The Season of Many Moons: A Postmodern Football Opera

In the year of fractured hamstrings and egos, on and damp Thursdays and Sundays, twenty-two men and two prophets (known to mortals as Watto and Jimmy) gathered to chase a single sphere of stitched leather through wind, doubt, and the faint smell of Deep Heat.

• Baz: Ran as though pursued by invisible debts.
• Steady: The name a lie; chaos incarnate in shin pads.
• Rich: Goal scorer? Poet? Nobody truly knows.
• Ben: Found the net more than he found inner peace.
• Pete: Whispered to the grass before kick-off. The grass whispered back.
• Ruben: Returned from injury speaking only in riddles.
• Marrie: That goal… still echoes through the goalposts of our dreams.
• Mikey: Covered every blade of grass. Then covered it again, for luck.
• Tom: Defended like he was hiding state secrets.
• Chris: Once tackled a man so hard reality blinked.
• Evans: Keeper of the realm, enemy of gravity.
• Corey: Improved every game until he transcended mortal football entirely.
• Eamonn: Nodded solemnly at half-time, as if agreeing with fate itself.
• Scott: Passed sideways but artistically.
• Matt: Invented a new position: left-back but philosophical.
• Lavo: Drew tactics in the dirt. They resembled ancient runes.
• Shane: A one-man stampede. Grass feared him.
• Geeza: Banter sharp enough to pierce the veil of reality.
• Parf: Scored once, but the goal was in another timeline.
• Andy: Brought beers, and thus salvation.
• Adrian: Defender of dimensions, philosopher of the back four.
• Graz: Lurks at the edge of the penalty box like a patient omen.

The season ended as all things do: with hamstrings tight, pints lifted high, and the faint suspicion that next year we might win the league, or at least remember where the cones are kept.

Watto and Jimmy? They just smiled, knowing they had seen too much, coached too long, and yet… would return.