Another time, the most recent bike I had nicked got pinched, and I was left standing there outside the stadium. It was a long way home and I was hungry and impatient, and so I pinched another bike from outside the locker room.
I popped the lock as usual, and I remember liking it.
It was a nice bike, and I was careful to park it a little way away so the former owner wouldn’t happen across it.
Three days later, the team was summoned into a meeting. I already had an issue with stuff like that. Meetings usually meant hassle and getting a talking-to, and I started coming up with some clever explanations.
Things like, It wasn’t me. It was my brother, innit.
I was right to do that, because the meeting concerned the assistant coach’s bicycle.
‘Has anybody seen it?’
Nobody had seen it. Me neither! I mean, in that sort of situation, you don’t say anything.
That’s how it works. You play dumb: Oh, that’s a shame. Poor you, I had a bike stolen once, too.
Even so, I got worried. What had I done? And what bad luck – the assistant coach’s bike! You’re supposed to respect the trainers.
That’s what I reckoned. Or, more accurately, I mean, you’re supposed to listen to them and learn their stuff, zone game, tactics, all that stuff. Yet, at the same time, don’t listen. Just carry on with dribbling the ball and the tricks. Listen; don’t listen. That was my attitude.
But nicking their bikes? I didn’t really think that was part of the picture.
I got nervous and went up to the assistant coach. ‘Erm, here’s the thing,’ I said. ‘I borrowed your bike for a little while. It was kind of an emergency. A one-time thing! You’ll get it back tomorrow.’
I gave him my best sheepish grin, and I think it sort of worked.
My smile helped me a lot in those years, and I could come up with a joke when I was in a tight spot.
