Dan was mortified.
It wasn't his fault either. But all night he asked me how my leg was.
I wanted to say, Fine fella... I managed, Sore and bruised. I could have said, Fucked, my friend.
Here I sit, a glass of wonderful whisky to my side (the last from what turned out to be an annoyingly small bottle), ice pack trapped against my swelling shin muscles by smelly socks, thinking, frankly, that Saturday's game would be in recoverable reach if I was not fucking 33.
Oh ice, work your magic. Substitute on and score a goal against youth.
I mean. I know our relationship has been sparse. You've waited, of course, I know, for me to accept many an silent offer of gentle revival from sores which I saw fitter to lazily decline. I know I only come knocking in desperation. But, cummon. I think this may finally be the start of a something meaningful.. I'm a man. I take time to see the grass isn't greener although it always appears so. I've grown. I can see your worth, despite your frosty exterior. Mend me.
Mend me quickly.