by Chris Harris
It was Friday 13 th August, the day before the season kicked off. Friday 13th. Tomorrow, Denham were away at Potters Bar FC, a team Greg knew only in the vague way you know non-league opponents: a badge on Welex Flashscores, a name, recognisable, but not, if you know what I mean.
He was in the Red Lion with Big Mal, sitting with pints in front of them, congratulating each other on how well it was all going and with well-earned optimism for the season ahead.
The pub was warm and busy and full of Friday night noise. Glasses clinked. People laughed. Then his phone buzzed. It was a text from Dean.
It simply read: ‘oh dear’
Underneath it was a link.
“What is it?” Mal enquired.
Greg didn’t answer immediately. He clicked the link.
A page loaded.
Denham Phoenix FC Unofficial Forum
A brand-new Pro Boards football forum. Greg understood these as he had often read other forums in the past.
Before he even read a word of it, Greg’s first thought was that this was probably a good thing. Fan engagement was the whole point of running a football club. The fan numbers had been rising dramatically, well maybe from an average of eighty for most of last season to what they reckoned maybe three hundred, thanks to Dean’s marketing. The fact there was now a fan’s forum was another indication of that growth,
Greg had been around enough football, enough lower-league grounds and grim little clubhouses to understand what supporters meant. The loyal ones and the difficult ones. The ones who turned up in rain and still somehow found energy to complain about the pies. They mattered. They bought the raffle tickets. They volunteered. They argued. They shouted at linesmen. They went through the mill with you.
So a forum, in principle, was nothing to worry about.
He scrolled dowm.
The first thread had been started by someone called Mr Dribble, and was titled:
Is Greg Lyons just a great big ego? Or are we a local football club?
I know we haven’t been going for very long as a football club, but at the end of the day… is this a football club for our lovely village, or is it just a performative arena for the village that Greg likes to show off how much money he’s got?
There were only a handful of replies. Mal leaned in to see what was engrossing Greg.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing really,” Greg said, “There’s a new fan’s forum, and according to a Mr Dribble, I’m showing off.”
He put the phone face-down on the table.
Mal took a swig of his pint. “Ignore it,” he said. “It’s just the internet. Saddos.”
Greg nodded as if that solved it, but the post had lodged deep in his brain.
Later, at home, he tried to let it go. He sat in front of the television without taking in a single word. Then, against his better judgment, he picked up his phone again and went back to the forum. He told himself he was checking it out of interest. That it was responsible to do, that directors needed to be aware of supporter sentiment.
But really he was checking because he couldn’t not.
It was the same handful of replies, all positive towards Greg to varying degrees. Greg should have felt reassured. He didn’t sleep properly. He kept waking up in the night, turning over Mr Dribble’s post, ignoring the support from the others.
The next morning, he met the other directors and the travelling supporters. Twenty-five Denham fans on the official coach, some of them already glassy eyed with pre-match beers in The Red Lion. The atmosphere was good. It was alive with that pre-season optimism and the camaraderie of away-day travel and the whole ritual.
Greg tried to join in, but Mr Dribble was locked in his head.
The coach got noisier as the tinnies were consumed, especially Adrian Walker, who had allocated himself an impressive eight cans for the ninety-minute journey. At matches, the newish collection of Denham fans did not make much noise or sing much, but when they did, it was generally because Aidy had started it, a real character, a beer propelled character. Greg felt the knot loosen slightly with the effect of some beer, the gentle rocking of the coach and the relaxed hum in the air.
Then he checked the forum again. He was so pissed off with himself, he promised not to look, he felt like a heroin addict, just one more fix!
By the time the coach pulled into Potters Bar’s ground, Greg had made a decision, he would be himself, he would continue to be the director people wanted him to be, the man who showed up at away games, bought drinks, joined the supporters, part of the crowd, no heirs and graces.
So, inside the clubhouse bar, he bought a round for everyone and sat among them. The conversations were exactly what he needed them to be. Complaints about the toilets, predictions about the first half, arguments about the pitch, who the new signings, who The Lightning Twins, were. But he couldn’t zone in. Normally chatty, he was silent and aloof.
Catherine Brown and Charlie came and sat with him and said, “What’s up with you?”
Greg hesitated. Then he told them about the new forum.
“I know I’m being stupid,” he said. “I don’t even know why. It just got to me.”
Catherine stared at him for a second and then empathetically shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Have another drink.”
Greg tried to smile.
She leaned forward slightly. “Listen,” he said, “there’s not a non league fan that does not want money lavished on their club to make it better except for the few people who are jealous and resentful of the people with the money to do it.” not mincing her words, “he’s a tosser.”
Greg nodded, absorbing it.
“And you’ll have to toughen up,” she added less sympathetically, “Because if you’re going to run a football club, people will talk. People will moan. People will have opinions even when they don’t know what they’re talking about. Half the time they don’t even believe it. They just like the attention by being controversial.”
With the team coming into the game with a 100% win record and 2% entertainment, the directors watched, hoping that the meeting they had last week with the manager, when he was questioned and agreed to a little bit more flair, had led to progress. Ed had signed the The Lightning Twins from Eastbourne Town. They were local Lewes lads, both in their late twenties, and usually played in front of the centre backs so they would maintain Ed’s defence-minded approach, but they were also good attacking midfielders when their slightly overweight gait allowed them, something Ed was to work on. Their weight, often cumbersome movement and the fact their surname was Light and they were electricians obviously heralded their nickname.
Sadly, however, the new promise of entertainment improvement was missing and did not manifest itself in the game. As it got towards full time, the Potters Bar players camped out in Denham’s half of the pitch, putting the Phoenix under the most tremendous pressure. The Potters Bar goalkeeper, who had nothing to do all game was literally standing on the halfway line, so assured were they that Denham Phoenix were not going to bother launching an attack. They didn’t need to, because as Denham cleared a corner kick, the ball was headed out and bounced just the other side of the 18-yard box where Paul Light hoofed it 90 yards into the back of the Potters Bar goal, providing the goalkeeper with the opportunity to touch the ball for the first time in the game, lifting it out of the net.
The small group of the Denman faithful went absolutely mental. No sooner had Potters Bar kicked off and the whistle blew for full-time, the Potters Bar fans booed Denham off, singing the ‘wheels on the bus’ a fair assessment of Denham’s dull contribution and style of play.
Sometimes you draw a game and it feels like a win. This was a game that although Potters Bar lost, you could say they had so many chances and dominated the game, it felt like a moral win for them.
The wreak of beer, when the coach got back and parked outside The Red Lion, came bursting out like a cloud of smoke when the coach door opened up, and the supporters and directors all noisily piled out. Even Greg was enjoying himself by now. Everyone was a little bit drunk. Aidy was absolutely minging, and indeed, as soon as his foot touched the tarmac as he got out of the coach, his leg collapsed. and he keeled over.
In the Lion it was a drunken night for everyone. Some of the local players also turned up for a bit of fun. When he actually got in there, Greg got another round in and stayed for a few beers. Then something no one has ever seen before, he shook everyone’s hands and went off back home. Not with Lucy, who was with her boyfriend, but with his new acquaintance, Mr Dribble, stuck in his head.
When he got home, he would normally indulge in a further tipple and sit contemplating his successful life and maybe a future life in times to come with Catherine Brown, before thoughts of money, and Catherine helped him happily doze off. Instead, he went straight to bed. The alcohol from the afternoon and evening sent him straight off to sleep. But like any alcohol-fuelled sleep, it was a poor sleep. By one o’clock, he was sitting in his bed on his phone, looking at the ProBoards forum.
Someone had written an amateur match report. It was very positive and another three users had agreed it ended up being a great day and night out, the spelling terrible, as they’d obviously written it on their phones in the pub.
Scrolling down, ominously, the last post, registered at 11:53, was from Mr Dribble.
‘It’s all very well winning these games, but if you play the dreadful style of football we do, you’re bound to. When will Del Boy Lyons tell Stephens to stop parking the bus. Showing off his money buying rounds like a spiv’
Greg went downstairs and made himself a cup of tea. He wondered how, in the space of 48 hours, he had gone from being so happy to sitting at 2am at his kitchen table on a Sunday morning, haunted by Mr Dribble.
It felt strangely odd waking up on a Sunday morning without a hangover. He resolved not to look at the forum, because at 9:30 he was due to meet Economical Tony and Big Mal at the ground to check over the new catering hatch. Something positive. At £8,000 it wasn’t a huge project, but it felt like an important milestone, the beginning of proper developments, and a focus on improving what they hoped would become a new and much larger club.
Big Mal took one look at him and said, “You feeling a bit chirpier today? You were really down in the doldrums last night, weren’t you?”
Greg almost felt relief that Mal had asked. He couldn’t wait to get it off his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s that Mr Dribble on the forum. He’s doing my head in.”
He showed Mal the messages.
Mal read them, then handed the phone back and shrugged.
“Oh well,” he said. “It’s one of thirty-five people then, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Greg asked.
“Well look,” Mal said. “He knew you bought a round in there. There was about thirty-five of us. Don’t worry, me old mate, I’ll try and remember everyone who was there. I did recognise all of them. I just don’t know all their names, I’ll make enquiries, talk to people on Tuesday at the Chichester game.
Greg nodded, listening closely.
“We’ll draw up a list,” Mal went on. “Everyone who was there. We can start narrowing down who it might be.”
Afterwards, feeling calmer, they headed to the Red Lion for Sunday lunch. Greg had a roast, and for a couple of hours he felt almost normal again. Big Mal was on good form, Economical Tony was talking about the hatch and how well it would work, and more importantly, how cheap it was, and Greg even managed to enjoy himself.
But as Mal ordered the drinks, Greg couldn’t resist. He took his phone out and checked the forum.
Mr Dribble had gone quiet. A few posters had turned up to slam him, defending Greg and telling him to stop stirring. It left Greg feeling a lot more positive. He put his phone away and had a good afternoon with Mal and Tony.
Later, back home in the early evening, he checked again. He wanted to prepare himself for the week ahead and go to bed in the right frame of mind.
This time the supportive posts has been removed. ‘Post has been removed by the administrator.’
Greg scrolled down to the admin section of the forum.
His exasperation turned quickly into anger as he saw the name of the person responsible. The person ultimately in charge of the forum, and everything on it.
Mr Dribble.
Coming next: The first home game versus Chichester, the bus is finally improved into first gear, investigations into who Mr Dribble is begin, and much more shenanigans.
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