4. Anstruther FC

It was only upon leaving the terminal that Arsenal realized his car was docked at a berth (damn it, that influencer of a seafaring pilot) “sitting in a park n’fly space” at Glasgow Airport. Not here at Edinburgh! A great deal of physical, psychological and cultural space intervened between the two locales. This represented a honking big problem, bigger than that of preventing trumpeter swans and Canada Geese from fowling his lawn in Anstruther. He was aware that the Confucius Institute of Edinburgh University had recently introduced a commuter transportation service to Glasgow to meet the needs and budgets of international students. This start-up utilized Peking three wheel carts as their mode of conveyance and it was as yet an unproven business venture, many thought ill suited to the times. The team bus concept would work but no coach had been reserved, logically, since the possibility of overflying Glasgow (perish the sacrilegious thought) had not been imagined. Arsenal knew from his 1973 Fodor’s Guide to Scotland that the Forth and Clyde Canal linked the two cities but he had an inkling that the canal was somewhat disused. Anstruther was forty miles one way, Glasgow Airport fifty the other. He was closer to home here than at Glasgow. The only light at the end of this tunnel seemed to be an oncoming train. There was no sign of Tiny whom Arsenal had last seen diving into the frequent flyer hospitality lounge at Departures. Well yes they were all departing for somewhere were they not? Question was would they arrive at their desired destinations?

Club related football matters had been put on the back burner for a fortnight, a luxury few managers of teams the likes of Anstruther could afford. Despite the shambolic transportation situation, Arsenal made it home to Fife by a combination forced march from Turnhouse to Queensferry, a ferry ride with the madman across the water and finally by thumbing the last couple of miles from Pittenweem. On principal he carried no cell phone and he had forgotten wife Lilliput’s number anyway. Notwithstanding the victorious overseas tour no great representation of the local citizenry marked his return to the community. Jitterbug, the neighbour’s cat, was indifferent to his reappearance. As far as she was concerned he could have gone to the local grocer’s for dog food, taken 16 days while the rotten Rottweiler died of starvation and that would have suited her down to the ground. Her cat napping schedule was not perturbed in the least. Arsenal determined he would collect his wheels next time Anstruther FC was on the west coast, a week come Saturday. The boys had not been at the top of their form last season, shipping on average 3.2 goals a game before halftime. They lost a heaping helping of these games he was reminded by the analytics guru at the club, Stefano, the Spanish intern. Arsenal could see the correlation but the causation of the defeats escaped him. Would a new signing at right half in the reserves stop the hemorrhaging? Well maybe but the club had no reserves, neither of personnel nor finances. The player pool was only 14 unless you counted the days when Lachlan from Crail attended as a spectator. Lachlan had been retired for 25 years but always volunteered to play if selected. He neither practiced nor had a left boot. He was unlikely to be selected unless he pulled up his socks, of which indeed he had three, all different. Arsenal made his return to the domestic scene with a muffled “Honey, I’m home!” before he snuck upstairs for some shut eye and respite from his international escapade.

Next morning proved to be sparkling by Fife standards. Liquid sunshine accompanied by an   impenetrable mist off the North Sea, known as the Haar (thick enough to cut with a highlander’s dirk) blanketed the estuary. Lilliput twirled a plate of black pudding and fried tomatoes into place at the breakfast table with a practiced flick of the wrist. Since migrating north from Wimbledon, Arsenal had grown to love this blood sausage delicacy and he relied on it to fortify him on chilly Scottish morns. The finer points of refined Scottish cuisine never failed to remind him of his Five Star Michelin regime back in Bordeaux. As he prepared for the first training session of the upcoming season, set for later in the morning, he planned his route to the stadium to take him past the newsagent’s. There he would buy a Toffee Crisp or two, or three (he was a true proponent of quantitative pleasing). Some Munchies would do the trick also he thought. He considered them all as little nutritional supplements to his wife’s well intentioned culinary efforts. As he washed everything down with a pint of Tennent’s, Arsenal rehearsed in his mind the techniques he hoped to introduce to the club later in the day. The summer before in Chengdu while at a referee’s symposium, Tiny had videotaped beguiling warm up exercises Chinese restaurant staff would do on the public sidewalks mid mornings prior to their lunchtime preparations. Tiny shared the video with Arsenal and now the proof would be in the pudding. Would Chinese calisthenics improve the fitness levels of Anstruther’s footballing prodigies? Chopping, slicing and dicing moves could well pay off in the cut and thrust action of Scottish pro football. Time would tell.

Arsenal took the causeway and arrived at the ground around 11. The state-of-the-art complex had been built on an artificial island offshore from the town centre. The structure reflected the status of football as the new dominant religion in the area, replacing the musical, iconic Palais Theatre on Church Street where the Bay City Rollers had gotten their start. From the top of the main stand one had a bird’s eye view of the guano-coated cliffs of the Bass Rock on the far side of the estuary. The facility, though a paragon of footballing excellence, was badly exposed to the elements. This went part way to explaining the goals-shipped deficit each game at half-time. Anstruther never failed to lose the toss and always seemed to play into the wind at the start. However it was not too late to turn the ship around.  The players assembled on the lush turf were bright eyed and bushy tailed. Only two prospects were holdovers from last season so pessimism from the previous campaign had had little opportunity to yet permeate the group. Fourteen of fifteen players present would make the squad. Lachlan was a no show. Arsenal, decked out in the jazzy paraphernalia befitting a veteran trainer cum manager, put the squad through its paces. He hoped to have the entire outfit ship shape (grrr) before the owner showed up for the ritualistic pre-season pep talk she relished to impart. She lived down the coast in Berwick, across the Sassenach border, and she was expected to drop in by whirlybird before the week was out. As usual a portion of the parking lot had been set aside as a heliport in anticipation. Although no reinforcements could be counted on from the second team (owing, if you were not paying attention, to the technical difficulty of its non-existence) things were moving swimmingly and the planets were aligning for the trip west. Renfrew Crew were to be the genial week-end hosts.

The work-out concluded, everyone headed for the showers. The converted China Shipping container salvaged from the flotsam and jetsam of the Firth of Forth earlier that Spring (finders keepers, losers weepers) had not yet been outfitted with hot water, so unheated, bracing, seawater greeted those brave enough to duck under. Arsenal dropped in on Frothy’s Tea and Biscuits on the way home. Frederick Roth was the German owner of the establishment who was recognized in the town for his generous dispensation of free Lubeck marzipan to all Anstruther supporters after each home victory. Owing to a dearth of such victories the disbursement was more theory than reality but it was the thought that counted in the social context. Arsenal and Fred nattered away about the club’s latest Bosman Ruling transfer and sketched out for each other a hypothetical yellow brick road they both could see the team taking over the next campaign. Arsenal had some appointment viewing to catch up on on the old boob tube so he took off after an hour or so, Fred’s favourite 19^th century pop tune “Ode to Joy” ringing in his ears, creepy little ear worm that it was. He nipped in to the grocer’s to get a pack of Kimberley Clark’s softest three ply toilet paper as requested by his hun bun, only to be informed they were wiped out. The shelves were empty and PARS panic buying had come to town in a big way.                                    

The morning of the trip through to the West, Arsenal arose early to take the hound out for walkies. Of course it was really the quadraped taking the biped for the exercise. Jitterbug next door happened to be alerted to the goings on. She hurriedly took up position in a hedgerow a block away from Rotter the Rottweiler’s abode. There she lay in wait. Sure enough as the intrepid duo approached, with Rotter straining and sniffing in the lead, Jitterbug bided her time then swatted at the squidgy sniffer as it snoked under the thorn bush in which she hid. An almighty yelp louder than the Hampden Roar filled the air waves, indicating a direct hit worthy of the Battle of the Atlantic. Instantly a profuse stream of red corpuscles stained the municipal sidewalk. Her claws had gouged two parallel furrows in the yielding epidermis. Rotter had been handed his comeuppance. The world was unfolding as it should along the feline canine intersect. Arsenal put this mundane problem behind him and headed to the field for the team rendezvous. To-day the team would win the toss he felt assured and the rest of the season would fall into place from there. Norman Vincent Peal was to be emulated in his positive outlook, much as he had inspired Don John of New York to persevere stepping on toes and to go on to become Leader of the Free World. Probably Boris the Spider at 10 Downing Street had been so inspired. Possession of blinkered sunny dispositions were such assets in revered head honchos. Anstruther FC was “bringing it” this year!         

Stefano the intern had been recruited from the reliable well spring of Tooting Common in London where over the winter Anstruther’s scouting department had spotted him juggling soccer balls on his head with consummate skill. He was in fact English born although his Iberian ancestor first came aground in England at the time of the fateful Spanish Armada. Stefano had an impulsive Spanish flair for high drama and was reputed to be capable of threading the eye of the proverbial needle with his laser like shots. But to-day he pretty near blotted his copy book. The impatient coach (times 2, one vehicular the other a homo sapiens) was on the point of departure, having awaited his arrival for ten minutes, when Stefano appeared at the far end of the stadium furiously peddling a tricycle. He had underestimated the top speed of his conveyance and set out from his condo way too late. Arsenal immediately imposed a sanction, banishing the offender to the seat beside the onboard washroom. “That will be a lesson to you, sunshine” Arsenal muttered leaving a chastened Stefano, who was prone to little introspection most days, thinking to himself his salad days were over before they had in fact begun. Likely later to-day he would be demoted to the substitutes’ bench. Meanwhile an unexpected visitor had dropped out of the sky with a whrr. The helicopter’s windstorm had almost knocked Stephano for six. Winnifred Helen Hammersmith, the club owner, had popped up from Berwick to wish all and sundry all the best in their inaugural match as a unit. Accompanying her was her petulant teenage son Nobby, a wannabe player whom Arsenal had rejected the year before much to the chagrin of mother and progeny. Nobby was Winnifred’s #1 son whom she treated (scatologically speaking) like #2. On this occasion the owner’s impromptu appearance also represented a pragmatic soccer mum just dropping off her kid in time to catch the team bus. Fortunately, she no longer coddled unrealistic expectations he would be selected to play. No matter, with a cloud of toxic exhaust, the bus got underway. Wuhan! Woo Hoo Stefano whooped, correcting himself!