Our captain finally couldn't stand it any longer.

"Coach, I'm sorry to bother you but-we need to wind up the blokes."

"So wind them up!" Harris exploded. "You fucking idiot! Are you trying to teach me now? Come on, move your arses! All of you! What the fuck are you doing? Do I have to go round and round in circles for you?!"

That was better and it worked. The blokes started running around and I could even see smiles appearing on their mugs.

"Roberts! Why the hell are you grinning? That's what I got from Harris. "Where is your place?! On a bench or something?! Who the hell are you here?! A Scout?! So fuck off and watch these fuckers from Blackburn! What the hell are you doing here?"

Johnny patted me on the shoulder. Grinning from ear to ear, rubbing his hands together.

"I thought it was all over." Martin leaned in close to my ear, and a wave of garlic and some other familiar smell washed over me.

"Are you drinking something?" I asked in a whisper.

"How’s that?!" He laughed.

Contrary to all forecasts we rolled out strong against the Rovers. Three-one. Twice it was Parker, once with a penalty for playing using his hand, and then Johnny Kenneth, with a long shot from-behind the penalty area. And then even Sigurdsson's own goal in the end did not spoil the mood of anyone but the Icelander himself. They laughed at him and teased him in the locker room afterwards, and that was it.

Our fans were so happy! Three wins in a row, which by the way, this season had not happened even once, and they just went mad. They were already not quite normal if they supported a club like ours. The only time I've ever seen people who were more unhappy was when I was watching hockey in Buffalo one winter. It was cold and windy, and there's just nothing in that city, no normal entertainment, no booze, nothing. Then they huddle in their ice palace and yell: "Let's go, Buffalo!" And so on for three periods in a row, although after the first they were already in the hole nil-six. Probably, in comparison with them, ours are still a little less unlucky. At least you can pop someone in the mug out of grief. And you don't even need to go far for that, there are Chelsea or Yids right next to you.

So, from such happiness, our blokes just went insane. The Fans arrived at the base on Tuesday. They knew that Monday was a day off, and no one would be at the base. Songs were shouted out, flares were lit. They acted like the Tiffozi, only they were dressed more decently.

On Wednesday, some blokes met little Fleming in one of the establishments and they didn't let him go until they'd made sure he drunk himself senseless. What discipline? Fleming was barely alive and could barely move his legs in training for two days. I won't even say anything about the social networks. All over the net they were still going nuts about Harris and the scoundrels in the club's management. Generally speaking, this entire orgy of happiness should have ended badly, and thus it so happened.

Johnny picked me up on Friday.

"Come on, Alex, let's sit down."

"Johnny, thank you, but I don't have time. I have to go to Exeter."

"Bloody hell, Alex. What haven’t you seen there? There are also only black ones. And ones that compared to your Cameroonian, are like way before Premier-League."

"You're a racist, Martin. You know, money doesn't know colour."

"Are you taking the car or the train?"

"I’m going by train."

"Then let me give you a ride. We need to talk."

He was driving badly. He twitched, broke sharply, and in general was somewhat nervous. I was silent. There's nothing I could do to help him. Let him speak for himself.