Bad sports metaphor
As the transfer window closes I find myself sitting in the manager’s office, gold Montblanc in hand, staring down at the contract. Good money, top fixture list, decent facilities. I’m told I’ll be up front, regular first team action. The strip’s a bit dodgy but what the hell, I can learn to love denim. I am already familiar with the wide men, Dollimore and Harvie, and have heard good things about the back line of Alston and Soan. Never a fumble from the London based keeper and many a clean sheet logged by the Glasgow-born centre-half.
I hesitate for a moment, weighing up my options. On the one hand I’m happy where I am – a great bunch of lad – but on the other the temptation of the big league is alluring; the passionate crowds and the chance of famous European nights. In the end I think, fuck it, you only live twice. I sign my name and the manager grins expansively offering his hand across the shimmering blue ink rapidly being drunk by the paper. He shows me into an anteroom stocked to the ceiling with replica trophies – platinum, silver, gold – and talks tearfully of great victories, great glories from that golden age.
“We can have all this again, son,” he assures me.
“I’m forty-eight, Boss, no need to call me son” I say.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye.
“OK, dickhead. Get your clobber on and go out there and play”.