Monday 

I'm sore and bruised after last night's game. I was wasn't actually playingbut I got a few belts when I tried to stop a row between Fr. Dan and the Parish Priest of Kilmagranny. I don't know who hit me but I'm hoping it wasone of the other crowd. 'Twould be hard to take if it was one of our own.That's the fifth game that I've been a sub even though I'm training as hard as anyone and its not like we're ripping the championship apart. As it is, we're in shocking danger of going the whole season without scoring a goal. I'm going to have a talk with the Team manager who is also our Club Chairman and let him know how I feel. A man can only take so much and after that, its time to act. 

Tuesday 

I called up to the Chairman and Team manager on my way home from work. Sweating I was. He got expelled from charm school when he was four and we've never hit it off. He was getting down from his four wheel drive Nissan when I met him. He took a long hard look at me. What do you want, he says to me. I told him straight up that I wasn't happy. Not one bit. He told me that the place to do the talking was on the field. I replied that I would talk all night if I got me chance on the team. He got a bit angry with that and told me not to be a cheeky bollix. He also said that he had seen me sniffing around Cathy Curtis and that I should forget about that because one, and he held up his index finger, Cathy was practically engaged to Noel Furlong, our Club's Senior Corner back and two, and he held up the finger next to his index finger, some might consider my sniffing around as almost incestuous behaviour. Then he told me to feck off out of his yard. I left knowing full sure that he was in no doubt that I was serious. And Cathy Curtis is related to me by marriage. So he can shag off , I said aloud and to myself as I drove back home. 

Wednesday

Bad news! Just got a text from the Team bus driver. It seems that Tom Murphy, our right half back, has broken three bones in his hand and won't be able to play for a while. Me and Tom have been battling it out all year for that position and its bad luck for him but, as the saying goes, one mans meat is another mans poison. This might be the break that I've been praying for. I get to training half an hour before everyone else and I start to do a few laps of the field before the rest of them arrive. I'm fair bollixed by the middle of the second lap but I keep going 'cos I want to be warmed up before we start training. The last thing I need is to pull a hamstring or get a groin injury because I' haven't prepared right. At the end of training, our manager, who hasn't said a word to me all night, announces the team. When he gets to the half back line, he expresses hope that Tom's injury mightn't be as bad as feared but he won't be playing in the next game. I'm in! 

Thursday

Went to the Doctor this morning to get a sick cert for the rest of the week. Don't want to risk an injury or getting banjaxed at work. The doctor insists on examing me. I tell her that I'm down to two Snack boxes a week and that I'm starting on the Silk cut as a way of giving up the fags. She's a bit reluctant but I turn on the charm and she gives me a cert for two days. Home to watch TV with a few bars of chocolate, for protein, two packets of Pringles and twenty major. This is the life. 

Friday 

Cathy sent me a text. Wants to know will I meet her after training tonight, in the car park. Will I what? She tells me to bring a sleeping bag and some protection. I get the sleeping bag down from the attic, which still smells like a small furry animal curled up and died in it and put my DJ Carey Ashguard in my gear bag. All the protection a man could need. After training, where I played a stormer and cleared ball all night, I hang around until the Club car park is empty. Cathy drives arrives in her Opel Kadett, 93KK, and does a few wheelies. The stereo is blazing and she's dressed to the nines. Got the sleeeping bag, she asks. I sure do. Got the protection? I whip out the Ashguard and she looks at me and then drives off. Women! I'll never understand them. I go home and cook some pasta and eat half a dozen bananas. Healthy body and healthy mind. Then I check my gear, rub down the hurls, two 36's and one 37, and hit the feathers. I'm wrecked from nerves and an overdose of potassium. Bloody bananas. 

Saturday 

I decide to rest today and I don't get out of the bed until one o clock. Another text from Cathy. Will I meet her later? I need to prepare for the game tomorrow and so I tell her I can't. She doesn't reply. I'm regretting turning her down but you have to treat em mean and keep em keen says my bachelor uncle Jimmy and he should know. He's a hoor for the women. Or so he says. Have a fry up for brunch (that's an American word for when you have breakfast and lunch at the same time) and then down to the bookies to back a few nags. Lose fifty euro and decide to buy a Lottery ticket. Shite as well. I'm not drinking tonight so I buy six cans of Dutch Gold to put in the fridge for after the game tomorrow evening. But there's nothing on TV and I get bored and drink five of them, No point in making a pig of myself. 

Sunday 

Can't sleep. Me head's spinning. How will I play. Make sure to drive low ball to the corners. And not up in the sky. Maybe even have a go meself for a point or two. Finally get to sleep only to get woken up by the phone ringing downstairs. Its Father Dan. The game is off. The Great Aunt of the Secretary of St. Peter's, who we were meant to play tonight, is after dying. The game is called off as a mark of respect. The fecking ould bitch. I go try to go back to sleep but the day is ruined now. I dial Cathy's mobile number as I could do with her soft words and strong arms. A man's voice answers it. Shite. Its Noel Furlong! It couldn't get any worse. Sorry, says I, in a foreign accent, wrong number. Jaysus, that was close.

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