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lobelia321Title: Knowing better
Author: Lobelia;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lobelia321
Fandom: Football
Pairing: Richard Hanlon (Cambridge United) / Ryan O'Neil (West Ham United)
Category: Very obscure and rare rps pairing. It was only a matter of time. I can never resist the rare and the weird for long. And how much stronger is its pull when the r & w struts its stuff live before my very eyes!
Canon: Cambridge Utd vs West Ham, 1 August 2006. I was at this match. Rps has taken on frightening and absurd proportions.
Disclaimer: This is not true. I do not know these people. The events recounted herein, while based on a factual context, are entirely fanciful. This is amateur fiction. No money is being made.
Pics: If you don't know these players (and I can't imagine that you wouldn't...), pics included at the end of the ficlet! ;-)
Knowing better
by Lobelia
I should know better by now.
I didn't have my tea. Nor my lunch. Nor even any breakfast to speak of.
Too excited.
We haven't played a major side in... well, not since I was signed, anyway.
And we haven't had the Abbey this full since... ever? It feels like a different stadium. It feels like an away game! We were warming up on the turf, pink sky, green grass, the Hammers over yonder doing their stretches and their kicks and-- what, engaging in some sort of pre-match strip-tease...?
Anyhow, it's the crowds that amaze me. I'd say seven, even eight thousand. I've never seen more than three in this stadium! The noise is phenomenal!
Most of them are cheering the other side but well... I'd be if I were in the stands. I mean: a living legend!
On our home ground!
Teddy Sheringham!
He's not playing yet. But that doesn't matter now, anyway.
Because I should know better.
I should.
But I don't.
He's the Number 12. He's the right-back defense. He's fast, he's taut, he's got eyes at the back of his head.
They all do, these West Ham players. Wherever you run, there they are. There's always one of them, sometimes two. Buggered if I know how they can tell where the ball's going to be. It's ball awareness, that's what they've got. Incredible.
Everything seems different with them here. The grass is greener, the goal mouth larger, the clouds higher and the crowds louder. The pitch shrinks and tilts. They are amazingly fast, amazingly fit. Even that kid. That little guy. The Number 12.
He looks no older than sixteen; seventeen max. He runs like the devil. It feels scary tackling him. It feels scary tackling any of them.
But with him -- I'm frightened of breaking him.
Snapping him like a twig.
I could. I should know better. I could. After.
Focus, Ritchie.
I must focus. Because --and that's all the guys were talking about in the dressing room-- the terraces --and that's what everyone's been claiming but who knows if it's so-- are crawling, literally crawling, with scouts.
And if I do well, and if I focus... then it won't matter that we're three down and it's not even half-time yet. Because I can go up the chute and all the way to the stars.
That kid is there again, that Number 12.
Cheeks pink like candy floss, hair brushed like a two-ply rug, and those skinny arms pumping up and down as he runs.
And can that kid run.
My, oh... Run straight into me.
Ball gone. Of course. Ball gone, focus gone, sense gone.
His sweaty hand on my sweaty arm, and I could bend those fingers, snap snap snap.
During the break, I endeavour to corner the kid outside the visitors' loos.
"Hey, kid," I say.
"Hey," the kid says.
"What's your name?" I say.
"Ryan," he says.
"Ryan," I say. "You'll go far, Ryan."
"Thanks," he says and smiles.
Suddenly, I realise he's exhaling hot air and breathing fast, and that the pink cheeks and the sweaty hands are the result of high excitement.
It occurs to me that the kid is very, very young.
"Kid," I say. "How long've you been playing for the Hammers?"
"This is," he says, "my first senior game."
His eyelashes flutter. He puts his hand to his mouth. He's got a little mouth, like a keyhole, and a wristband around his wrist.
"Kid," I say, and I grab his wristband, with his wrist inside it.
The kid is startled. And breathless.
I know an opportune moment when I meet one.
I shouldn't know one. I should know better.
But I don't.
The kid's mouth is defenseless and open and very plump.
The tip of his tongue is like the stem of a cherry. So sweet, and there for the plucking.
Oh, just one more.
"Okay, kid," I say. It should be embarrassing; I'm not even out of breath. "Well done." I pat his cheek. "Well done."
My grinning face walks back with me, all the way to the tunnel's end.
Why I keep doing this, I don't know.
Oh yes, I do.
Because there's more than the fast lane. There's more to life than the chute to the stars.
There's the scout up in the sky.
Aw, Ritchie. What a load of bullshit. Get a grip, keep your hands to yourself, reel your tongue in and show some sense.
Second half, and we get creamed. Number 12 runs on angel's wings. He's not even fazed.
He'll go far, on and off the pitch.
Me? All the way home on the A 14, and not a scout in sight.
+++
THE END
Lobelia; 5 August 2006
Typed straight into LJ.
This page = http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/493424.html
Richard Hanlon:
Ryan O'Neil:
Author: Lobelia;
lobelia321Fandom: Football
Pairing: Richard Hanlon (Cambridge United) / Ryan O'Neil (West Ham United)
Category: Very obscure and rare rps pairing. It was only a matter of time. I can never resist the rare and the weird for long. And how much stronger is its pull when the r & w struts its stuff live before my very eyes!
Canon: Cambridge Utd vs West Ham, 1 August 2006. I was at this match. Rps has taken on frightening and absurd proportions.
Disclaimer: This is not true. I do not know these people. The events recounted herein, while based on a factual context, are entirely fanciful. This is amateur fiction. No money is being made.
Pics: If you don't know these players (and I can't imagine that you wouldn't...), pics included at the end of the ficlet! ;-)
Knowing better
by Lobelia
I should know better by now.
I didn't have my tea. Nor my lunch. Nor even any breakfast to speak of.
Too excited.
We haven't played a major side in... well, not since I was signed, anyway.
And we haven't had the Abbey this full since... ever? It feels like a different stadium. It feels like an away game! We were warming up on the turf, pink sky, green grass, the Hammers over yonder doing their stretches and their kicks and-- what, engaging in some sort of pre-match strip-tease...?
Anyhow, it's the crowds that amaze me. I'd say seven, even eight thousand. I've never seen more than three in this stadium! The noise is phenomenal!
Most of them are cheering the other side but well... I'd be if I were in the stands. I mean: a living legend!
On our home ground!
Teddy Sheringham!
He's not playing yet. But that doesn't matter now, anyway.
Because I should know better.
I should.
But I don't.
He's the Number 12. He's the right-back defense. He's fast, he's taut, he's got eyes at the back of his head.
They all do, these West Ham players. Wherever you run, there they are. There's always one of them, sometimes two. Buggered if I know how they can tell where the ball's going to be. It's ball awareness, that's what they've got. Incredible.
Everything seems different with them here. The grass is greener, the goal mouth larger, the clouds higher and the crowds louder. The pitch shrinks and tilts. They are amazingly fast, amazingly fit. Even that kid. That little guy. The Number 12.
He looks no older than sixteen; seventeen max. He runs like the devil. It feels scary tackling him. It feels scary tackling any of them.
But with him -- I'm frightened of breaking him.
Snapping him like a twig.
I could. I should know better. I could. After.
Focus, Ritchie.
I must focus. Because --and that's all the guys were talking about in the dressing room-- the terraces --and that's what everyone's been claiming but who knows if it's so-- are crawling, literally crawling, with scouts.
And if I do well, and if I focus... then it won't matter that we're three down and it's not even half-time yet. Because I can go up the chute and all the way to the stars.
That kid is there again, that Number 12.
Cheeks pink like candy floss, hair brushed like a two-ply rug, and those skinny arms pumping up and down as he runs.
And can that kid run.
My, oh... Run straight into me.
Ball gone. Of course. Ball gone, focus gone, sense gone.
His sweaty hand on my sweaty arm, and I could bend those fingers, snap snap snap.
During the break, I endeavour to corner the kid outside the visitors' loos.
"Hey, kid," I say.
"Hey," the kid says.
"What's your name?" I say.
"Ryan," he says.
"Ryan," I say. "You'll go far, Ryan."
"Thanks," he says and smiles.
Suddenly, I realise he's exhaling hot air and breathing fast, and that the pink cheeks and the sweaty hands are the result of high excitement.
It occurs to me that the kid is very, very young.
"Kid," I say. "How long've you been playing for the Hammers?"
"This is," he says, "my first senior game."
His eyelashes flutter. He puts his hand to his mouth. He's got a little mouth, like a keyhole, and a wristband around his wrist.
"Kid," I say, and I grab his wristband, with his wrist inside it.
The kid is startled. And breathless.
I know an opportune moment when I meet one.
I shouldn't know one. I should know better.
But I don't.
The kid's mouth is defenseless and open and very plump.
The tip of his tongue is like the stem of a cherry. So sweet, and there for the plucking.
Oh, just one more.
"Okay, kid," I say. It should be embarrassing; I'm not even out of breath. "Well done." I pat his cheek. "Well done."
My grinning face walks back with me, all the way to the tunnel's end.
Why I keep doing this, I don't know.
Oh yes, I do.
Because there's more than the fast lane. There's more to life than the chute to the stars.
There's the scout up in the sky.
Aw, Ritchie. What a load of bullshit. Get a grip, keep your hands to yourself, reel your tongue in and show some sense.
Second half, and we get creamed. Number 12 runs on angel's wings. He's not even fazed.
He'll go far, on and off the pitch.
Me? All the way home on the A 14, and not a scout in sight.
+++
THE END
Lobelia; 5 August 2006
Typed straight into LJ.
This page = http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/493424.html
Richard Hanlon:
Ryan O'Neil:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:00 pm (UTC)Oh, but you DID! And so wonderfully too!
The tip of his tongue is like the stem of a cherry. So sweet, and there for the plucking. Dear God, so wrong and yet so so right!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:26 pm (UTC)All of this is totally wrong! How can I be writing about these obscure clubs? How can I even know anything about any club?? I have always loftily eschewed the world of clubs!! This is madness.
Thank you for sharing it. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:48 pm (UTC)We must find young Ryan another young obsure clubber to be his BFF! They shall be the future Ronnie/Kaka! And when everyone is drooling over them in four years time, you can sit back and say, "I knew him when..."
I just realized that, if he played his cards right, Ryan could possibly be in Toronto next year for the FIFA U-20 World Cup. Which means, that I would be able to
stalksee him in person!(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:48 pm (UTC)You are going to see this boy in Toronto? Possibly??? AAAACK. omg, we are bonding across the oceans via real life droolage.
*is overwhelmed by global rps-ization*
This communal stalking is downright terrifying...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 03:13 pm (UTC)Hopefully I can see said boy in Toronto. The World Cup is going to take place in different cities across Canada, with the finals in Toronto. So hopefully his team will either play their games in Toronto and/or get to the finals.
That's the beauty of the footie fandom. It brings cultures and peoples together over the beautiful
gamesboys.I just realized that I could totally be his Merche. Except that I don't have an ugly tattoo on my lower back. And I have better taste in bikinis. But yes, I could be his suga-mama :P
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 06:11 pm (UTC)I mean, unless you're now not merely robbing cradles but actual wombs, this doesn't seem to be the one...
I found the club that's buying him: Cambuur Leeuwarden but he's not mentioned on their site (I can read Dutch and I looked!).
Hm. The mystery thickens.
What World Cup in Toronto???
You could totally be his Merche...? *bursts out cackling* This fandom is so Mary Sue friendly, it's a total scream! *elbows you away in the race for Sue-dom*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 08:12 pm (UTC)There are surprisingly few (read: no) pictures of Brandon. He plays for the Canadian U-18 Developmental Team and even there, he doesn't have a picture listed.
I managed to find this one. I think he's the one in the middle ;) I can't tell if he's cute or not. I will say yes, at least, I hope so.
Sorry, next year the Fifa U-20 World Cup will be held in Canada (in Toronto, Vancouver, Ottawa...and one more city that I can't remember). Supposedly it's the biggest championship after the actual World Cup and a lot of U-20s that play end up on big teams!
Well, I don't exactly like Merche herself, just because the pictures I've seen of her haven't exactly been the most flattering and I'm not a big fan of the blondasse look, but kudos to her for snagging a young one!
*drops a 'naked' picture of Cristiano in your path and sprints towards the finish!!*
I must say that everytime I come to comment, I end up rereading the story, and I keep on falling more and more in love with it! I can almost guarantee that your book could be written about dirt and I'll be reading it!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:24 pm (UTC)Also, I haven't really got it bad for the kid. I am just an absurd sucker for the rare and the weird, and the whole local club thing just kills me. The very idea ( and then the very fact) of googling obscure clubs and their even obscurer players (and finding pictures of them, attesting to the world wide obsesion!) is killing me. I just can't get over the sheer absurdity of it all, and somehow it is all part of the fandom... !
What a fandom!
I'm going to have make icons of the Leibesüber now.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-05 11:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 10:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-06 07:00 pm (UTC)The only prob is that the comm rules say 'footballers over the age of 18'...I know it's just to be safe, and I guess it depends on the country etc...and yeah, I've no idea of any way around these things and it's not like you wrote explicit pr0n etc, but aye...um, why did I mention that? I don't know. Just...-adopts official voice-...the age of consent for gay males in the Uk is currently 18 (I think?)...
-razzes at official voices- No pr0n, guys, get over it! ;-D
;-D God only knows what they make of us girls, with no official age of consent for grrlsex, hee!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:52 pm (UTC)The age of consent for guys in the UK is 16, I believe, but no matter; I will delete, anyway, because I have to admit, even I am somewhat creeped out. (Won't delete the ficlet but the link from the comm.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:58 pm (UTC)They changed it recently? Good news, that. About bloody time too. I'm still baffled (and secretly quite pleased) that the law doesn't seem to need an age of consent for gay girls here, heh. ;-)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-07 02:59 pm (UTC)