Check out this wonderful new poem by my pal Christopher McLaughlin: Training On the autumnal Bog Lane football pitches my Granda eagerly puts me through the paces in preparation for the school 800m track race. I’m not the only thing he trains; the greyhounds have already chased the drag hare brindle coats like tigers, at his side they stare; me and Uncle Marty pumped and primed on our marks, opposite ends of the halfway line. I’m whippet thin and hungry for success Marty, determined, will do his very best to belie the belly and keep me at bay. Will middle age and arthritic knees betray him during the course of the second lap? Or will sheer thranness maintain the large gap that his seniority has always ensured? He’s a few spots faster due to being pursued, but the distance between us steadily decreases, unlike his breathing; heaviest a few metres from the finish line. I pass like a breeze. Granda stops the watch. He looks pleased that I overcame the handicap, or perhaps, that it was so well set by him; the boss, the gaffer, my own personal Bill Shankly who loves me dearly and speaks so frankly about how nobody remembers second and winning is the only thing that counts chrismclaughlin841.wordpress/2013/09/08/training/
Posted on: Tue, 10 Sep 2013 16:36:53 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015