It was just another day in the world of football.
A superstar, a media scrum, communications executives with fancy titles.
And a tortoise.
What brought us here? A guy with a fancy job title and a game-changing idea. This guy had paused his virtue signalling on social media to share the idea with his “brilliant team”. The team he had assembled. High fives all round. Yay.
“OK guys you know the tortoise and the hare? You know the tortoise, and the hare. I love the tortoise and the hare. How about the hare was so bloody fast and brilliant that the fucking tortoise had no chance? I see Andy Costa as a hare in high-performance trainers.”
Andy Costa was the star of the agency’s roster, probably the second-best player in the world. Until recently. Possibly the best. Until recently. And some would even suggest greatest of all time, aka The GOAT. Until recently.
Andy is ‘getting on a bit’ now for elite football, mid-thirties. A season or two left in him at most. But still earning hundreds of thousands per week. Doesn’t matter who he’s fallen out with over the years, look at his track record. He’ll be straight off to the Middle East or America. And the hare and tortoise project will show a new side to him. He’s a good guy, you just don’t know him. That was the thinking.
“So, you’d actually have him dressed as a hare?”
“No, I don’t think Andy would be massively keen on that.”
*
Shoot day. Andy stood against the smart brick wall in the trendy space, in the expensive converted warehouse in east London, with the cool crowd. They were quite something, the in-crowd of the football media. You could invent a magazine and pretend you were a professor of football, an insider, a deep thinker, and write very long articles, with hundreds of thousands of ‘followers’ lapping it up, because you might speculate which player their club will sign in the ‘transfer window’.
They were all there. Sebastian Mann, the James Bond of football reporting, saying everything with authority, even the material he made up. And Tabatha Stone, gripping on to the microphone for dear life with two hands, only releasing one hand when posting to social media, for the twelfth time that morning.
This event was so important that the Big Sports News! team had sent one of its main presenters, Warren Somersby, with his shiny shoes and emphasis. Broadcasting in CAPITALS: “WELCOME ALONG. IT. DOESN’T. GET. BIGGER. THAN. THIS.”
Also in attendance, with a very serious expression, the type more appropriate for the frontline of a war or an NHS crisis, was Roger Blunt. No sports story was ever light enough to remove his earnest expression.
One-on-one interview arranged with Andy Costa? Yes, and he will also need to go first, because, well, his bulletin is more important than anyone else, as he and his producers stress many times per media event.
Yes, they were all there. The writers, the broadcasters, the influencers, the people making the tea, the camera operators, some with combat trousers that were used to store giant batteries in the pockets before technology improved, the agency boss in his grey suit, his entourage, the team of execs and runners from the sportswear firm and the energy drink firm and the marketing agency. Plus, the social media teams for the sportswear firm and the energy drink firm and the marketing agency. Many junior executives were there with the word senior in their title. Yes, they were all there.
This media event would have a huge effect on global markets, the cost-of-living and how we live our lives in the next winter of misery and discontent. Wait, sorry, it was just a footballer selling his trainers and a sports drink that allegedly makes you go faster. But you wouldn’t have wanted to miss reporting on it, it would have been unthinkable to instead spend time with your family, to be a key worker, or even invent a vaccine. This warehouse in London was the place to be if you were very, very important.
And there he was. Andy Costa, six foot two, dark hair, pouting in insanely expensive sponsored headphones, leaning back against that wall, keeping out the noise from the plebs. In a black tracksuit, not a club tracksuit, as he was about to be kicked out of his club.
A different sportswear giant had ‘come to the rescue’, overlooking Andy’s loss of status, his loss of playing form and his loss of club. The 50 million insta followers would still do nicely. Hashtag AC8. Andy wore eight.
“Is that because he is now eight out of ten?” remarked Sebastian Mann dryly, as if he was Bond delivering a dry one-liner.
More hangers-on arrived. Including newspaper columnists, vitally expressing opinions in a world full of unsubstantiated, unwanted opinion. Andy’s rapper friend was there (I say friend, but ‘acquaintance-of-convenience’ is more accurate). And a DJ was there. A make-up artist was there too. Well, a make-up artist was meant to be there.
“Natasha? Natasha? Where’s Natasha? Tash? Tasha? Anyone seen Tasha?”
Natasha wasn’t there. She’d been distracted by her dog being unwell. And even though she was one of the best in the business, her dog being sick had played havoc with her schedule. Crucially, the email commission of her services had a ‘typo’ and she hadn’t had time to check. Tash had the shoot down for Tuesday. It was Monday.
The tortoise was there. He was loving it, coming right of his shell. Okay, this is not strictly true. He was quietly minding his business, with the tortoise handler Rachel, in a dark corner of the room. He wasn’t centre stage. Yet.
There was panic over the lack of make-up for Andy. Is that a blemish on his face? We simply cannot have this man looking as imperfect as he did when his career started, when he had teeth like Stonehenge and hair like a bad bit of barbed wire. And is that a blemish? We need him smooth, like an ‘action man’ toy. Shiny.
Andy broke his indifference to ask what the delay was, he hadn’t even noticed the sudden panicking around him. An oily little exec threw in the line: “Andy my friend we’re on this, it’s getting sorted” before someone three levels below him, but still ever so important, went for the blunter, more truthful: “Tash isn’t here.”
At this point Andy didn’t know or care who Tash is. On the bothered scale he was less than 0.01. But Zara,the refreshingly honest PR person, mouthed to Andy, who had his headphones back on: “Tash who does make-up isn’t here.” Still the penny hadn’t dropped for Andy. Then his headphones came off again and Andy repeated it back slowly to her:
“Make-up Tash?”
“Yes.”
“The girl with red hair? Pretty girl? Is that Tash? She does my make-up, is that her?”
“Yes.”
“It’s being sorted Andy, all good my friend,” said the main exec in his grey suit and designer trainers, holding a clipboard because he’d seen it on a retro cop show, where a cool forensic analyst often held one and said important things.
“Where is she?” said Andy, suddenly becoming a lot more engaged and passive-aggressive like someone asking why you’re in their parking spot outside of their home.
“She’s here though, right? She’s here?”
Andy didn’t mention the blemish, but his large team of helpers with fancy titles knew exactly what the issue was. What if the blemish attracted a social media backlash? Maybe a hare costume wasn’t such a bad idea after all. But the natives were getting restless. This shoot needed to get underway.
All the while the studio setting was being perfected, with two running lanes perfectly laid out across the loft space, one for the tortoise, one for the hare.
“I’m not getting this concept,” said Roger Blunt to his hassled producer, loud enough for everyone to hear this declaration of disapproval: “Why wouldn’t Andy be much quicker than a tortoise? He should be racing a gazelle or a Formula One car. Or someone like Quincy Stevens, who’s just run 9.87 in the Jamaican national trials.” Roger enjoyed that little fact at the end. To show he was well-researched, well-informed, on the top of his game and not resting on his laurels despite years of being ever-so-important.
But the exec with the clipboard intercepted, pointing out in an emphatic, clearly narked but supposedly helpful voice, that it was about perceptions of what the story is.
“But isn’t he second best now?” continued Roger. “We all know who the GOAT is now.”
The exec gave Roger a puzzled look with withering overtones, and carried on unabashed:
“The other thing this shows is Andy’s sense of humour.” A line which brought an involuntary guffaw from Roger’s producer and made at least three people momentarily glance up from posting preview clips and selfies.
An internet wag had already made a meme of the tortoise, and speculated he’d have a chance to win this race. In the meme, Andy’s rival, the man who’d just capped an incredible career with a perfect triumph, was depicted as a goat relaxing in sunglasses on a beach. The greatest of all time, celebrating his defining achievement thousands of miles away.
“But Tash is here right?” said Andy, now with a hint of desperation on top of the arrogance. No, Tash wasn’t there. They were all there. Apart from Tash.
Unfortunately, Rachel the tortoise handler had chosen this moment to introduce Terry the tortoise to Andy. Terry didn’t recognise Andy, though he had conceivably watched some of Andy’s rival playing in his big recent game. Well, his head had seemed to be pointing in the direction of the TV screen. He’d stayed straight-faced when the commentator had called it “a great moment for us all”. Terry’s priority at that moment had been lettuce, and he may well have considered the commentary as hyperbole.
To the untrained eye, Terry appeared to nod politely from the hands of Rachel, as a wildly indifferent Andy looked the other way towards the media ‘twatpack’. Rachel was asked by a confident photographer, who’d seen it all before, if she could put Terry on the floor for an angle looking up to Andy past his designer trainers. Rachel was already weary of the media around her but recognised this as creative and fair idea to get some action going.
Andy was oblivious to Terry being placed near his left trainer, bearing his own name and one of their best-selling ranges. He’d thought about sacking the guy with the clipboard, who was a pale shadow of his real agent - a man who had been by his side for over twenty years, his mentor, his only real friend and a man he regarded as a father figure. Well, actually as a father, not a father figure, but this man was having his first time off from being a busy football agent for many decades. In hospital.
This had left the jumped-up agency exec ‘in charge’. He somehow had even less charm than Andy. All the charm of a rainy Monday morning in January at a bus stop with someone playing drum ‘n’ bass on massive cans like the ones Andy was still wearing, now around his neck. This exec guy, actually named Guy, had no patience, which wasn’t ideal when dealing with Andy.
Guy looked straight at Andy and said curtly: “Look, Tash is not here Andy, let’s get on with this my friend.” Nobody treated Andy with rudeness like that. Apart from tens of thousands of opposition fans verbally abusing him on match days, and lots of people shouting at the telly and into their phones.
A flash of frustration and rage swept through Andy as he considered his blemish, his current ‘non-GOAT’ (non-greatest-of-all-time) status and how little he gave a shit about this shoot in a glorified warehouse. Andy stepped forward a little, widening his stance and starting to gesticulate. This wasn’t a full-blown tantrum, but he was boiling up.
And then it happened. What? It happened.
In the blink of an eye, Terry the tortoise was his on his back. He was not a prima donna, so despite having been put on his back by the outside of Andy’s foot, he resisted the temptation to do a few rolls.
“Did he kick that tortoise?”
Did Andy kick the tortoise? Was it an intentional kick, a nudge, a spasm? Was it deliberate, accidental or accidental-on-purpose? We don’t know for sure, but technically, and without the assistance of ‘VAR’, Andy’s foot appeared to have made contact with Terry.
“He kicked that tortoise. He just fucking kicked the tortoise.”
Testudinidae don’t tend to roll over for fun, and the horrified look on the face of Rachel the tortoise handler said it all as she bent down to tend to Terry, who mercifully appeared to be unharmed, and not evidently shaken or stirred.
“Did you see that? He kicked that tortoise.”
Roger Blunt was fearless. He’d stood up to some of the most fearsome, terrifying people in sport by pulling a disapproving look and jutting his chin out a bit over the top of his microphone. Now this warrior of sports news was showing how no superstar could faze him and demanded answer from Andy.
As he reached Andy, other brave legends of sports news, and the wider media - including news and entertainment correspondents - surrounded Andy, who was pinned against the wall. If you could fly a drone indoors, the footage would have shown the pack moving in like bees around a honeycomb.
Andy Costa had kicked a tortoise. Allegedly. This was big. Huge. Roger had adopted the demeanour of a headmaster ready to repeatedly ask an unruly pupil whether he set off a fire alarm. Rachel and Terry were safely outside of the throng, with little interest being shown in his welfare.
Guy the exec jumped forward in his trendy trainers and was trying to stick his hand in front of camera lenses to stop the sudden frenzy, like a New York traffic cop in rush hour, with all the world-weariness but none of the same basic authority.
Everyone was fixated on Andy, including Tabatha, who was practically hyperventilating as she tried to thrust her microphone in the gap and was repeating the words: “What happened Andy?” so her voice was caught on camera asking what had happened.
Near the back was veteran political reporter Carrington Blakely, who had traded for years on being good friends with legendary manager ‘Sir Alex’, and to his mind was well above all this nonsense, despite sending himself to report on it.
He asked if there could be a calm way of ascertaining the facts and setting up an impromptu press conference in a civilised fashion. Carrington was saying this in clipped tones to demonstrate he is above the unwashed sports specialists. Nobody was listening. He might as well have gone and grabbed a cup of tea while there was no queue.
With the type of look he usually reserved for autograph hunters at the entrance to the team coach, Andy rejected this interrogation, thought for a moment about physically pushing a path through the reporters, and instead said to himself “Excuse me”. Obviously nobody blinked and they continued to ask if he’d kicked the tortoise, but Andy’s hands were still positioned in the international language of ‘make a gangway now’.
A couple of the less-intense reporters to his left-hand side instinctively took a step back, and that was enough. Andy had made a career of suddenly bursting into space and he was through, pushing his way through the middle of the pack to glimpse the daylight at the back. More than one reporter used terms like “Do you mind” in a sudden outbreak of the standard unwritten English rules for how to act politely in a crowd.
Andy now had clear space to do that petulant walk-off that some ‘top, top’ players tend to do in incredulity when they have been shown a red card by a referee. It’s accompanied by a little bit of swearing to themselves in their native language, a couple of head shakes and a raised hand for the benefit of those watching them disappearing.
Except there was a pack of people chasing him and people tripping over camera wires, and pushing each other and shouting after him. At one stage a radio reporter ‘famous’ for selfies actually ran around the front of Andy, stood in his way, and tried a chummy ‘What are this lot like?’ approach with an attempted arm around the shoulder, as if he and Andy were bezzy mates. Andy blocked it like Bruce Lee, while quickstepping to the fire exit.
Outside was ‘John’ the driver. Andy didn’t know his second name, but he knew he drove ‘the Merc’. John had driven cars for people who would kill you if you looked at them the wrong way, yet would still be polite to their ‘dear old muvvers’, and your ‘dear old muvvers.’
John was a character who looked like he had stepped from the late 70s or early 80s, he had that ‘irritated hardman’ look. He pulled up in the Merc like something from The Sweeney, and they swerved off like The Professionals.
“Follow that car!” said Roger to his ‘team’ in a loud, baritone voice without a trace of irony, based entirely on his producer’s car being in the same car park, but disregarding the speed with which Andy’s driver had pulled away, and the fact they were in no position to follow.
“Shut up you ponce” deadpanned a camera operator from a rival channel, loud enough to be heard, as he let his camera gently bounce off his shoulder down on to his knee and into his hands. Camera folk were always the first to know when the action was elsewhere. They were already looking for the tortoise.
Terry has been taken to a room at the back, now surrounded by a few concerned staff from the venue, and was still being held protectively by a shaken Rachel. There would be no race for this reluctant athlete today, nor even a ‘shoot’. Instead, there was pandemonium, the proverbial media frenzy. And not just in that warehouse.
For Big Sports News! this was all their Christmases rolled into one. Rolling coverage of an incident that would be talked about for week, months, years, a story almost too good to be true for their audience. It was a TV channel past its supposed heyday, when hundreds of thousands of football fans were mesmerised by people standing in football club car parks, speculating about which journeyman player would sign for another club, or maybe not, hours and hours of time filled on ifs and maybes, about a subject often worth only one line.
It also meant they could adopt their perfect tone. Manna from heaven. What tone? Oh, you know the tone. That overly pious one. Where broadcasters talk about everyday football incidents in a manner that is better suited to serious news. In this case, it was almost appropriate.
Because if Andy Costa had deliberately kicked a tortoise, well that’s not good.
*
Let’s say a footballer deliberately hurt an animal, such as heaven forbid, a cat. What you would then want is collective revulsion and rejection of such abuse.
You’d want, first and foremost, a proper investigation, and the law to be upheld. You’d want a proper explanation and contrition, with the unmitigated acknowledgement that the apology is still not nearly enough.
You’d want a suspension of any player involved while the initial investigation took place. (If this had been filmed on video and the abuse was clear, a suspension surely shouldn’t be regarded as inappropriate or unfair on the footballer).
You’d want his club to understand that while footballers aren’t perfect, and that not all are actually role models, they do have a special responsibility to fans. And that many of their fans may be animal owners or just people who understand that animals should be treated properly.
You’d want the club to act accordingly, respecting their fans, and animal rights, and not prioritising the precious commodity of three league points.
You’d want the board and owner and chairperson to assure us that they will act responsibly, and that while losing the services of an important player in these circumstances will have an effect on their team, you’d want a full recognition that this a club to serve its community, and that sometimes standards come above the pursuit of that precious three points.
You’d want the football club’s manager to act like a leader, like someone who doesn’t just coach footballers and understand tactics, but also understand that his players should behave with common decency on and off the pitch. Someone who would express dismay at incident and assure us the player will to be removed from the team while the initial investigation takes place. Particularly if there was clear video evidence.
You’d want that manager to accept that while the animal abuser would be desperate to play, and that playing would potentially be good for him and the team and the precious three points, that the player might be best removed for his own mental wellbeing, to start the process of exploring why he did it and ensuring he never does such a thing again.
And you’d want the manager to not look so angry at the media pack around him, and not be angry at anyone asking questions about this incident, no matter how pompous some of the media are.
Because football is a game, and a football club is for a community. And people in the game have a responsibility to act with respect and dignity.
And regardless of football, you’d want this process in a civilised society, no?
*
Much of this and more was being explored by the ‘moral beacon’ that is Big Sports News! with a big metaphorical exclamation mark around the tone of the coverage, in keeping with the actual exclamation mark in the channel’s name.
Presenter Warren Sommersby, who had effectively become a reporter for the day from the ‘kick scene’, was loving the drama and attention, as were the studio-based presenters all making no attempt to hide the salivating:
“BombSHELL…did Andy Costa kick a tortoise?! We’ll be live with the very latest developments, where is Andy Costa? and what next for Andy Costa?”
One ex-footballer with two caps for England said he understood how footballers can kick-out in frustration when things don’t go their way, but Andy has “crossed a line”.
There was a huge bust-up on a radio station between a former club owner with a red face and a former Scotland international footballer with an even redder face, about the punishment Andy should receive.
One felt it should be a three-game suspension, the other said Andy’s club are releasing him anyway so it should be a fine only, and then they had a bust-up about semantics, even though neither knew what the word meant, and then one of them suggested the other go get himself a stiff drink, but he was off the booze and it all got very personal. One said the other has “crossed a line”. Lines were being crossed all over the place.
And then an MP, who had caused thousands of deaths by putting his personal ‘ladder-climbing’ and ‘nest-building’ over responsible decision making, said something in the House of Commons about Andy Costa. Having earlier dodged a question of whether he was going to feed hungry schoolchildren.
And then his colleagues popped up to say they were disgusted at the alleged actions of Andy Costa, and then opposition MPs joined in. And it united them. Attacking Andy Costa was what you might call an ‘open goal’. Before they returned to trying to save their own jobs and their own backs and their own shells.
It had all ‘gone off’ across social media. The good, the bad and the ugly. The wild west. The gunslingers of the internet were firing as many shots as possible, and some were even hitting the target.
“Omg, Andy Costa kicked a tortoise”
“Wait, what?”
“He kicked a what?’
“Hang on, Andy Costa kicked a turtle?”
“Where is the footage bro?”
The lack of footage was no problem for bedroom content-creators, who showed far more flair than we’d seen at the scheduled event. One put Andy’s rival’s face on a tortoise, bouncing up from his back and ‘nutmegging’ Andy. Another created an animation of tortoises in singlets tossing him out of wrestling rings, then jumping out and rubbing the top of his head to the latest Korean dance craze. There were thousands more such pieces of content, made in quick time by people who hadn’t left their houses for months.
Many self-appointed comedians and satirists were grasping for a killer one-liner to boost their profiles. The most common theme was incredulity that out-of-form Andy had connected with anything. The professional opinion-givers treated us to the definitive verdicts, multiple verdicts per hour, most condemning Andy, some taking great delight in defending him to be contrary, others keeping the door open to both options.
One footballer-turned-broadcaster, with more than two caps and millions of followers tweeted:
“It’s over. I’ve loved watching him for years, but this is the last straw from this diva. #disgusted #AndyCosta”
Moments later he somehow overcame his grave concern to say that the kick was “turtle-y disrespectful to Terry” which led to him arguing with some of the people felt humour was inappropriate, and pointing out that Terry is a tortoise, not a turtle.
One disgraced former tabloid newspaper editor treated his millions of followers, people who were sadly living their lives without a brain, to this verdict:
“Pipe down you sanctimonious morons. If it was a kick then where is the proof? And I don’t see other players doing their bit for animal welfare.”
He accompanied the tweet with a picture of him and Andy on holiday. This disgraced former tabloid news editor’s ‘devil’s advocate’ routine ensured lots of hits, with all the pithy responses by his critics gobbled up by algorithms which added to his huge number of ‘hits’, giving him more relevance and status and helping him secure a new TV talk show, then another lucrative newspaper column. Quantity over quality.
One ‘much-loved’ TV personality, who’d come off social media in a huff because of his own family’s disgust at his boorish and offensive posts, was asked by a member of the public what he thought about Andy. As the celeb clambered off his motorbike, thinking he looked like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, but in ill-fitting leathers with a pack of fags in his hand, he replied:
“Two things. First fuck off. And secondly, before you go, what do people care more about, me or a tortoise? There’s your answer.”
He expanded on this in his Sunday newspaper column, a column he wrote with crayons on Saturdays before a lackey translated. In the column he attacked the bad people of society, like teenage climate protestors and nurses.
His newspaper indulged him happily, because some people like this stuff, and was also prepared to reintegrate disgraced public figures into society, disadvantaged types like former Cabinet Ministers:
“May I ask when as a society we started to care more about tortoises than normal middle-aged white men. Another thing we are relegated below, along with women, gays, transgenders, illegal immigrants and murderers.”
And behind this man came an army, a large undiluted mass of keyboard warriors, trolls and h8ters, some hiding behind specially created accounts, others proudly showing who they are, many wearing shirts in their profile pictures with Andy’s name and number 8 - the shirt of a club that he’d be leaving shortly after a year mainly spent sulking on the bench and giving media interviews undermining the manager.
“Fuk u Andy-h8ters, been waiting for this. Tortoise was a plant IMHO”
“Who gives a fuck about a turtle?!”
“Your mother is a tortoise.”
“Andy does a lot of things for charity he doesn’t need to tell you about. How about you cry me a river, climb into your douchebag canoe and float the fuck off.”
“U r all jealus. Andy is a legand”
If you wanted something a bit more intellectual, you were in luck. Because the sports news columnists from the ‘respected’ outlets had sharpened their quills. These were heavyweights. Between them they had given each other so many awards their shelves looked like Meryl Streep’s.
The longest piece came in The Sportist, the subscription outlet for people who like their sports information really in depth, those that need to hear from people who write and talk about football like lecturers and scientists, with lots of long words and theses and dripping with self-regard. The men, and it was mainly men - well of course it was - who wrote these articles, needed an ‘angle’. The longest article had the title: “The glare and the tortoise. What the pressure we put on special players does to their psyche.”
Another high-brow take came from a pompous former badminton player turned columnist, who developed a deep intellectual perspective on every single thing that happened in sport, geopolitics and society, a skill he’d developed while hitting a forehand shuttlecock repeatedly and sometimes backhand, which made him better qualified than us lightweights.
This story was everywhere. Football reaches all corners, and so like a montage from a movie, you could edit together clips of reporters one TV station after another, all over the globe, some excitedly speaking into microphones in a rat-a-tat-tat style and others with world-weariness and haunted expressions.
Together, if you pulled away from the collective screens, they formed a giant honeycomb, thousands and thousands of words on the behaviour of a footballer, on a planet that had been coping with less pressing matters, like a pandemic.
From Tonbridge to Timbuktu, from Tenerife to Elevenerife, from Lake Geneva to the Finland Station, from human rights abusing states to bombed towns in war-torn countries where the electricity was intermittent, Andy was discussed.
Nearly all of it was opinion, with sporadic developments, such as confirmation that Andy had been released by his club (official, this had been finalised days ago), how the police would be asking Andy to ‘help with their enquiries’ (official) and how he ‘had form’ for altercations with shelled creatures (unofficial).
On the UK news later that night we finally heard from an animal rights specialist, a wise, erudite man with a kind-face, who calmly explained that it didn’t matter who Andy is, but the message has to be clear, that if he was found to have deliberately hurt this tortoise, and it seems strange he suddenly ended on his back from a position right next to Andy’s foot, this is abuse and there needs to be a process by which the perpetrator is accountable.
The specialist went into detail about tortoise welfare, which irritated the presenter on Big Sports News! who wanted him to say something controversial like: “Andy should be banned from football for life by FIFA and shouldn’t be allowed to move to America or the Middle East.”
The specialist, a familiar face on TV using his platform wisely, had bothered to get in touch with tortoise-handler Rachel and assured viewers that Terry was OK, using his expertise and hers.
It would have been easy for him to suggest Terry might suffer long-term harm, but he knew this was not likely to be the case and preferred to deal in facts. His point was that Terry was lucky not to have suffered proper damage, but he expressed this with a restraint and dignity that shone like a beacon through the fog of opinion and noise, in a society that invites opinion and noise.
If you looked closely there was slight tick in his cheek. If you looked even closer Craig, that was the specialist’s name, had moist eyes. The reason was a mixture of empathy, frustration and anger. That he was having to see this, digest this and explain the obvious. He made more sense in one two-minute answer than a tsunami of responses from over 100 countries, dozens of media outlets and Andy’s PR team.
In the middle of the afternoon on Big Sports News! a studio presenter in a waistcoat wearing hipster trainers under the desk had suddenly pulled a grave expression as if he was about to announce a royal death, and gave an urgent, slightly pouting glance to the camera while a giant ‘text banner’ appeared on screen with the word BREAKING, the same banner they used for the news that a player was moving on loan to the Dutch third division.
“I can NOW. Bring. You. A statement. On, or should I say FROM Andy Costa. As I’m sure you’re now aware he is accused of kicking a tortoise earlier today. This is from Stratospheria, the organisation who represent Andy. Remember no word as yet from his long-time representative Carlos de Santos who remains in hospital in a serious but stable condition.
“And it reads…
Andy Costa did not harm a tortoise or any other animals in the incident that is widely being reported across media and social media today. Andy loves animals, and people. This is not the player he is, or the man he is.”
“Moving to page two of the statement. Oh, apparently that’s it,” said the studio presenter, pausing, moving around some pieces of paper, and glancing up and down.
“That’s. The. Full. Statement. Brought to you exclusively by Big Sports News!”
“Let’s get some instant exclusive reaction to that in the studio from former England international Mickey Stanford. Mickey. This is unequivocal.”
“Yeah look, it’s totally unquiviccal. Look the boy Costa, he’s dun triffic for United for years. If he’s dun the kick that’s unforgivable. But you’ve gotta look at the bigger picture and there’s bigger fings going on in the world. What you’ve got to remember about Andy Costa is he’s not a just a top player. He’s a top, top player, from the top drawer. SO, he’s always going to get this kind of fing and draw attention. But some of the reaction to this is disappointing.”
“But Mickey you are in no way condoning the mistreatment of a tortoise if a full FA investigation shows there was contact?”
“Nah look, there’s no VAR,” chuckled Mickey while his striped jacket strobed, something that would have caused fury from the boss of the channel if one of his presenters had done it, but the boss had loved watching his hero Mickey play at ‘The Bridge’ in the 90s, so Mickey could wear whatever awful jacket he wanted. Mickey rocked back in seat and switched to a serious face:
”Look this is no laughing matter, if he were to stay here and not go to the Middle East or the States I think he should be punished. Fine or ban or the likes. If he goes, FIFA and UEFA will need to look at it, for absolute sure. I’ve never had a tortoise but when you do those fings, that’s crossing a line. There’s no place for tortoise-abuse in our game. True football people through and through, they know this.
“Well Mickey this is bound to run and run and rumble on. Stay with us.”
*
Andy had no intention of talking to anybody, whether family or friends, what few he had. What he wanted to do was sit in his games room on the console, listening to the music of those he felt an affinity with, the oppressed and misunderstood of one of New York’s roughest neighbourhoods. ‘The struggle is real’ he thought. To his mind he was innocent, one hundred per cent.
With his giant sponsored headphones back on he looked like a cyberman or Princess Leah. On the screen, a virtual version of Andy went on a mazy run, double nutmegging the ‘so-called GOAT’. He was accompanying these silky console-skills with shakes of the head.
“Why me?” thought Andy Costa. He was a supremely gifted player and athlete, adored by a loyal fanbase, an all-time great of the game, but sometimes left out of conversations about the greatest because he was so hard to talk about enthusiastically, particularly since he stopped scoring, and stopped playing. And he felt hard done-by. Always.
A move to the Middle East or America offered a new lease of money, and though he certainly didn’t need the money, we should also remember Andy Costa doesn’t pay himself. He was only part of the problem.
Andy Costa didn’t turn football from the people’s game to the businessman’s plaything, the sportswasher’s delight, the media’s company’s endless vat of hype and snake oil.
He just played football and got signed for fortunes.
*
The greed of Andy’s mentor had known no bounds. But if only he were here to fix this. The phone lit up on the floor beside Andy’s designer bean bag. The name on the phone took more than one glance to sink in. Carlos. The man, the agent, the mentor, the only one he’d trust, the one who had cheated death and was in no position to discussing contracts, or tortoises, or the weather, or anything. But here he was. On the phone.
Andy grabbed the phone and said “Carlos” three times, expecting and fearing it to be someone else on behalf of the man himself. But no, the tones that had always reassured him were here. He felt a wave of relief just to hear the deep voice from the next big town along the coast where he grew up.
“Andy. I presume you’re on the computer game thing. Listen, we need to sort this. And I don’t mean a quick fix, or any bullshit.”
Andy spoke quickly like a schoolboy explaining back to the headmaster that he is innocent:
“I didn’t kick any tortoise, I don’t need this bullshit, I don’t know what these people want from me, I’ve had enough, fuck them, fuck social media.”
“Andy…Andy. Calm. I know what we need to do. I know what YOU need to do.”
“Am I going to States? Or are we going for the desert?”
There was silence. “It’s not about the money Andy.”
Andy could have been shocked by this, and maybe wondered if it was an imposter. But he wasn’t really thinking straight, or barely thinking at all, just saying things like a battery-operated toy with a short range of phrases. He’d been sure he was exiting stage left, or left wing, and heading to the sanctuary of a place where everyone is grateful for his presence, and every fall is cushioned by tens of thousands of bank notes.
But his mentor was talking like a new man, like someone who wasn’t sure how much time he had left on the planet and was lucky to be here at all. The elongated near-death experience might have given the mentor a new perspective. Mix that in with the drugs he was taking and his fondness for his own ideas, and it seemed, remarkably, as if the lure of one last deal for Andy was being buried in the sand.
“You’re not going to the desert Andy.”
“America, right?”
“You’re not going to the States Andy.”
“I’m not staying here. I’m not fucking staying here.”
“Be calm Andy. Sit tight, stay cool, stay away from tortoises and the media. I’ll be back in touch. For now, chill.”
Andy dialled back twenty or thirty times in succession with no reply. If he’d have got through, one thing he wouldn’t have bothered asking his mentor was:
“How are you?”
*
Six months later, Rachel the tortoise handler sat with a tortoise, Ronnie, on her lap, and a TV remote in her hand.
She wasn’t a huge fan of Big Sports News! But she just couldn’t stop herself wanting to see the ‘very latest news’ that involved Terry, hurtful as it was.
She’d put a lot of love and care into Terry, without expecting anything in return, and she certainly hadn’t asked for the attention and stress. That surely wasn’t part of the life and work she chose. She hoped Ronnie, and the other tortoises in her care, could live a peaceful life, doing what tortoises do. And not taken away to the desert when the money came in.
When the money came in, Rachel and her fellow tortoise handlers were powerless. Money talks. Fame breeds fame. And from a hospital bed a deal was struck way above their heads.
On Rachel’s TV screen was a slow-motion replay of Terry’s latest goal. Yes, GOAL.
Terry’s goal was scored in the Desert Friends International Tortoise Football League, hastily set up a few weeks after the alleged kick and Terry’s rapid rise to fame.
At first there had been suspicion, rejection, and further rejection, of the approaches for Terry’s services, mainly for reasons of his care and wellbeing, but partly because he was unproven as a footballer.
Money though. Always money. When the noughts kept being added, and more people got involved, with more pie for everyone, Terry was effectively used as a chess piece, a tortoise figurine.
Under ‘Thursday night lights’ and sponsored by a state-owned travel company and state-owned energy firm, with broadcasting slots filled and a global audience in place, Terry earned his lucrative new living ‘playing football’ in the sand.
Putting a shift in, box to box, in his little kit, sponsored by friends and neighbours of his generous new hosts. And talking of boxes, the new trend was to have a ‘box’ in the corner of device screens, enabling the public to follow these tortoise games. The ‘players’ tended to take a few hours per attack.
Betting on the league was rife. Illegal betting too. Both out of control. How we laughed at the banter-fuelled betting firms taking time off from ruining lives, to make hilarious content advertising their services. ‘The tortoise accumulator’ or ‘shell-acca’ was a popular bet to liven up a cold winter’s night for any nation of gamblers.
“Move a bit quicker than this and you BET we’ll help you SHELL out on a winning combination.”
The spin-offs online were racking up millions of new followers and tens of millions of hits. The most popular, and lucrative, was a new You Tube channel, Hard Shells, where tough guys faced a series of challenges with tortoise shells on their backs, such as lifting as many fellow ‘influencers’ as possible while weights are added to their shells, or being fired from a cannon across a bay, trying to navigate a safe passage across the water to the sanctuary of the beach hotel complex.
The catchphrases: “Shell-ax guys!” and “You got shell-acked” were being repeated across the world’s playgrounds and offices. And the 2023 winner Gary Love, had become a superstar, a status that keeps rising despite his misogynistic and hateful posts, indeed because of his misogynistic and hateful posts.
Football’s world governing body warmly embraced this exciting new brand of football, and the opportunity to ‘grow the game’. A tortoise legacy. The most senior officials could be seen at games smiling with their close personal acquaintances - the hosts with the most.
*
There was silence in the recreation room at the college. The students gathered at break time but barely interacted. There were clips to watch, on headphones, posts to send, likes and loves to add to posts. One of the group reacted to a clip from the latest reality show, one of the many where people lay around then occasionally ‘pull’ a potential love interest for a chat.
The clip was from a show named ‘Baller Island’, where footballers sought redemption from the public by showing their ‘real selves’ and having to go along with the manipulation of the producers. It was a risk, but it often paid off.
Andy knew, we knew, his agent knew, and the people with the money knew, that once he was seen to have gone through this, and pulled the right faces, he would be rewarded with yet another lucrative deal to play football again. Never mind the standard of the football, or where the league is, just see the famous footballer.
Notoriety harnessed for money. Being a notorious ‘face’ is nearly as good as being hot property. As long as people know who you are. Does the face fit? Book the face, add the vehicle, and vrrrrrooom off you go with another project. Quality? Sophistication? Show me the money. Show me the hits. Show me the likes. But first the dance of redemption in the court of public approval.
In the clip being watched by the student, Andy was justifying himself to one of the glamorous young members of the public chosen to interact with the disgraced footballers. He broke off from talking to her to take a melodramatic walk along the ‘Baller Island Beach’ looking wistful.
The student watching the clip held up his phone to show the group:
“Is that the footballer who kicked the tortoise?”
Football Fables are the first collection of short stories by Lee Wellings, an author who spent 30 years in media working for companies including Sky, BBC and ITN. New stories will be released each month, usually on the first Friday. The first two stories are free to read. From November a small monthly subscription will be introduced.
More details in the post below, and this is how first collection looks:
The Footballer Who Kicked A Tortoise
Lazy Susan (free to read, link available on this site)
The Check (free to read, link available on this site)
The Man Who Murdered Football (coming soon)
A Tale of Two Clubs
Ref!
Superstition
Tie a Yellow Scarf
I Wear Eleven
Golden Eras