Monday
Popped out to buy the papers to read all about how well
I'd played on Saturday, but having arrived at the nearby newsagents I changed my
mind and decided to go a little bit further into town to buy them. I got to WH
Smiths and was actually at the newspaper rack when I decided against buying them
there, so headed out of the shop and away from the city centre. I got lost and
by the time I arrived back in my part of town, the shop had closed and my chance
to buy the papers had gone.
Tuesday
I played dare with Darren. I'd wait until there was a
clear gap in the traffic - then wait until it had closed before dodging in and
out of the cars, diving beneath a slow moving lorry, nutmegging myself between
the wheels of a bicycle, only to lose my way return to where I'd started from.
Darren would simply stride out into the road, cause an obstruction and wait for
a traffic warden to book him before moving on.
Wednesday
I went out with the lads for a curry but got thrown
out for fighting. The other lads got angry because I refused to pass the onion
bhajis ... or the rice ... or the water ...
Thursday
Training. I looked really cool in my new designer gear
from the club shop. "Hey Rod, chill out" said Deano, no doubt
impressed by my hard stare "You look cross, man". "Don't be daft!"
someone shouted "Rod doesn't know what it means!" Everyone laughed,
I'm not sure why.
Friday
Really excited! The garden accessory I'd long been
awaiting finally arrived, so I invited my good friend Raver round to play on the
roundabout. We agreed it was great. "You can spend hours on it and not get
anywhere!" he said. How we both laughed!
Saturday
I woke up sweating. I'd had a nightmare. I woke up
moaning "Early ball! Early ball!" as I dreamt I'd been playing for
United and delivering a string of first time passes and crosses. The weird thing
was that in the game this afternoon the same thing nearly happened. This big,
manic, grey-haired figure behind me was screaming those words at me -
but they say you should always reverse your dreams, so I did a drag-back, a
couple of Cruyff turns, a Beardsley shimmy - and the chance had gone.
Reproduced with permission from "So Jack Ashurst, where's my shirt?", issue 15
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