From the journals of Jett Stryker, Rio de Janeiro, Summer 2014
Eliot didn’t say a word to me about the loss of my father’s boots. He stayed his usual taciturn self all through the next day’s drinking session and he was subdued over whiskies in the evening. I knew his style, though. In my father’s day the back pages had called him The Percolator: Eliot would keep it all in, let it bubble up inside, and some poor unsuspecting sap would get the whole damn lot the showers afterwards.
And here it came.
In spades.
Oh, and that poor unsuspecting sap? Why, you’re lookin’ at him.
“What were ya thinkin’, Jett?” exploded Eliot through his foam beard, jabbing at my chest with his dripping loofah.
“I guess I wasn’t doin’ a whole lotta thinkin’, Eliot.”
“Not with the thing between your ears you weren’t! Christ, Jett, I thought you was wise!”
“Christ, Eliot, you remember Marion!”
That crack put a damper on his rage and a wistful leer crept across Eliot’s ancient face. He sighed. “That I do, kid. That I do. Marion and The Count though? I just don’t see it. I mean, I knows Marion’s Marion, and that’s one helluva temptin’ package an’ all, but Spanish Charlie was always The Count’s blue-eyed boy. If that handsome Romanian left-back has started to get a taste for the other, we all of us bachelors might as well put away our dancin’ shoes, go shave our heads and sign ourselves up for a goddamn monastery.”
We laughed mirthlessly together beneath the scalding jets. And for a moment it was as if all those useless wasted decades were being washed clear away and the old camaraderie that had pulled us through many an uninspired season had decided to stage a last minute come-back.
“Jokin’ aside, kid,” said Eliot with a helpless shrug, “this is the last thing we need. We’re barrel-scapin’ as is and them boots is priceless.”
“Well, I guess we just go to the authorities. There’s fair play and there’s fair play, but coitus interruptus is strictly below the belt.”
“Christ, Jett, what good’ya think that’ll do? The Count and ‘Doc’ de Silva go way back. You’ll be laughed off the side-lines. And even if The Count didn’t keep the ‘Doc’ in his back pocket like so many nickels and dimes, it’d just be your word against his. Times have changed, kid. You’ve been out of the game too long.”
“Red Cards have been issued for less, Eliot.
“Once upon a time, maybe.”
“In my father’s time, definitely.”
Both of us instinctively glanced down at my bare wet feet.
“Look, kid, The Count’ll have to break cover come Thursday. It’s Romania vs. Paraguay.”
“Yeah, and meantime we’re playing the Italians tomorrow.”
“Well, what can we do? The trail’s dead, Jett. It’s a pea-souper.”
“Not necessarily. If The Count has shacked up with Marion, there’s a certain ex-Linesman who ain’t exactly going to be puttin’ out the buntin’.”
Eliot snorted derisively. “Get real, Jett. Spanish Charlie’s yesterday’s Sportin’ Supplement. If The Count’s given him the brush off for a taste of strange he’ll have really let himself go. And Spanish Charlie was barely holding it together in the first place.”
“Well, it’s the only lead we’ve got right now. Think he still drink’s up at the Ya Ya House?”
“Whasamatta Jett – ya got soap suds in ya brain?!” spluttered Eliot. His wrinkled old man’s dugs trembled with impotent rage. “We’re playing the Italian’s tomorrow at noon and you want to go traipsing off to the Ya Ya House? The most infamous drinking den in the most infamous favela in the most infamous host city in whole of International Soccer?!”
“Don’t you worry about me, Eliot. I’m a big boy. I can look after myself. And I can certainly handle Spanish Charlie.” I began to slowly work my own loofah across the expansive planes of my shoulder-blades; dipped into the inviting dell at the small of my back; hurried through the dark forbidding brush-land of my inner-thighs. “I’ll be back in time for kick off tomorrow or I ain’t Bert Styker’s son. Now pass me my shampoo-conditioner and body scrub. If Spanish Charlie’s got any beans we need spillin’ I’d best be sure to be lookin’ my best…”
To Be Continued…
Stryker! and the Balls from Brazil 