The Rules of the Game

THE RULES OF THE GAME.
BY CHRIS PLATT.


Tony Shearer waved the next customer into the barber chair. He started as he always did, covering the customer with the barber’s cape, and asking what hair-cut and style they would like. Having selected the correct guard for the clippers and grabbing the scissors, he set about cutting and shaping, trimming and snipping. His opening topic of conversation was always the same. Football. Always football. There was something comforting and safe about soccer. You could strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, a bloke you’d never met before, what team do you support?, that was all it took. In his Manchester barber-shop, the question he asked most guys when they first came for a cut was, if they were a red or a blue, Manchester United or Manchester City.
He guided the clippers up the guy’s head, a Beatles lyric came to his mind, something about the barber shaves another customer.
‘See the game last night?’ Tony asked.
‘Same old Chelsea. They should never have got rid of their last manager. The Italian feller, I can’t remember his name.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know who you mean. I can see his face. They’d be in the final right now if they’d kept him on.’ Tony replied.
‘Definitely, mate. And that was never a sending off.’
Tony tutted and rolled his eyes in disgust, as the conversation went on to refereeing in the modern game.

All of Tony’s customers were football fans. The chat was always about the beautiful game. Most were fans of the big local clubs, City, United, Liverpool, but there was the odd guy who followed more local teams in the lower leagues. Tony would discuss and debate the latest football news and results with his clientele. There was always some sports drama, some topic of interest to go over.
‘Where are you watching the big match tonight?’ One customer asked.
‘Me and a few of the lads are going into town to watch it. It’s going to be very messy. The beer will be flowing. I’ll probably be rough tomorrow.’ Tony replied. ‘What about you?’
The guy detailed how he was having some friends round to watch the game. He had already booked the half-time pizzas with the local takeaway shop.
‘I can’t wait.’ He said. ‘All I need is for the pizzas to turn up and for United to do the business and it will be a great night.’
‘Fingers crossed, mate. You never know with United.’ Tony said.

The chat in the barber-shop got more and more excited as the afternoon wore on. The big game was getting nearer, everyone was counting down the hours and minutes to the 8pm kick-off. The match was going to be epic. The last couple of hours before closing, the atmosphere in the small barber shop was electric. Every guy that came in was getting their hair cut before the big night of sport. The buzz of anticipation and excitement was building and building. By the time Tony was giving his last customer a trim, there was chanting and singing, the regulars hanging around the shop, soaking up the atmosphere and chatting about the game.

That evening, just before 8pm, his wife joined him on the sofa.
‘Fancy watching a film tonight?’ She asked. ‘There’s a Robert De Niro gangster film on.’
‘Yeah, sounds great.’ Tony said.
‘Unless you want to watch the football. It’s the big match tonight.’ She said.
‘Very funny. You know me. I’d rather watch paint dry than watch football.’ Tony said.

Two hours later, as the credits were rolling on the film, his wife grabbed her mobile phone. She tapped and scrolled and then spoke.
‘Right, United won, 3-1. Carr was sent off in the seventieth minute. Never a red card, apparently. Referee got it completely wrong, the guy hardly touched him.’
Tony nodded, taking the information in. He repeated it back to himself several times, and thanked his wife.

The next morning as he gave his first customer a trim they spoke.
‘See the game last night?’
‘Of course.’ Tony said. ‘Great result for United, but that red card? It was never a sending off. He hardly touched him.’