“You wake up and for those few seconds, minutes, you forget; forget you are injured; forget you are finished.”
“He once told me, Instead of scoring thirty goals a season, why don't you score twenty-five and help someone else to score fifteen? That way the team's ten goals better off.”
“There are stains on their knees, stains on their arses. Dirty Leeds.”
“How you harangue referees. How you fall over when you've not been touched. How you make a meal out of every tackle to try and get the other player booked. How you protest when you have nothing to fucking protest about –”
“I've seen it before. Been here before. Played or managed here, six or seven times in six or seven years. Always a visitor, always away.”
“Johnny Watters bends down, sponge in his hand, tongue in your ear, he whispers, "How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?”
“The smell of blood. The smell of sweat. The smell of tears. The smell of Algipan. You want to smell these smells for the rest of your life.”
“They love me for what I'm not. They hate me for what I am.”
“The sun comes out but the rain stays put. No rainbows today. Not here.”
“Age does not count. It’s what you know about football that matters.”
“A boy with a ball. A boy with a dream.”
“You are afraid, afraid of your dreams, your dreams which were once your friends, your best friends, are now your enemies, your worst enemies.”
“They are waiting for us again. My youngest lad and me. The crows around the floodlights. The dogs around the gates. They are waiting for us because we are late again. My youngest lad and me.”
“No matter how good you think you are
or how clever... How many fancy new friends
you make on the telly... The reality of footballing life is this:
The chairman is the boss, then comes the directors...
Then the secretary, then the fans, then the players...
And then finally, last of all... bottom of the heap,
the lowest of the low... comes the one, who in the end, we can all do without...
The fucking manager.”
“No one beats Steven Seagal, though. He’s not here with any group. I saw him late one night dressed in a cop uniform, out on patrol with some deputies from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Department. He’s been going out with their SWAT team. We talk a bit, and when he leaves he puts his palms together in front of his face and bows briefly. Then he hops in a cop car and speeds off.”
“Not the way I knew Christian's touch would burn me, the way it blessed me and bled me, the way he would singe me as his fingers traced my skin, the way he would sear me with his kiss. I couldn't handle anything so intense.”
“He wondered if perhaps, subconsciously, he was trying to sabotage her efforts by setting the bar too high, trying to keep her with him longer; but surely his subconscious wasn't that stupid?”
“apático y de la timidez que era el resultado”
“There is a cop who is both prowler and father:
he comes from your block, grew up with your brothers,
had certain ideals.
You hardly know him in his boots and silver badge,
on horseback, one hand touching his gun.
You hardly know him but you have to get to know him:
he has access to machinery that could kill you.
He and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash,
his ideals stand in the air, a frozen cloud
from between his unsmiling lips.
And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him,
the maniac’s sperm still greasing your thighs,
your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confess
to him, you are guilty of the crime
of having been forced.
And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the family
whom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten,
his hand types out the details
and he wants them all
but the hysteria in your voice pleases him best.
You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you:
he has taken down you worst moment
on a machine and filed it in a file.
He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined;
he knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted.
He has access to machinery that could get you put away;
and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,
and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,
your details sound like a portrait of your confessor,
will you swallow, will you deny them, will you lie your way home?”
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