By Hamish Gray

In The Date, loyalty and love collide on the terraces. A young man takes his girlfriend to a football match, convinced that ninety minutes of chants, rain, and rivalry will bridge the distance between them. What follows is a sharp, funny, and quietly devastating study of obsession, belonging, and the fragile performance of masculinity. Told with wit and empathy, The Date captures how easily connection can slip through our fingers — even when we’re standing side by side.

The Red Army marched down King Street in the drizzling rain. Police officers followed close behind, a few on horseback. John stood outside the corner shop, taking it all in, his heart pounding in his chest. After many sleepless nights mulling over formations and tactics, the moment had finally arrived.

It was match day.

In his hand he held a red and white scarf identical to the one around his neck. The Dons fans passing on the street talked in quick, excited voices about the team news. The big talking point was Stevie Davidson’s surprise omission from the starting eleven. John couldn’t believe it, hoped it was a cunning ploy from the manager to use Davidson as a super-sub. Why else leave Aberdeen’s best player on the bench?

‘John.’

It took him a moment to turn his gaze away from the streets. Sophie was smiling up at him, a navy scarf around her neck and a handbag slung over her shoulder. A pretty wee thing. They’d met at a party in freshers’ week and hit it off straight away. She laughed at his jokes, and he found her French accent irresistible. They’d been going out for two months, and John thought it about time they took things to the next level. She didn’t know the first thing about football, but that would soon change.

‘Hiya, Soph. You ready for the greatest show in town?’

She laughed breathlessly. ‘I guess. Are you not cold in that t-shirt?’

‘Nah, can’t feel a thing,’ he said.

They joined the sea of red and white supporters on the pavement. The pedestrian lights were red, but everyone crossed the road anyway, the drivers waiting hunched over their steering wheels. A man in a black Audi tooted at a couple of dallying lads.

‘How you doing?’ Sophie said.

‘I’m grand. Been marking off the days on my calendar all month.’

Sophie laughed again and he wondered what was so funny.

‘You didn’t want to go out with us last night?’ she said, smoothing a strand of hair. Her nails were painted dark blue.

He glanced at her fingers and winced.

‘I just saw your message this morning. Had me an early night, wanted to feel fresh for today.’

‘I missed you,’ she said.

John gave her a kiss and she put her hand in his.

Pittodrie came into sight as they turned the corner. Two horses were clopping down the middle of the road, their tails swishing in the cold air. Sophie watched them with wonder in her eyes.

‘Why do they have horses?’ she said.

‘It’s to stop any trouble. Usually have them for big matches.’

            ‘Trouble?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s always fine.’ John held out the scarf to her. ‘I actually got you something. Here you go.’

            Sophie looked back at him with a smile. ‘Aw, that’s nice. But I have my own.’ She pulled down her jacket collar to show him.

            John kept his arm outstretched for a moment, then let it drop limply by his side. They walked hand-in-hand down the road without another word. The noise around them ramped up, a group of pissed-up men chanting ‘Stand Free’. John bought a programme from a seller and handed it to her.

‘A wee souvenir,’ he said.

She smiled and held it in both hands.

The police officers brought the horses to a stop just outside the turnstiles. The animals stood motionless, their heads lowered. There were long queues to get in.

‘Should have come earlier,’ he muttered, tapping the ground with his foot.

‘So we miss a few minutes,’ she said.

John bit his lip. They joined one of the queues. After a while he turned to her.

‘Could you put it on?’ he said.

‘What?’

He extended his hand. ‘This scarf.’

‘But I have my own,’ she said.

He looked at the navy thing around her neck. ‘It’s just navy isn’t the right colour. I’d really like it if you put this on.’

Sophie looked him in the eye. ‘Okay.’

He handed her the scarf. ‘You can put it over the other one,’ he said.

‘If it means that much to you,’ she said, wrapping the red and white scarf over the navy one.

John felt better already. Next thing to fix was her blue nails. He’d have a word with her later.

‘I don’t take it as serious as some folk,’ he said, as they inched forward in the queue, ‘but it makes my day a whole lot better when we win. It’s the only place I know where everyone really comes together like one big family.’

‘I haven’t seen the city so busy.’

‘Aye, well it’s a big deal,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it. I got us great seats too. The old place just comes to life on days like this. And after we can grab some dinner at a restaurant I know, my treat.’

She beamed at him, her cheeks rosy in the cold. ‘That sounds nice.’

The place John had in mind was really more of a pub than a restaurant, but on Saturdays you could get mac & cheese and a pint for only seven quid. It was called ‘The Dog’s Bollocks’.

            Inside the ground they made their way to the seats, ten rows from the front and exactly in line with the halfway line. Sophie sat down, her handbag on her lap. John stayed standing. The players were still warming up. He sighed in relief.

            ‘What you think?’ he said.

            ‘Oh, these are good seats.’ She got to her feet and pointed. ‘Why are those two shouting? Don’t they wait for it to start before shouting?’

            John followed the direction of her pointed finger. Two teenage boys were leaning over an advertising board giving it large to some Rangers players warming up.

            He tried to suppress a smile. ‘Oh, it’s really just to get in the enemy — I mean opposition’s minds, you know. Unsettle them. Make them nervous.’

            ‘Ah.’ Sophie nodded, then flicked through the programme.

Supporters filed into their row, clutching pies and sausage rolls to their chests like they were sacred objects. The scent of hot pastry made John’s mouth water as he assessed the intensity of the Dons players warming up at the Beach End. You could tell a lot from their body language and the speed of their movements and the crispness of their passing and shooting. They definitely looked up for it. Do us proud, he thought, a lump forming in his throat. She said something to him, but her voice washed in and out of his ear like distant waves. The increasing hubbub in the stand focused him, reminded him why he was there. Hatred swelled in the air. It was beautiful. Grey clouds gathered overhead, and the corner flags fluttered in the wind. Wild weather was on the way, perfect levelling conditions for the match. The forecast had been spot-on. It needed to be a battle, otherwise we’d get passed off the park. We had to turn it into a scrap and use the elements to our favour, that was the way forward. Except Davidson wasn’t starting, and that was a huge mistake. He could make all the difference.

            ‘…maybe we could meet and study,’ Sophie said. ‘But I never see you there. Do you ever go?’

            John stood to applaud the players jogging back into the tunnel.

            She tapped his shoulder with the programme.

            He turned to her slowly, still clapping.

            ‘Do you ever go?’

            ‘Where?’

            ‘The library?’

            ‘Eh, not really. Get more done at the flat.’ John turned his attention to the subs leaving the pitch. He chanted Davidson’s name, and some folk sitting in front sniggered. ‘Just ten minutes to kick-off,’ he said, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

            The match began furiously. Everyone stood, cheering each reckless tackle inflicted on the Rangers players. For a couple of minutes the stadium rocked with chants pouring out of the stands.

‘Stand free, wherever you may be, we are the famous Aberdeen, we don’t give a fuck whoever you may be, we are the famous Aberdeen.’

John belted out the lyrics, his arm around Sophie. She looked so stunning with the red and white scarf on he couldn’t resist giving her a peck on the cheek. When he imagined how she might look wearing a replica home shirt, he got hard down below. One step at a time, he told himself. But it felt great to be with her in this crackling, volatile atmosphere, all Dons fans united as one in their hatred of the enemy.

After ten minutes the singing died down. The Aberdeen players’ tackles became desperate. Misplaced passes drew groans from the crowd. Rangers had settled into their slick rhythm, popping the ball around unchallenged as the men in red retreated deeper and deeper into their own half. A familiar inevitability crept in. Everyone in the stand now sat, restless. In the uneasy silence John could hear the rustling of a packet of crisps.

‘What way is Aberdeen shooting?’ she said.

John pointed at the Rangers goal. ‘That way.’

‘Really? Then why do they spend so much time on the other side?’

He didn’t have an answer for that.

‘The ones in blue are good,’ Sophie said, taking out her phone.

‘Keep your voice down,’ John said.

Rangers scored two minutes later, their striker capitalising on a slip from an Aberdeen defender. The ferocious celebrations from the two thousand away fans in the corner of the stadium hammered inside John’s head.

Sophie looked up from her phone. ‘What happened?’

‘Rangersscored.’

‘Ah, that’s a shame.’ She leant into him and held up her phone for a selfie. His face looked utterly miserable.

The man sitting on John’s right took it the worst. He was frothing at the mouth, unleashing a torrent of abuse at Rangers, Aberdeen, the ref, the nearest linesman, and even the seagulls swooping close to their heads waiting for someone to drop a pie.

‘Fucking cunts!’ the man said. His head was like a withered turnip.

‘That man needs help,’ Sophie whispered in John’s ear.

John kept his eyes on the pitch. ‘It’s a sore one to take, a slip like that. Let’s just hope we don’t concede again.’

Turnip Head was now standing and gesticulating wildly, catching John’s ribs with a flailing elbow.

‘What a load of pish referee min, take your heid for a shite!’ the man said.

‘What’s he saying now?’ Sophie said, giggling.

‘He said the referee was possibly mistaken in his decision to award Rangers that throw-in,’ John said in a hushed voice.

‘Come to fuck Aiberdeen ye useless bastards, get stuck into them,’ the man added as an afterthought.

            ‘And now?’ Sophie said.

            John glanced at her.

‘He’s encouraging Aberdeen to play better and stop showing Rangers so much respect.’

‘I didn’t know you spoke two languages,’ she said, nudging him. ‘I’m impressed.’

He flashed her a smile, hoping she was done with this game.

‘I wonder what happens next,’ she said, suddenly interested in the match.

‘It’s not a film,’ John said. ‘This can make or break people’s week.’

‘Sounds like these people need to get a life,’ she said.

Aberdeen conceded a second goal in the thirty-fifth minute, a defensive mix-up leading to a Rangers penalty. John had found himself agreeing more and more with the words that spewed out of Turnip Head’s mouth. The two of them were taking it in turns to hurl abuse at everything that moved.

‘Fuck off, dirty bastards!’ John said.

He wondered if it’d been a mistake bringing Sophie. She seemed more interested in her phone.

            The crowd roared for a penalty just before half-time, but nothing was given.

            ‘Fuck the SFA!’ John said.

            Turnip Head turned to him. ‘Corrupt to the core, I tell ye.’

            ‘Can’t expect to win against twelve men,’ John said.           

            Sophie yawned and said to John, ‘Is Aberdeen still shooting left?’

            ‘Aye,’ John said. ‘Just like five minutes ago. Remember they only change sides in the second half.’ 

            ‘Why the fuck you bring her?’ Turnip Head said.

John felt his ears heat up, despite the cold. He hoped she hadn’t heard, or if she had, she would ask him to translate. He could make something up, say the man was complimenting her in his thick accent.

But Sophie leaned over him and glared at Turnip Head.

‘What did you say?’ she said.

John tried to create a barrier with his arm.

Turnip head just laughed.

John’s replica shirt suddenly felt too big for him.

She then sat back down and turned her death stare on John. The play was stopped while the Aberdeen left back received treatment. John searched the stadium for a distraction. There were more seagulls now circling the pitch, waiting for their moment. He hoped one of them would drop a shite on someone’s head, and everyone would turn and laugh.

            Sophie was still looking at him when the ref blew for half-time to a chorus of boos. John sprang out of his seat and went to buy some food.

            When he returned, she was texting someone. He tried to catch the name, but she turned her phone away from him. Turnip Head had left his seat. John glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of him. He guessed the man was probably yelling at the caterers for not having enough gravy in his pie.

‘The coffee machine was broken, so I got you this instead,’ he said, handing her a Bovril.

            Sophie pulled the lid off the cup and examined its thick brown contents. ‘Is it soup?’

            ‘Sort of. More like gravy in a cup. And here’s your pie.’

            She took a sip of her Bovril.

            ‘You like it?’

            Sophie made a face and then set the drink on the ground.

            ‘It’s an acquired taste,’ he said.

He polished off his pie and watched her nibbling hers, hoping she wouldn’t bring it up.

            But it was the first thing she said when she’d placed the pie down with the cup, half-eaten.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’

            ‘Say something?’

            ‘I heard that crazy man.’

            ‘Oh? It was nothing. He was just kidding around.’

            She looked into his eyes like she’d done out in the queue.

‘No point getting involved with idiots like that,’ John said. ‘He takes it too serious.’

‘He’s not the only one.’

John flipped through his mind for a new topic. But Aberdeen’s abject first-half performance weighed on him like a boulder chained to his back. He wanted to be in that changing room. He’d give the players a piece of his mind, that’s for sure. Tell them what it means to play for this club, to represent this city. She was speaking again, and he tried to pull himself back. But then he spotted Davidson, warming up with the other substitutes, his hair slicked back in the rain. A beautiful specimen of a man. The most promising player to come through the ranks in years, decades even. He was wasted on the bench. 

John nodded at whatever she’d said and then pointed ahead. ‘You see him over there?’

            ‘With the red hair?’

            He sighed. ‘No, the tall one over there, says number thirty-eight on his shorts.’

            Sophie consulted the programme. ‘Steve Davidson?’

            ‘Aye. He should’ve started. I say it every week, the boy’s a special talent. He’s not the quickest, but he’s got an eye for a pass. If he comes on, I reckon he’ll change this match. Get us playing again.’

            The second half got underway. John felt a jolt of fear when Turnip Head returned to his seat, stinking of fags.

            ‘Cannae wait to see what shite they serve up this half,’ Turnip Head said.  

            John didn’t respond. He looked straight ahead.

The Aberdeen players came out like men possessed, quickly pulling a goal back. Lifted by the energy from the crowd, they took the game to Rangers. The rain was really coming down now, falling like thick pellets. The fans all stood once more.

            ‘Comeback’s on,’ John said, hugging Sophie. ‘If we score another, oh boy we’ll have heaps to talk about at the ‘Bollocks’ tonight.’

            Sophie gave him a strange look and then got back to her phone.

Aberdeen’s momentum didn’t last though, and they conceded a cheap third goal.

            ‘They’re just unbelievable,’ John said, burying his head in his hands.

            ‘What happened?’ Sophie said, texting again.

            ‘Fuck this shite,’ Turnip Head said to John.

John watched the man launch into a final tirade, spraying the backs of seats with spittle as he cursed the players and their families, his head wobbling like a boiling kettle. Then he elbowed his way through bodies to the end of the row, and lurched up the steps to the exits. Others decided at that moment they’d also seen enough and followed after him. Sophie looked up and watched them. Her half-eaten pie lay squished on the ground at her feet.

            Aberdeen finally made a substitution with twenty minutes left. ‘Here we go,’ John said to her. ‘Davidson is on. He’ll turn things around.’

            The ball spun into Davidson’s path almost immediately and John leant forward in his seat. Davidson took a heavy touch, and in his attempt to retrieve the ball he lunged in on the Rangers captain with two feet. The fans rose from their seats, baying for blood as both sets of players shoved each other. The ref flashed a red card, and Davidson trotted off down the tunnel, hiding his face under his soaked shirt.

            Sophie glanced up from her phone.

‘Isn’t that the tall one? Thirty-eight? Why’s he going off? He just entered.’

            John tried to hold back the tears forming in his eyes.

Supporters were piling out of the stadium. Sophie rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘Why don’t we leave?’ 

            ‘I always stay to the end,’ he said.

            She checked her phone. ‘When does it finish?’

            ‘When the ref blows his whistle.’

            ‘And when will that be?’

            ‘Not long.’

            There were more gulls than people left at the final whistle. They drowned out the boos with their screeches. The two teenagers from earlier leant over the boards again, this time hurling abuse at the Aberdeen players trudging off.

            Back on the street, the air was cold and damp. Supporters hurried through the lashing rain towards the warmth of the pub. John and Sophie started up Merkland Road. His shirt clung to his skin and water dripped from his scarf. His shoulders kept shaking from the cold.

Halfway up the street he stopped.

            ‘What is it?’ Sophie said.

            John stared at the thick pile of horseshit under his feet. His trainers were caked in it. Folk sidestepped him on the pavement, and a wee girl pointed at him and giggled.

            ‘What a day,’ he said, looking from his trainers to her face. Though the damp shit smell stung his nostrils, he didn’t try to extract himself from the steaming mound. ‘Fuck sakes! I had big hopes for this day, for this match – for us. I thought this would bring us closer together. But they had to let me down as usual. Every time I come here thinking it’ll be different, but nothing ever changes. Treated to the same old shite every week. Every fucking time!’

            Sophie stood five yards ahead of him. She didn’t move. ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s not that bad. Why don’t we—’

            ‘Not that bad? Did you see that shite? Probably not, too busy looking at your phone the whole time. Why bother taking in a live match when you can check how many likes you’ve got. Do you even know the score?’

            She stepped closer to him, pinching her nose. ‘Hey, don’t start on me. You know I don’t like football.’

            ‘You might if you gave it a chance,’ he said.

            ‘You take it too seriously,’ she said. ‘It’s just a game. Silly men running in shorts.’

            John searched for a response, but his mind turned to Davidson, sitting all alone in the changing room after his red card. He wanted to tell him it was alright, he forgave him. Mistakes happened. He would always believe in him, no matter what.

Sophie’s harsh laugh brought him back again.         

The street was almost empty now. An old man with a red cap tottered up the opposite pavement, his head sunk into his shoulders.

Before John could speak, Sophie had already turned on her heels and hurried up the street. She yanked off the red and white scarf and dropped it in a puddle. John heaved his shoes out of the mound.

Unable to stop shivering, he called after her through the driving rain.

‘Soph! What about dinner tonight?’

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