The game restarts and we resume our normal shouts of encouragement without the expletives and it’s almost as if our lads feed off our new clean energy. Mikey goes for a strike, it’s on target and he scores. I go a bit overboard congratulating him but sometimes pride simply cannot be covered up. It’s a beautiful thing to watch your own flesh and blood putting the ball into the back of the net. It is almost magical. There’s a girls’ team warming up beside us but the boys take no notice. They’re all at that pure stage where their interest cannot be piqued. It’s a wonderful place to be and for a moment I try to recall what that felt like, but I find it difficult to remember how I felt at any age.

I open my thermos flask and I hand Maurice a cup filled with scalding tea. He calls me his old flower. I try to concentrate on the game, but images of Jenny in a gallery space with Simon won’t go away. I imagine him as elegant, fair, with an abundance of charm. It’s what all men strive for. And I can’t stop ruminating about why he would choose to call a meeting on a Sunday.

I snap out of it, one of my lads has been kicked in the face. I shout to the referee to do something. We get a penalty. A whoop of joy comes from the team.

Now, lads, listen up, I say. Maurice is dancing.

Lads, keep it together. Mikey, you’re on. I presume that one or two of the lads might have a problem with this but I have no choice. Mikey is our best chance.

Crikey it’s Mikey, the lads cheer.