The Business End

Come March, lower league football becomes crazy. Game after game after game after game, piled into a month or 2, simply to catch up on the devilishly cold winter we have and the blanket of snowfall that covers our country like a roast turkey is covered in foil. League games need to be filled, left vacant by referees who get better offers with cup finals and the like. I had a game on Saturday, a game on Sunday, had a game tonight, will have my cup final on Thursday before another full weekend of football. What with pre-season cricket training in between, surprisingly, my evenings and weekends are completely full. For the first time in a long time, I am at least, a little busy.

The game tonight was in the league that usually takes place on a Thursday. It had been rearranged because of the cup final, and involved the top 2 teams in the league. The game itself was alright, Kempston holding on to a slender 2-1 lead, with Northampton Chenecks pressuring until their skipper decided to dance on a Kempston player. By that, I mean he stamped on him. Not once, not twice, but 3 times. The speed at which the red card came out must have been a record, and from then on, the game was done and dusted. 30 minutes before kick off, Tiny and Rich had offered me the middle, claiming I was always on the line. It is true, I always get lines on this league, and I would have accepted if they had given me some warning!

Besides, it's more money in the wallet, of which I need at the moment. Upon getting back in the changing room, I had a sneaky look at my phone to see 7 text messages, 4 missed calls and a voicemail. Interesting. Most of them were from Sister Mitten about the upcoming Mother's Day gift(s), one from Beddoe inviting me on a Summer holiday, which, regretfully, I have no choice but to turn down, unless The National Lottery are kind to me and a voicemail from the referee for Thursday's cup final.

Yeah, I know. I'm blabbing. Fuck me, it's 04:30. Mother Mitten will be complaining that I've stayed up all night yet again, and yep, I know. I know. I know. But sitting here now, I don't feel tired at all. I never feel tired going to sleep, whatever time it is, and it takes me literally hours to drift off. I guarantee you, I will go to bed after this and will not sleep until it's daybreak. Guaranteed. It's starting to piss me off, although I do little to help myself over this matter. Tomorrow holds very little, until the evening net session, where I will no doubt bat well, (because my pre-season has been largely successful), and then come home to waste away the evening again.

It won't help when the clocks go forward on Saturday either. I'll end up going to bed at 6am, instead of 5am, with a whole day of football ahead of me.

I desperately, desperately, desperately want to talk about something else aswell, but I can't. I will definitely update you when it's safe to do so. Remind me.

I'm off to go and lay in my bed, looking blankly at the ceiling. Isn't that cool?