“Yes! Come on United!

It’s a Tuesday evening in the Hop and Kilderkin pub, Winton and Manchester United have just
equalised against Valencia in the Champions League. Casey Warwick, a 20 year old Bournemouth
University student from Reading is an avid fan, and like many other students loves sports and meeting
with friends in the town’s many pubs and bars.

He cautiously rocks back on his chair, a smug grin spreading slowly from ear to ear as he sits quietly.
Checking the latest scores on his mobile phone he glances up slowly to catch a glimpse of Anderson’s
equaliser for the second time, before retreating to the comfort of the stats on the small screen in front
of him, only breaking his gaze to sip upon his pint of blueberry cider.

To the rest of the pub he’s a normal student, perhaps a bit smarter than the rest; his purple daps tied
neatly matching a purple wrist watch, and plain tee, but a normal, everyday student nonetheless. I
watch outside as a young mother struggles to cross the busy road in front of her. With a small child in
hand, and push chair bulging with bags, I picture Casey doing the same. The locals in here would
never have guessed it and I don’t think that I would have either, but Casey Warwick, your everyday
Bournemouth University student, sat here with me now watching a poor game of football, a parent to
two month old Miley Rose. Merely a child himself.

Yesterday’s game is all over. One all. On a small white desk, discoloured with the stain, aged rings of
spilt tea and coffee sits a humble pile of gifts bordered by two large birthday cards, almost hidden
amongst the vast array of neatly arranged papers, books and stationary. Looking out onto the sparsely
populated street, hidden behind a mass of white netting, Casey’s gaze shifts affectionately to a large
book in front of him.

“He’s just a God. I read half it sitting up till three this morning.”

Sir Alan Sugar’s pearly white grin stares back at me, a part reflection of Casey’s own drive to succeed,
mirrored by the ordered revision notes assembled beneath. He swings around in his chair, clutching
tightly to a colourful china mug, his daughter Miley’s beaming smile lighting the room in front of me,
another birthday present I’m sure.

I rather regrettably start to probe for information on the book, as stories of business deals, goings on
and under table arrangements fly across the room at me, facts and figures the everyday person like
you or I would struggle to comprehend. The admiration is commendable in itself but humbly
supported by a personal level of intelligence and perseverance rarely forced upon others.

The next day Casey enters the room again. Snatching at a set of darts, rocking the unsteady set of
shelves he hurls his black denim bag onto the bed, a paper jotter and accountancy book escaping onto
the sea of brown, folded sheets. He begins to play with pinpoint precision, barely acknowledging my
presence within the room, the satisfying sound of metal meeting cork easing his stress dart by dart.

“112. That beats my day.”

He laughs. Audibly content with his own humour, he collects his darts, as he begins pacing between
the board and the facing wall, only breaking the silence to mutter his consistent, yet impressive scores
of 60 plus. By the fifth set his brief commentary and monotonous cycle of throw and collect comes to
an abrupt halt. I’m still stuck calculating the original 112 he scored upon entering the room, perplexed
by the speed and accuracy of his score keeping. Casey interrupts my thought patterns though.

“Got through at IBM today, they want me to go on a day of interviews.” No mean feat it must be said.

Placement years are deemed crucial at Bournemouth University and this mini success of his returned
to Casey as he calmed further. He returned to the dart board as before, his eyes still fixated on the
exact location his next dart would land, his focus never deviating from the challenges he must have
been setting himself inside his head.

“Must have done alright on that online test,” he joked as he scored highly.

For weeks later this presence of the sporting world in Casey’s life frequently returned to our
conversations, becoming ever evident whenever we spoke. Upon a walk to the nearby train station our
chat soon became littered with that of football as I strangely found myself defending Casey’s beloved
Manchester United. He stoutly stood up for Spanish giants and European rivals Barcelona,
mesmerised by the flair, skill and beauty of their football, defending their status as arguably the
world’s greatest team. He then proudly told me of his times playing football as child, reminiscing years
worth of grazed knees and torn school uniforms – he had a happy childhood no doubt.

“I was always the greedy one on the playground, you couldn’t get the ball off me’ he said. I believed
him.

Whilst I can admit to never having seen Casey play football during our time at University I knew as
did many others did of his obvious talents on the pitch. As a prominent figure in Bournemouth
University’s intramural sports set up and a tenacious, yet tireless midfielder I could envisage him,
child like in nature striving to mimic the likes of Lionel Messi, Xavi and Andres Iniesta longing for the
perfection all three had seemingly reached. He had succeeded on the pitch this year, his team still
unbeaten by Christmas. Maybe not the dizzy heights of European football, but I’d like to think he
pictured the thousands of adoring fans at the Nou Camp every time the ball nestled nicely into the
opposition’s net.

We reached the station with Casey somewhat pleasantly annoyed by now that I had the audacity and
cheek about myself to suggest that fouling Lionel Messi would stop him.

“He’d just hop right pass, skin anyone. You know that.”

I stood by the entrance as he approached a ticket machine, the white glow radiating back upon his
black duffle coat as evening encroached upon the crisp afternoon outside. Reading the information on
screen over his shoulder I could see that he was a little short on the fare but before he could turn
around to face me I held out a five pound note in his direction.

“Merry Christmas mate.”

It may have been a little to you or I but to Casey it was everything. He shook my hand firmly, the only
way that true gratitude really can, and wished me the same, before purchasing his ticket and silently
passing through the barriers towards home. Home to the life that Bournemouth never really got to
see, and that few really knew existed, but the life that Casey missed, and sorely craved the most.