When Craig set eyes on him, he already looked drunk; slouching over the side of his chair, waving his empty glass, displaying his cocked, yellow smile and winking. Craig regretted arranging to meet, but had been eager to meet someone who played for the late Graham Turner and there was no backing out now because the barman was now asking, “What’ll it be?”

“I’m here to meet someone,” Craig responded, glancing round.

“Oh, Jim?” asked the barman, looking at the same slouched, greasy-haired man.

“Yeah,” Craig signed, letting his frustration out in his tone.

“No problem,” smiled the barman, “I know what he’s having. And for you?”

“Half a pint of bitter,” concluded Craig, pointing to the preference. Craig had been in Maidenhead to cover the FA cup tie, and believed he could kill two birds with one stone by buying Jim a pint or two, in this under-crowded, fake Irish pub. Craig concluded that this must be Jim’s local, and judging by the familiarity with the bar staff, possibly his home. He took the drinks over to the table where Jim met him with a stretched-out arm.

“What is it with the mainstream media? Cheers!” Jim asked, taking the pint from Craig.

“Hi Jim, good to meet you, I’m Craig,” but the point was missed and Craig sat on the grimy, unstable chair.

Jim took a long gulp of the pint, before explaining, “They waste their energy sucking up to the most highly paid and celebrated.”

“Yeah, a mark of the modern game…” concluded Craig, looking at the few customers, now observing their conversation.

“… It’s the true heroes of the game, the true journeymen of football management, who know the game and love the buzz too much to give up.”

“Men like Graham Turner?” Craig asks, watching Jim take another long gulp of his pint.

 “Yeah, like him.” Jim looked about, “Why you want to know?”

“Like I said on the phone, I just wanted to get an idea what is was like to play for him…”

“…His wasn’t a name that sticks in the mind…” Jim looked about and combed his thick greasy, aging hair backward with his hands, “…unless you’re a Hereford United fan, or a true football fan who knows his onions.”

“So, you played under him at Hereford United?” Craig asked, aware of a reaction to his question from a patron sitting a few empty tables away.

“Kind of,” offered Jim, looking at the same man, who bowed his head.

“Oh,” Craig became aware his tone showed his disappointment.

Jim notices, “A few games that is, not many, but you wanted to know about Graham?”

“Yeah, but it…” started Craig.

“… Men like Graham Turner will always have the respect of the football fraternity and I should know.” Declared Jim, looking to the barman.

“Yeah?” asked Craig, feeling some spit on his face that accompanied the declaration.

Jim swiftly guzzled the last of the pint, “Another pint John!” Jim casts an eye on Craig’s fresh half-pint, “You want another?”

“I’ve barely started this one,” defends Craig, quickly taking a mouthful.

“Put it on the tab John. Yeah, I was lucky to play under Graham. He nurtured my talents to help me move on the next level, as it were.”

“Oh, where did you go after Hereford?” Craig enquired.

“B&Q, as a shelf stacker, but Graham got the best out of me, which wasn’t much, agreed.”

The barman puts down the new pint, briefly observing Craig before exchanging smiles with Jim and returning to the bar. Jim took out a half-smoked cigar, and started cleaning the worst of the ash off, “I helped get promotion with him. That’s what’s so heroic about manager’s like Graham Turner; always patching up a team, stripped of its’ most talented every six months in order to stay financially secure.”

“Did he ever get financial security?” wondered Craig.

“No, always broke…” Jim light up the cigar, bellowing pungent smoke before continuing, “… Yeah, always broke.”

“Oh, so when did you play for him exactly?”

Jim looked puzzled, “About 2004 or 2005.” He took a gulp of his pint after releasing a cloud of smoke Craig’s way.

“So, was that before he got them promoted at Wembley?” asked Craig, waving the smoke from his face.

“Before?” sighed Jim in disappointment. “But!” Jim suddenly announced, “the years before were just as amazing, if not remembered by the likes of you.”

“What was it like then?” asked Craig, watching Jim gulp some more of his diminishing drink.

“Well, you see, he was the majority shareholder by then.”

“Yeah, I know he…”

“…He put his life in to the club, his soul…” Jim looked round, waving the almost empty glass to the barman, “…Another John…” then looking back to Craig, “… Made no money, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“… But he wasn’t in it for the money!”

“… I guess he…”

“…But people like you don’t get that!”

Aware of Jim’s rising tone, Craig asked, “People like me? You mean reporters?”

“Is that what you call you self?” Jim demanded, contemptuously.

“Sorry if there is any offense, I just wanted to have a quick…”

“…Don’t worry about it,” interrupted Jim, “there’s just so many people who never understood the depth of the man, just went on about those who win thing.”

“He won promotion,” offered Craig, “that will be remembered…”

“…But not with me.” Jim regretfully announced.

Picking up on the tone, Craig asked, “Did he drop you for the final?”

“Ha!” laughed Jim, turning to the barman, “hurry up!” Jim looked Craig up and down, making Craig feel awkward in the prolonged silence. Then, aware his drink was on its way, continued, “he didn’t like me anyway.”

“I don’t understand, you said…”

“… He claimed I drank too much. Idiot he was, all right!”

“But,” Craig stopped himself, to watch Jim take the drink from the barman, “but you said he was a great man, you told me on the phone…”

“… I told you what you wanted to hear!” snapped Jim, before taking another drag of his cigar. Craig watched the barman, watching Jim as he returned to the bar. The he glanced about at the few in the bar, all slyly watching Jim in their own way. He looked at his pint, only a quarter finished, while Jim was on his third.

“Drink up,” demanded Jim, blowing smoke Craig’s way.

“Sure,” Craig offered, before sinking a couple of mouthfuls, that seemed to taste a more bitter with the smoke in his face.

“I only played a few games for that two-faced weasel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…” offered Craig, aware Jim was losing any sense of propriety.

“…Oh, shut up!” demanded Jim, waving his arm dismissively, “You’re not sorry for anything. Just like him, I gave three years of my life trying to get in that team, but arse-lickers were picked first.”

“Sorry to…”

“…To what?” Jim snapped.

“Bring it up, I suppose,” Craig appealingly offered, before a silence ensued.

Jim brushed his unkempt hair back with his hands and looked about mournfully, observing the interest of the few others in the under-light pub. “Don’t worry about it,” Jim slurred, “we make mistakes.”

Craig looked toward the barman, who was smiling back at him, “Well, I guess…”

“…The bastard's dead now.”

“I guess…” offered Craig trying to block out the insult.

“… Guess what?” asked Jim, before looking at the old man entering the pub. “Hey James, get your arse here!” he suddenly shouted.

“No, you’re alright Jim, I’m just having a quick one, alone,” James awkwardly replied, glancing at Craig and ordering his drink at the bar as he turned his back on Jim.  

“Some people,” slurred Jim, now beginning to sway as he lazily looked round.

“Well, I guess…”

“…Guess you’re gonna buy me one before you go then?” asked Jim, struggling to hold his head straight.

“Are you OK?” asked Craig, looking round to observe other patrons watching, and the intermittent sniggering.

“I will be when you buy me another,” slurred Jim rolling his eyes backward in mocked frustration.

“I guess it can’t harm to have one more, but I have to go though.” Craig looked to the barman, who smiled back at him with a wink. Jim slumped his head downwards and was soon drifting off to sleep.

Looking cautiously about, Craig got up and approached the bar, “I’ll get Jim one more…”

“… Sure, and settle up as well?” asked the barman.

“Settle up?”

“Yeah, the other pints you bought him but haven’t paid for yet.” Insisted the barman, with an overbearing tone.

“I guess so,” Craig regretfully accepted, feeling a bit swindled.

“You know him then?” asked the barman, pulling a fresh pint.

“No, I just heard he played for an ex-manager I used to know and wanted to…”

“… Ha ha ha!” laughed the barman, accompanied by James.

“He sold you that one as well?” asked James, who’s comment started a fresh batch of sniggers and laughter form the few in the pub.

“Oh boy,” sighed Craig.

“Don’t worry about it,” consoled the barman, “he taps up anyone he can to get a few drinks out of. “Were you covering the cup match then?”

“Yeah,” conceded Craig.

“Yeah, you’re not the first reporter he’s had in here.” James patted Craig on his back.

“Never played more than two games in his life,” smirked the barman.

“… Any of those for Hereford United, by any chance?” mussed Craig.

“Not that good, not even semi-pro.” laughed the barman, handing the pint over and taking Craig’s card.

“He’s a chancer, alright,” sniggered James.

“If there was a premier league for chancers and free-loaders, he’d be at the top of it,” commented the barman, before concluding, “That’ll be twelve-pound fifty mate.”