There’s a bitterness to the elements and the other lads start their attack. It’s an onslaught against us. They’re mostly taller than our team and our boys look terrified, as though they’re having difficulty connecting with their young bodies. They are clumsy and they cannot keep possession. I am at my wits’ end, shouting and cursing at them to push on and to be strong and Maurice is at it too screaming murder. The referee suddenly blows his whistle and walks over to us and asks us to keep it down a bit, and to watch our language, that this is a friendly affair. I tell him that a league game is not a friendly affair nor can it ever purport to be one. He says that the boys cannot hear themselves think on the pitch, let alone play at all, with us shouting at them. I am livid but I keep a cool exterior. I am fully convinced that the referee ought to have directed his warnings to the other manager who is giving it socks but I say nothing. At this moment an unleashed labrador darts across the pitch to whoops and cheers from most of the lads. Mikey and Joey, by contrast, look rigid: they are afraid of dogs. I blame myself. The fact that I was bitten by a dog as a child shouldn’t be the thing that will define their relationships with dogs for the rest of their lives and no matter how many times I tell them this, they won’t listen.

The referee manages to get rid of the dog and the half-time whistle isn’t long in coming. The boys lash into the assorted selection of drinks. Maurice has bought Aldi-style Capri-Suns. The lads squirt each other with orange and apple juice as they attempt to pierce the minute silver foiled holes at the top of the drinks with weak straws that insist on bending. My hands are sticky from helping out. You get what you pay for. At least the lads are having a laugh.

Maurice, there’s something bothering me.

What’s that, Des?

It’s, Jesus, something is happening to me, ah fucking forget it, forget I said anything.

You’re not fucking sick are you, Des? Because Jesus Christ, Des, I wouldn’t want anything bad happening to you. What would I do without you?

It’s always yourself you’re thinking of, Maurice. It’s my back. It’s not great.

All the time? Maurice asks.

It seems to get painful when I run.