All focus in the Deterlinari turned from the game to scores from other matches. This was obviously a walkover; the results from Veternik and Bezanija were very important. Veternik were still losing, but Bezanija had taken the lead in their match.
Mladost Apatin kicked off, a long ball fell to the reserve nobody, Grumic, who waltzed around Terminal Disease and coolly slotted past the helpless Boggy the Younger, who had been distracted waving to people in the crowd. It was an error, but surely it would be the wake-up call Novi Sad needed! A few Boggy the Elder chances went wide, and in the 38th minute Mladost broke, with their left winger drifting in a cross. Ninko went for the header and missed, but Grumic was coming in behind to plant it in the back of the net for his second. The tension was building. In the second half, Novi Sad started to push forward. Then, against the run of play a long clearance found Grumic, who danced around Boggy the Younger like he was made of stone and put the ball away for his hat trick.
Novi Sad pushed harder, the clock ticked faster, the scores in the other games had not changed. The ball fell to Darko a few yards from goal, and he skied it! Boggy the Elder missed an open goal. Branko ran the length of the pitch, into the Mladost box, and then passed back to the halfway line! It was crap. Boris switched both Boggies and Darko, but to no avail. The final whistle blew; the game drawn. Bezanija won their game and moved to the top of the table, equal on points but ahead on goal difference. Luckily, Veternik lost.
After the match I went to the toilet. Boris was stood at a urinal. I stopped on my way to the crapper and said: “That really wasn’t the result we needed.” Boris mumbled an agreement. “Still,” I added, “you do seem to be working alone”. He looked inquisitive; his blank eyes urging me to go on. I did. “That Vasa, he’s more interested in fucking you over than the club doing well. He’d like to see it all go tits up so you get sacked. I wouldn’t trust the bastard as far as I could throw him.” With that, I went to take a dump.
I pulled open the cubicle door, and there sat Vasa Orlovic, trousers around his ankles and a wicked look in his eyes. Either he was passing blood, or I had just put my neck on the block. Bollocks!
NB. As I said before, this is not my own work. It is Vic Flange’s. The original work can be found on TheDugout, right here. TheDugout is dying, so I’m rescuing the story and giving it the attention it deserves.