The girl in front had her decks tied, she had no unseemly split along the seam of her skirt and trust as well as truth were still a given when she spoke with her father. The passing tall and very sallow boy didn’t grunt a greeting at her, make her blush and hate me more for breathing or for being within six feet of her clip clopping, Geisha walking, un-tied deck shoes. In our daily school morning white heat of cornflakes and chaos routine, there were causalities today. The collateral damage from a ripped skirt, which had been repaired and mended the previous evening and which cost €90 for God’s sake, well that same skirt was accidentally ripped again the following day when “I Was running up the stairs”. And that was where the fatal belly wound was inflicted, and truth’s gurgling death rattle was just audible above the frank exchange of views about the skirt ripping between Darla and her “MAM“. She is always MAM when Darla is on the back of her untied deck shoe clod feet. “MAM” pushed hardest, she knew about the street cred and torn skirt thing and the coincidence took her over the edge and I wondered could the tearing actually have been a mistake. So, triage this evening
So she walks like a Geisha girl but so isn’t, and he plays like Wayne Rooney but so doesn’t have the FA cup ears or Shrek head. And if he scored a goal in the usual 8:0 drubbings which approximate to competitive matches in his U11 league, it might well have been just another goal. And if he had inherited his father’s two left feet and sublime ability to turn up on time for matches and yet never play, well then I could understand. So when it was 0:0 in the middle of the 2nd half of the semi-final, the tensiest and touchiest semi-final ever in his life-time, where 11 year old boys became men and kicked out cynically and got sent off, well when he scored the winningiest of goals in the Rooniest of ways, and was engulfed and submerged at the same time by his teams mates, it was definitely a nice moment for the two left feet who drove him there.