball despite his
height but invariably hooked his shots way over the bar. Not that I was in
any position to criticise: the goal difference always reflected my own
lack of natural goalkeeping ability. I was mostly enthusiasm, part
instinctive lunge and no real talent.
"What about you, Cat?"
I'd always thought I'd be sad rather than angry. I'd let go of the girl
and have no interest in getting at the other man. What's the point? If
someone wants to go, you let them, and if they've gone off with someone
else you have to conclude they want to go. There's no point being angry.
It's not as if you'd want to make them stay, because they've betrayed your
trust. I don't know, maybe you can't buy this. Perhaps I was just too
together to be true, but that's how I felt.
I shrugged. "I was thinking about the game," I said lamely.
"Where are my shin pads?" Docs asked. "Why do I lose everything? I've lost
my shin pads."
It was true. He was always losing things. Someone threw him a spare pair.
I really had got myself quite worked up about this game. It was very
important we didn't lose, and because we almost never managed to score, it
was up to me to save the team from relegation. I love goalkeeping. There's
something about the particular responsibility you feel as the last man.
The thrill and the satisfaction of making a spectacular save far outweigh
the excitement of scoring. Every keeper has a favourite type of save and
although of course they should prefer for the opposition never to have a
shot on goal they secretly long for an opportunity to try and make their