I actually began writing this at around half five this morning, rising from a horrible night’s — you could hardly call it sleep since I seemed to be awake for most of it — tossing, turning, snorting and worrying. Feeling hopelessly lost.
Things had really got on top me and I went to bed early to try and sleep on through to some kind of miraculous enlightenment, or at least a new perspective that would let me appreciate the light of the new day. Hoping against hope things might somehow be different, better. Continue reading
What the fuck does he want?”
The familiar low-arsed heft of coach Hauley O’Brien was silhouetted against the gathering autumn dusk now as he picked up the last of the stray footballs from beneath the wire mesh behind the town goal. He squeezed it into the frayed old ball bag with the rest of the shoal and pulled the drawstring tight as he stood up and called Grady over to him.
Grady was not in the humour for any more talk tonight about the big play-off game against Coolderragh on Sunday. Relegation for the losers.
The pain in his left ankle was worse than ever and the aching in his right knee was a right bastard. Going, going, but never gone, nagging away like an auld wan.