The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2580 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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215 dozen for dodecaphiles.

The bus we’d organised was a small coach with all sorts of luxuries like a toilet, a small drinks cum snack bar, DVD player or television and sound system. It also had swivel seats which reclined and tables. While it’s not a good idea to wander about too much while the machine is in motion, it was certainly better than sitting in a conventional bus with six inches of leg room and the back of the seat in front to stare at. The seats were all with safety belts and once we’d loaded the food David had packed for us, and the flags—Union flags and the red crosses of St George; I suppose I stood in for the dragon.

The journey was a bit stop start for the first half an hour with children all wanting to watch separate films or listen to different music. I really fancied a cuppa though the thought of spilling it on my cream coloured top or Union jack jacket (one of Stella’s mistakes—she thought she had tickets for the Olympics but didn’t) and red trousers put me off until I realised the cups had lids with lips like children’s sippy cups and the risks were diminished. Simon got me one and a coffee for himself.

Julie and Sammi were sitting with us and we chatted about this and that. My phone peeping to indicate a text made me jump and nearly spill my tea. When I retrieved my Black Berry I’d had a text from Danielle.

‘Hi mum, Im on da bench so mite get a game. Lol Dxxx’

I announced it to the family and we all cheered. I had tried to point out to the younger ones that getting into an established team was harder than it looked. I’m not sure if they understood me, but I knew what I meant.

We parked at the Madejski stadium at two o’clock and after making sure everyone had a drink and snack with them in their backpacks we walked through to the grandstand where I showed our tickets to one of the stewards and we were directed to the rows where our seats were.

When I booked them I arranged for us to have a dozen seats with six each on consecutive rows, so the girls could sit in front of us and if necessary, could climb over the seats to be with us—not normal etiquette—but we could be dealing with a murderer of some sort.

None of the girls, including us bigger ones were to go anywhere alone, including the loos which everyone agreed made sense. Our phones had a quick dial panic alarm and we agreed that if something happened, Jim, Si or me were the rallying points for safety. Jim had organised the bus which was bullet proof—designed to convey visiting VIPs whose safety might be at risk. The driver was an ex-police chauffer who knew what to do to protect his passengers. Jim, I knew was carrying a weapon, one of his pals was in attendance somewhere, the police were there as for any crowd control situation, whether they knew of our risk; I had no idea. In fact, apart from Edward’s casual remark, we didn’t know if there was a risk or not. I had no desire to cause trouble, but I couldn’t speak for my apparent enemies.

I hadn’t appreciated we’d have the match televised, I suppose it might make ten seconds on the sports report on the regional news programme, but I watched the camera crew take up their positions, what they were filming was also shown on two large screens, so goals or other highlights could be shown ad nauseum to the crowd.

To my delight, we saw the St Claire’s contingent sit a dozen rows below us, all waving little flags, which were on sale outside for an outrageous price, but then this might be the only time they ever came to a football match especially an international.

As the stand filled up so the atmosphere began to grow and soon we had a crowd of possibly six or seven thousand, mostly female, supporters. I’m pleased to say, the atmosphere was one of a carnival and reminded me of the Yorkshire stages of the TdF last summer—everyone was here for enjoyment and good fun.

Amongst a sea of white and red flags, were a few Croatian supporters waving huge flags and certainly making their presence felt. Then just as I was getting used to the noise and watching the antics of some of the crowd, the teams were led out including our Danielle, suddenly our relatively reserved family were all shouting her name and waving to her, though I doubt she saw us. The teams lined up and the anthems were played, God Save The Queen, bringing a lump to my throat as I watched my daughter standing to attention trying not to shiver with nerves in the February sunshine. Livvie was firing exposure after exposure with her telephoto lens. I hoped she had one or two of her sister wearing an England tracksuit.

The game got underway, the reserves taking their place on the benches to watch the same as we were. Don’t get me wrong, it was exciting in the way that any school game is, in being unpredictable because of the lack of skills of the players, but I was sure I’d seen Danni play better than most of them.

The teams were fairly even once they settled their nerves only as the game developed Croatia seemed to be in the ascendency, and ten minutes before half time they scored. It pleased a small sector of the crowd.

“Why don’t they play Danni?” Trish kept asking me but I had no answers. I took the younger girls to one of the toilets and we got back just in time to see the second half begin. Croatia continued where they left off and ten minutes into the half came goal number two. Even I could see that one coming. It looked like the game could get away from England unless they scored soon, but in all honesty, the way they were playing it didn’t look likely.

England made some substitutions and on came our heroine, playing number twenty one. She was soon in the thick of it and between her and another of the subs they began to rally the troops. After a few minutes of fast and furious passing and tackling England got a direct free kick about twenty five yards out, the Croat girls formed a wall as the home team decided who was going to take it. Somehow, the youngest player on the squad was given the chance, number twenty one was going to attempt to bend it like Beckham. I’ve seen her do this several times, I hoped the opposition hadn’t, especially the goalie and I hoped her nerve held.

As she ran up to take the kick, I could barely dare to watch. The wall ducked as any sensible girl would and Danni stroked the ball in an arc which floated into the top corner of the net. The goalkeeper stood and watched it drift past her. Simon and I, plus five thousand England supporters jumped up and shouted, then I hugged him and burst into tears, I was so proud of her.

The team was transformed and began to play an attacking game with Danielle marked closer than limpet. Her pass to the winger caused a scrambled tackle resulting in a corner to England, only their second—both of which came since Danni’s entrance. I half expected her to take it but the winger did instead, floating it into the box where it was headed towards and then away from the goal—then it happened—the ball drifted out of the box and my daughter facing away from it threw herself into the air and her second foot contacted the ball and volleyed it into the goal. It was Danny Maiden’s trademark overhead scissors kick and while I jumped up again shouting my delight, I worried she might have betrayed herself.

After the goal of the game, if not the century, the pace flagged as both teams ran themselves ragged for the winner. Two minutes from the end, Danni ghosted through and into the penalty area only to be body-checked by a girl twice her size. She made little attempt to play the ball and Danni went down like she’d been pole-axed. The referee blew for a penalty but I was more concerned that my daughter was still on the ground receiving treatment.

The crowd was screaming, ‘OFF OFF OFF’ and it seemed the referee heard them and finally gave the large Croat a red card. She protested but the replay on the giant screens showed she made no attempt to play the ball. I watched in horror as repeatedly Danni was seen to be knocked down and she stayed there. She finally stood up on shaky legs and was deemed fit to continue. I wasn’t sure if she should have but I knew there was no way she’d leave until the final whistle.

The England captain took the penalty and drilled it past the goalkeeper, our girls were in the lead for the first time in the game. With a player down, Croatia played a time wasting game as wave after wave of English attacks came at them. I looked at the clock, they were into the fourth minute of injury time and England forced a corner. Danni elected to take the kick. She still looked wobbly to me but she seemed adamant about it.

If the first curler was lucky, this one wasn’t. It seemed to arc away from the corner and back towards the goal where panic stricken defenders seemed to jump and miss it as it dropped over the line just inside the far post. England were four two up and as the referee awarded the goal he then blew up for full time. On her first outing, Danielle Cameron had scored a hat-trick with three incredible goals. If her hero, D Beckham esq had been there I think he’d have been well impressed I know I was. If I thought that was exciting, it was just a warm up for the real event as I was about to experience.