Britain is a storied land, its history is woven with threads of myth, legend, fable, and fact. From the earliest days of Pre-Roman Brittania, when tribes and small kingdoms ruled, to the modern era with global trade and relatively recent attempts at empire building.
Whether good or bad, the story has been one of shifting identities, structural changes, wins and losses. It begs the question, is the fabric of this country still made of the same weft and weave that it first started with? Is there something that has stood the test of time and been a part of our national identity for longer than just a few centuries. Something that could transpose into the future as well?
When Martin Grace put a call out for people to submit stories to his concept for an anthology of sci-fi stories based on the potential future of Britain, these were the questions I asked.
And the answer I landed upon?
Why, the national sport, of course, Football! (The kind you actually play with your feet).
Always Pass The Ball
By Graeme Brandham
Sometimes it was hard to hear the whistle over the noise of the motorway above, but Dale, our ref, had other ways of being recognised.
‘OI! TWATS!’ He roared across the pitch.
The defender for Finchley shoved Jerome into the wire fence again, his irate face reflecting multi-hued colours from the glow of adverts being beamed into every corner of the pitch. Jerome smiled at him, teeth grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
‘You think you’re so fu***...’
The whoosh of overhead self-driving cars drowned out the rest of the defender’s words, but the meaning was clear enough. Jerome agreed with the defender, despite the attempt at an insult. He nodded, smile wide, cajoling his opponent. The fact was, the other team - they were nothing. They looked bad the moment they stepped on the pitch with him.
What’s a man to do? Jerome was born to shine.
Dale, the referee, finally arrived and pulled the defender off him, waving a yellow card in his face.
‘Least you deserved, bruv’, Jerome called over to the defender. The Finchley player nearly came for him again, but Dale pushed him away before rounding on Jerome as well.
‘Another word and I’ll have you carded as well.’
He nodded deferentially. Dale was a pal.
Jerome’s grandpa was on the benches, his head in his hands. He didn’t like it when his grandson was too cockey, but who else was gonna win this game? Jerome waved to him,
‘Hey, Bill, this next goal’s for you, old man!’ His grandpa looked up and gave him the finger, but he was smiling, so it was fine.
Five minutes later, Jerome was on track to fulfil that promise. Dust from the concrete pitch flew up around his threadbare boots as he flowed over the pitch. A quick one-two pass and he was free, a turn - feinting left and then pulling out to the wing where he could run. A quick tap on the outside of his foot, and the next defender was sliding through his dust. Just the goalie left, and the man was off his line. Jerome made as if to push into the box, drawing him out further. The goalie was baited by the move, and that was his undoing. Jerome flicked the ball between his ankles and tapped it up and over the keeper in a cool arc. The whistle blew. Goal. The whistle blew again. End of game. Final score 4-2. He picked up the ball and ran back to his team’s bench, and to the sound of a few thousand cheering fans from the makeshift scaffold stands.
‘Yo, Jerome!’ It was Maya, his friend and the league’s founder. He waved at her, grinning.
‘You liked that one, didn’t you? That’ll be good on the socials.’ She was clearly ecstatic.
‘Nah, not that, come - look!’ She had her phone in her hand, shaking it at him.
‘Yeah, but that goal, don’t lie, it was sweet tho.’
‘Jerome shut the fuck up for one moment and check this out’.
She testily shoved the phone under his nose as the rest of my team gathered. Patrick, the notoriously intense Frenchman who played for Luton Town in the Super League, was speaking to the camera.
‘I grew up watching Arsenal. Real Arsenal. Now? I run around a sterile dome wearing biometric sensors so some billionaire can check his portfolio. C’est de la merde. They killed my club, they paved over the history, and they expect me to smile for the cameras. I look at this Super League, and I feel absolutely nothing. But down there? Under the motorways? I see Highbury FC. I see kids playing in the dirt because they have to. That is where the blood is. I am done being a product. Keep your millions. I’m going back to the mud.’
With that, he took off his shirt and threw it over the camera lens.
Maya was standing transfixed. The noise around them grew as the news reverberated through the pitch. Jerome looked at his old friend.
‘Shit, Maya, that’s us!’
#
Patrick stood at the edge of the training pitch, a large open space in an abandoned warehouse in Hackney that Maya had usurped for her base of operations. Maya was standing next to him, shy, almost for the first time in her life. Patrick paid it no heed; he was used to it, it came with the fame.
‘So that’s fancy boy over there then, with the fancy feet?’
‘Hmm, what, yeah... That’s Jerome, he is Highbury’s star player at the moment. Only 19 years old.’ Maya replied.
‘I recognise him from your socials. Does he ever pass the ball?’ Maya shook her head in dismay. Patrick carefully took off his shoes, seemingly unbothered that they were worth a month’s income, and left them on the side of the pitch before pulling on his training boots. The contrast with the lined-up scruffy bags and beat-up old shoes of the rest of the team caused Patrick a moment’s glance. He smiled, as if he were coming home. Laces tied, he strode out onto the training pitch.
‘Boy! Yeah, you –’ he shouted, pointing at Jerome. ‘Pass the ball’.
Jerome dribbled over as his teammates stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle. He made to pass but then deftly turned the movement into a little flick and lifted the ball over Patrick’s head.
‘Hey, old man, let’s see how good you guys in the Super League really are, come get the ball, bruv.’
‘Putain’, Patrick uttered under his breath. He turned to face down Jerome, who was dancing over the ball like he was auditioning for Strictly. He approached slowly.
‘Come on, man, take it if you can’. Jerome cajoled. Patrick watched the ball hawkishly; the kid favoured his left, and he had a pattern. The Frenchman struck, leaning in just as Jerome turned right, straight into Patrick’s attack. His shoulder ploughed into Jerome’s chest as his legs fumbled over Patrick’s solid frame, the ball cleanly now in his possession, Jerome scrambling on the floor.
‘What the fuck, what was that?’ Jerome shouted from the ground. His face passed through five different emotions in quick succession, starting with anger, sliding into surprise at having been bested so easily, and finally begrudging respect.
‘You asked me to take the ball, I now have the ball’. Patrick replied, reaching down to grab Jerome’s hand and help him up. Jerome noticed his teammates hiding their laughter behind their hands and pulled himself up without Patrick’s help.
‘I suppose you Super League lads aren’t as slow as the TV makes you look,’ Jerome muttered, rubbing his chest and soothing his wounded pride.
‘I see you want to be the best,’ Patrick continued, ignoring the remark.
‘Mate, I will be the best,’ Jerome chided.
‘I do not disagree, you are very good, but undisciplined. I am going to teach you and your team. Let’s start with these first two lessons. What have you learnt here?’
‘That you are not as old as you look.’
‘Pff, cheeky boy. No! The first lesson. Never underestimate your opponents; being the best means never giving others the chance to prove you are not, and that starts with respect. Lesson two. When your teammates are open, and they ask for the ball. You pass the ball, you understand me?’
All Jerome could do with that was suck his teeth.
‘Team is how you become the best. We are going to raise your whole team high into the clouds, and from their new heights, they will help lift you up, for you to reach the pinnacle of the game. They need you - yes, but also you need them.’
The rest of the team huddled closer and looked more sincere, even excited. Jerome couldn’t help but notice them, and eventually he reached out to Patrick, grasping his hand. ‘Whatever you say, old man, let’s do this.’
#
Julian walked, back straight, into the old, run-down pub, trying to appear more confident than he felt, despite his expensive suit and slick hair. As he entered, the patrons of the battered-up Old Barge became more muted. Not aggressive, but certainly not friendly either. His uncompromising show of wealth did not suit these people who had little. He walked up to the bar and sat down on the stool where he and Jerome had grown up together. The battered old stool felt like a distant memory compared to what he had grown used to. Bill, Jerome’s grandpa, walked around the bar, cleaning a glass without looking up.
‘What can I get for ya?’
Julian considered his choices. Something from his past? Or something representative of his future?
‘A Negroni, please, Bill. Two ice cubes.’
Bill looked up, initially incredulous of anyone ordering a drink like that in his old boozer. But as soon as he saw who it was, his wry attitude reasserted itself.
‘Blimey, haven’t seen you in a long while now, Julian. What’s it been? Three years? Must be. Last time I saw you was just before you became a turncoat and started working for the Super League, right?’
Julian chose to ignore the jibe. But as he gazed upwards, he couldn’t help but notice all the junk on Bill’s wall behind the bar. Remnants of his days as a community activist, football coach, and political leader in his constituency. Artefacts of days long passed, but still a stark reminder of the kind of stripes he admired. Julian reflexively looked down at his suit again and felt more out of place than ever. These were not the right kind of stripes.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound’, he muttered to himself.
‘Whas tha’?’ Bill asked.
‘Nothing, look, while you’re figuring out what an ice cube is, I’m here to see Jerome, is he about?’
Bill gave him a withering look. ‘If you are gonna be like that, you can wait for him somewhere else, not that it’s any of your business where he is!’
At that moment, Jerome came into the pub loudly. His headphones around his neck were playing loud reggae, and he was immediately grasping hands with a couple of the old rastas sitting in the corner.
‘Bill! Third training session with that Frenchman from the league! Shit was real!’
It was then that he noticed Julian. Striding up, he initially looked quite menacing, his extra few inches of height seeming to cast a shadow. But then he grabbed Julian and gave him a hug.
‘Bruv, not seen you in time! What’s happening!? Yo, Bill, get us a few Red Stripes.’
Julian couldn’t help but smile, the old familiarity coming back like a forgotten breath. ‘Jesus, you still drinking that Jamaican shit, man, piss has more flavour.’
The rastas in the corner coughed loudly. Jerome, sensing the discomfort, pulled him aside.
‘Yo, what you doing here? Don’t come to cause trouble, man!’
‘I have a proposition that we need to discuss... about your career.’
Jerome took another little look around. Half the bar looked at Julian with undisguised dislike; the other half were clearly uncomfortable. Bill slammed a couple of stripes on the bar, making the point clear.
‘Let’s talk outside then?’
Outside, Jerome grabbed a pack out of his pocket and started lighting up a cigarette.
‘You can quit that for a start!’ Julian said, pulling the cigarette out of his hand and crushing it underfoot.
‘Nah man, what the…’ Jerome stuttered. But before he could finish, Julian continued.
‘They don’t take athletes who smoke in the Super League…’
Seconds slipped past like days as Jerome grasped at what Julian was saying. His eyes widened as the meaning started to sink in.
‘You mean?’
‘Yeah, man, I mean! Luton wanna hire you. They saw you on the socials, or should I say, I made them look. They liked what they saw. They wanna see you on the training grounds and put you into contention.’
Jerome hugged Julian tightly in that moment, all pretence and animosity dissolved.
‘This for real? Nah, but what about... Patrick man, he just started with us, change is happening bruv...Maya’s league is going places.’
Julian shook his head.
‘You know that league can’t continue forever, right. It was allowed to continue because it was tiny and not a threat. But the audiences are growing, and it’s illegal. They are using sites owned by the Super League. The top brass will stop it if it becomes a problem. And in the meantime, you know how much these professional footballers get paid. You wanna help your community right, like your Grandpa, well imagine what you can do when you are earning more than every person in that room combined.’
Mentioning Bill, however, had been the wrong move.
‘Man, Bill tho, he would never forgive me if I joined them. He wouldn’t talk to me if he knew I even considered it.’
‘But you will consider it, though, right? Bill had his chance to do something for his community, and now he runs an old pub full of people with no hope. You were already their shining light. Now you can actually make some meaningful change around here.’
Jerome stared at the floor for a few more minutes, thinking. Eventually, he reached up and grasped Julian’s hand.
‘Yeah, man, I’ll think about it. Text you in a few days, yeah?’
#
The rain pounded heavily on the old towpath alongside the canal in Hackney Wick. Intermingled in this tumult was the sound of crunching gravel as two pairs of feet thudded in synchronicity. Two sets of heavy breathing were the last things to be heard.
‘Your... attitude .... Is.... Improving!’ Patrick shouted to Jerome between breaths. They were running for the sixth time that week, and for the first half of that, Jerome had complained bitterly.
‘What has... changed, huh?... Come... let’s stop for a moment... There is a bridge.’
The two runners padded into the shadow of the train overpass, and the sound dulled around them as the rain was left waiting for them outside. Jerome hung off his knees for a moment, catching his breath, while Patrick stretched out his legs.
‘At first, you hated this.’ Patrick smiled. And then putting on a mock voice. ‘Why are we running so much? How does this help? What about actual skills?’
Jerome straightened up. ‘Yeah, I dunno man, I guess I jus’ started seeing your point of view more.’ He was shifty when he said it and failed to meet Patrick’s eyes. ‘I mean, this is what you guys do in the Super League, right? You run, you tone your bodies. Makes sense.’
Patrick’s eyes sharpened on Jerome, who was still staring down into the canal as a small duck glided past them.
‘What are you not saying?’ Patrick asked more firmly.
‘Nothing…’ He mumbled. ‘It’s just, if I were to be scouted for that league one day. I mean, I know it won’t happen, they only pick kids from certain schools, blah blah, but ya know. Maybe they might notice me?’
Patrick huffed indignantly.
‘You do not want to be noticed by them. Yes, they have the best players, but they have forgotten everything about what makes football special. They are businesses, not sports teams.’
‘And what if I have already been noticed by one of them? What then? What if I was considering it? Would you be happy for me?’ Jerome stood a little taller, his heart was shaking as he swallowed his pride, and asked for this man’s blessing. Patrick was not impressed.
‘You sell your soul, what team is looking to purchase it?’
‘Man, you don’t even know what my soul is. Luton wants me.’ Jerome replied testily, anger rising in his tone.
‘My old team, are you serious, boy!’
‘Course I’m fucking serious, don’t you understand. What would you know rich boy, you got picked out of the finest fucking academy in France, you had the right parents, the right connections. What difference did joining the Super League even make to your life!? You talk about soul. Man, my soul is my home. Imagine what that kinda money could do for MY people!’
Patrick just glared.
‘You are being played, bruddah. You being selected just after I left to join your team is no coincidence. They don’t want to help you, they wanna destroy what you love. They wanna discredit it.’
‘Yeah, course, it’s all about you innit! Fuckin, go on, get out of here, I don’t need you anyway. Soon I will be striding out on that pitch, making bare money and doing the job you were too pussy to carry on with.’
Patrick just sucked his teeth and jogged back out into the rain, his form slowly turning into a silhouette as he faded into the mist. Jerome stood alone under the bridge, breathing heavily. The shadow masked the tears on his cheeks.
If you enjoyed this little taster, I would encourage you to check out some of the other incredible writers who will also be putting out previews of their work over the coming week or two.
Caitriana NicNeacail, Jade Bates - Author, Louis Urbanowski, with more to follow.
Do make sure to pre-order your copy as well. (After all, look at how epic it looks!) Pre-ordering will help make us more visible to other readers online, so if you’re thinking about buying it, now is a good time to order!
For the kindle version:
And for the paperback and special edition hardback, you can preorder that here:
The anthology has been curated by the brilliant Martin Grace and edited by Evelyn K. Brunswick. Both of them have given over so much time and love to this, and I cannot wait to see what their publication Sol Stories will do next!
And as always, thank you for reading. If you liked what you have seen here, stay tuned for my next update where I will be releasing the next chapter of my spooky novella - Deciduous and Evergreen.
Till then,
Much love