Eating his words
In the dressing room, the men of Madron FC sat dejected. It had been a terrible season. The previous week they’d lost 22-0 to St Buryan. Morale was at an all-time low.
As they quietly, disconsolately, pulled on boots and jerseys, the door was flung open. It rebounded against the wall; the door handle carved a neat hole in the plaster.
Alex Ferguson stormed into the room, jaw furiously working on a Wrigley’s Extra (peppermint). He glared at the team for a moment, then spoke:
‘Yes you fucking can, lads!’
Turning on his heel, he stormed out as he had stormed in, and slammed the door behind him with a force that made the walls shake. A few flakes of plaster fluttered to the floor from the newly minted hole.
They looked at each other in astonishment. Astonishment turned to joy, joy turned to jubilation.
‘Yes we fucking can!’ they bellowed as one, high-fiving and chest-bumping. They finished togging out at speed, and raced down the tunnel to face their opponents, Illogan RBL Reserves.
