Team

Three stops from town, the quiet train filled with football fans. They crammed in, taking every seat, some standing in the aisle. Richard stared at his phone, doing his best to look so enthralled by scrolling that he hadn't noticed the chants and horseplay. The train passed through a short tunnel, which seemed to silence the ruckus. In the quiet, the fan to Richard's right asked, "Mate, what's your team?"

Please let him be asking someone else, Richard thought, but the singing didn't start up again. Richard's neighbour poked him in the ribs. "Fella, I'm asking you. What team do you support?"

Everyone was listening. "I don't follow football," Richard said.

"Everyone has a team," said another fan. "Even if you don't follow football, everyone has a team."

Richard knew it was ten minutes to his stop - but maybe four minutes to the next station and he could get out there. "I've never got into it," Richard insisted.

One of the fans tutted, loud enough that Richard could hear. He had never imagined a tut could sound menacing, but now he knew.

"Everyone has a team," said the man beside Richard. "You can't opt out of that. Whether it was the team your family liked or the one your pals at school liked, there's got to be one. What's your team, pal?"

The carriage stayed quiet. Nobody was going to get involved. Nobody was going to rescue Richard. He decided to play it safe. "Well, obviously, the England team."

Noises of derision and mockery. A scrunched-up crisp packet bounced off Richard's head. No-one was impressed. From the words Richard could make out in the hullaballoo, he understood that everyone supported England: it wasn't a Team. Nobody had touched Richard yet, other than the jab from his neighbour's elbow, other than the piece of litter chucked at his head. But he wondered if this was how people got their heads kicked in: being pushed until they said something that supposedly went too far.

A voice from the back of the crowd: "You can support our team, if you like?"

The crowd's mood shifted, and Richard knew this would keep him safe. He did his best to sound enthusiastic: "Yes. Yes, that would be great."

Before he knew it, there was a scarf and hat in his hands. He didn't even know which team it was as he put them on. He would not be meeting his friend Bill for lunch. But that wouldn't matter because now he had a Team.

Background

The first version of this was written in a horror-writing workshop, and tidied up a month or so later. I was supposed to be writing about folk horror.

I’m not a huge football fan, but I’ve enjoyed a few World Cups where I tried to watch every match. I didn’t bother with the 2022 Qatar World Cup because of politics, and timezones mean I’ll probably not bother with non-England games in this year’s world cup.

I did enter the work sweepstake and picked Brazil. I think they’re a good team?

Recommendations

In August, I’m helping organise a show in Hebden Bridge’s In a Land gallery featuring Sooxanne Rolfe’s Wilde Volk project. It will be amazing. I’ll share full details once I’ve confirmed them.

Meanwhile, I recently learned that Sooxanne has a mailing list. You should sign up, and also catch up on the three posts she has sent so far, where she talks about her adventures exploring Eastern European masked rituals.