Thursday, July 8, 2010
The game is two halves of uneven possession,
won and lost from corner to footstool. Coffee table
and kitchen sink. Dishes, ahtrays, spindle legs.
In my mind I am still smoking Navy Cut behind the
goalposts - a late substitution, an opportunist -
adrift somewhere between 1974 and four years on.
Avoiding the pitching cross, passing on the play.
Even now I take up position near the window. The
peddle bin. Coming up on the wing in the last five
minutes, hanging on to the ball for too long, the final
whistle halting the curve mid sentence. An ill timed
delivery inches too late in the back of the net.
The old Malagan possessed impeccable timing. Not
for the faint hearted. From bull neck to sable brush,
it was a signature theme. An admission of thrust;
a genius for the kill. Always closing, always closing.
Never without his audience. From studio to cashier's
transfer. His ability, his finish, was a thing of beauty.