The Third Terrace of Purgatory

London, 3^rd February 1986

The noise in the changing room was deafening.  The excitement of the game ahead had put the players in high spirits.  Don Samuels had nearly changed and placed his shin pads carefully underneath his pristine white socks.  As Hoxton Athletic’s main striker he often took the brunt of the hard tackles and had already endured one broken ankle two years earlier. 

The Hackney & Leyton Sunday Football League was always brutal and intensely competitive and that week would be no different.  They were playing in the final against one of their toughest rivals, Richmond FC…

…As the second-half started, Samuels noticed the defender set out to mark him had been substituted and the new player had clearly been told to man-mark him, Italian-style.  Samuels hated these defensive tactics, and thought it was ludicrous that they were now creeping in to Sunday league football.   Samuels cut back and forth, and tried to run in to space, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake him off.  No wonder ‘the beautiful game’ was in such a dire state. Ten minutes later he finally got his chance.  Their right-winger, Andy Atkins, floated a perfectly weighted cross into the box.  Samuels was strong in the air and he and his shadow both jumped together.  As they left the ground he felt a sharp stab as an elbow was brutally crunched on his nose.  The ball passed him only inches away and a chorus of ‘penalty’ echoed across the stands, as he collapsed to the ground….

…The game re-started and his shadow was once again on his shoulder.  He muttered ‘wanker’ under his breath to him, which was duly ignored.  There were few further chances for Samuels, as Richmond dominated the rest of the second half.  Hoxton’s goalkeeper, Steven Moore, was playing the game of his life and had saved several near-certain goals and they were now staring extra-time in the face. Suddenly, he saw Trevor Simpson, bursting through the middle of the field like a Gazelle, with the ball at his feet.  With a final surge of energy, Samuels sprinted up the left wing, leaving his marker trailing.  He screamed at Simpson to pass, and the ball was crossed five yards in front of him.  He ran on and reached the ball and his first touch re-directed it majestically on to his left foot, past a lunging tackle from a Richmond defender.  He took the ball back on to his favoured right and tapped it further forward.  He was in the clear, nearing the penalty box; the goal was in sight.  The keeper narrowed the angle, still on his line.  He cut inside, pushed the ball further right, opening the angle up and ready to shoot. He swung his foot at the ball and, as he connected, his legs were taken from under him.  The moment seemed to be happening in slow motion.  He fell backwards and an excruciating bolt of pain shot through his left leg as he saw the ball flying towards the goal.  Richmond’s goalkeeper dived, but could only graze the ball and it curved gracefully into the far corner. That moment of sheer joy, in the dying seconds of the game, would be almost worth the four months of walking on crutches; the six months of physiotherapy.  His leg was broken, and as he was stretchered off the pitch, he passed his assailant.  The man looked towards Samuels and spat on the ground. And Samuels looked up at him and into his eyes for the first time.  And he knew.  The man who had haunted his dreams.  The man he had been nervously waiting to see for as long as he could remember.  It was him…