Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen Read Free Book Online

shouted to Ringo and me to stay in position in case they launched a counter-attack. And that was exactly what happened. I was sniffing around the midway mark when a long ball was kicked into our half. Ringo swung round like a compass needle. Two Slemmestad louts had started on a run, I sprinted for the ball too, it arced goalwards through the air, there were seconds separating us. It happened on the edge of the penalty box. Ringo, with the ball under control, played for time. John and I had cut off the two Slemmestad forwards and the whole thing should have been child’s play. We just waited for Ringo to lay off the ball to Aksel. However, instead, he got his whole body behind the ball and powered a perfect banana shot into the top left hand corner – unstoppable. We froze to a man, just stood and stared. Aksel, gaping at the ball careering around the net, was dumbstruck. The Slemmestad poltroons were shouting and embracing each other, and Ringo stood with bowed head banging the tip of his boot into the ground. I couldn’t quite see what was going on in his face, but a few weird sounds were coming from it and his back was trembling. The referee blew his rotten whistle and the birds huddled together on the branches and buried their beaks in their plumage.
    Then Ringo walked off. He just left the field, walked past Åge, to the dressing rooms. A new man was sent on, a guy from Frøn who was so bow-legged that half the Slemmestad team could have walked between his thighs. We looked for Ringo, but he was gone. There were ten minutes left to play.
    The home side had the bit between their teeth now as wave after wave rolled in. John fought like a lion and I didn’t keep a low profile, either, because there was only one thing to do now, make up for Ringo’s blunder. We had to win. In the distance, George was waving for the ball, but long passes were simply not possible. The game had become stagnant, like curdled milk. It was man to man marking now wherever the ball was. And the clock was ticking. Åge yelled from the sidelines, but no one could hear what he was saying. Therewere not much more than a couple of minutes left. All the players were in our half. Aksel was like a kangaroo between the posts gesticulating wildly. I managed to win the ball, backed my way out of the ruck and saw that John had set off on a terrific spurt up into Slemmestad’s empty half. I put all my power into the kick, leant back and delivered a ball that went through the air like a remote-controlled seagull. John caught it on the run, on his bootlaces, ten men thundered after him, the goalie was ready to throw himself at his feet, but John lobbed him, ten men skidded after the ball, but it was too late, it slipped into the net like a hand in a glove. And there was a rain dance and high jumps and the home supporters were tearing out their hair. The cement-men just managed to take the kick before the referee blew his whistle and the birds alighted from the branches, twittering that victory was ours.
    We charged into the dressing rooms to look for Ringo. But no one was there. And the number 14 shirt lay neatly folded on the bench. His clothes had gone. We raced out again.
    ‘P’raps he’s sittin’ in the coach,’ George said.
    We sprinted around the building to the car park. The coach was empty. We went back to Åge and asked him if he had seen Ringo.
    ‘Ringo?’
    ‘Ola,’ John said.
    ‘Beautiful lob,’ Åge said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Worth its weight in gold. I’ll put you back into the attack.’
    ‘Have you seen Ola?’ George asked impatiently.
    ‘Isn’t he in the dressing room?’
    ‘Nope.’
    Ringo had vanished into thin air. We searched high and low, but there was no sign of him. In the end we had to take the coach home without Ringo. The mood was not how it should have been. Åge looked nervous. Everyone had some injury they needed to tend. There was a stench of sweat and cement on our shirts, which we had to take home