My father leaps and claws the ball back from just over the black spot as the crowd roars itself into a frenzy in my 13-year-old head. We’re on the lawn on an evening shared with flocks of midges. It’s just us and a couple of buckets for goalposts, an invisible crossbar that we both guesstimate in height and say no more about, and no Hawkeye.
The neighbour Rusty Walsh is outside...
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