|
On The Road
with Brian Kerrouac
The Year So Far
BANG! Off goes the phone in the middle of the night charging lines with
energy turning voices into scrambled signals that only the ear of the
hearer can hear and bring joy like Miles blowing deep, soulful,
sorrowful saying Go Cat Go! and the whole room nods as one because they
really get it, they really get every note and in that smoke filled arena
the world makes sense.
It was Garrett Kelleher with plans for a new road trip, he was gone,
real gone but he’s got a heart of Aztec gold, dug out of the mountain by
slaves later sacrificed. I didn’t have to say yes, the road chose me and
for too long I’d be kicking around with Mémêre at home, drinking too
much liquor which ain’t licked me yet.
I met up with the players in the morning. I don’t want players who could
be mannequins in Macey’s standing there all dumbfounded with blank faces
that say life’s canvas hasn’t passed this way with its palette of
rainbowed colors.
I want players who fizz fizz fizz all over the pitch, who scream across
the grass like Roman Candles, exploding with so much energy whose memory
festers long in the collective. Of course, if the long ball is going to
get results I’ll make sure to include a few raw meat merchants in the
squad too.
The Spurs of London arrived up this week, all fancy tricks and no soul
like a tired New Orleans funeral band feigning caring. We diced with
carrottops and lost by one goal scored by Keane. We’ve got our own Keane
but he’s Wild Turkey whiskey to Jack Daniels himself. The stands were
full, the people were full, the fans were full of it and it was a
beautiful thing I thought to myself as I watched the bills stack up in
the counting room where Garrett was counting out his money. That’s
poetry, that’s Robin Hood come to life, steal from the pricks to give to
the poor, that’s a lot of Merry Men in McDowell’s feasting après match.
Whether there was any roasting I cannot comment.
There are old clubs and there are bold clubs but there are no old, bold
clubs—unless they’re Odense Boldklub from Denmark. I wanna talk to these
cats, find out what makes them tick, like oul Hamlet playing his part in
a tragedy with Ophelia by his side, like Merrion Square on a quiet week
when all the shutters are up and the blazers blaze a trail.
It’s all about the road, the unrelenting road…Cobh away.
Back to
Features >>>
|