One can but dream

Time: Last night
Place: Ron’s Bar

“Would it be worth it, Twenty?”, asked Dirty Dave.

“Oh fuck yes”.

“You sure?”

“No question about it. You’d be a hero. A legend of all time”.

“You think?”

“Think? I know. You’d go down in history like Fortycoats, The Diceman, Hector Gray and the mad bloke from The Chieftans who got arrested for throwing a goat through the window of Store Street Garda station. Legends of Dublin”.

“That’s some good company to be keeping”.

“You know it”.

“There’s gonna be some shit though”.

“Definitely”.

“I might get a bit bashed up”.

“It’s one of the perils of making oneself the prime subject in tale that will be told for years and years. It will become like U2’s first gig. If you listened to all the twats that were there they obviously played the Phoenix fucking Park. Fathers will tell sons who will tell their sons and it will surely be one of the greatest anecdotes of all time”.

“I might need your help afterwards, what with all the fallout and what have you. You’ll be there for me?”

“Ordinarily I would say yes but actually mean no and leave you stew and suffer the consequences on your own. But this time I truly mean yes. It’s beyond reward what you are going to do. I shall proudly stand shoulder to shoulder with you. I will tell the world ‘This is my friend. Look at what he has done. We … we love him!”

“Really?”

“I promise you”.

“Yeah, but you promised me you’d be there for me when I punched that police horse in the face for a bet and when I turned around you and Jimmy had gone although I could hear you laughing as they clobbered me with their batons”.

“This is different. You have my word”.

“Honestly?”

“Yes. Cross my heart”, I said crossing my heart.

“Ok then”.

“You’re gonna do it?”

“Yeah”.

“Awesome”.

Time: Next Monday night
Place: Shamrock Rovers stadium in Tallaght.

“And it’s Raul down the left hand side, he plays a square ball inside to Diarra … he turns, looks up, finds Kaka with a lofted ball across the Rovers defence. The Brazilian flicks it over AntoDeco Shiels, goes past Tricky McDonald and nutmegs Pytkghksskvi Kwrkckhowski, the Polish centre-half, straight through to Cristiano Ronaldo.

The former United man does a stepover, another, and another, then another, then another, and another, and yet another, then another, he distracts the defender by bulging out his Adam’s apple like a demented jungle toad, and he’s clean through on goal. He’s got to score.

But what’s this? It seems some hobo in 1940’s style boots has taken to the pitch. I can see the cast iron studs ripping through the turf like an acient plough as he runs towards Ronaldo. He leaps, two footed, smashes both feet into Ronaldo’s knees … oh good Lord, I can hear the cracking sound from up here. He’s motionless on the ground, proving once and for all that when a player is really injured he doesn’t roll over and over and over again. Doing so would simply break his legs even more. It’s just common sense, isn’t it?

The hobo is on his feet, pulling his shirt over his head … what’s that written on his large, hairy, sore covered belly? “Haha, you cunt! Love, Ron’s Bar!”

Some people are on the pitch, they think it’s all Rovers. It is now.

Oh the humanity!”

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