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Books for Sale |
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'Don't forget the Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. Okay?' Resnick turned at the sound of Ben Riley's voice, picking out his face without difficulty, the only one among the crush of supporters hard against the fence not jeering, calling abuse. Two minutes from the end of an apparent nil-nil draw, a war of attrition played out in the no man's land of late-season rnud, the ball had skidded out towards the wing and the few blades of grass remaining on the pitch. The winger, shaking off one challenge, sprinted thirty yards before cutting in. At the edge of the area, uncertain whether to pass or shoot, a defender felled him from behind, sliding in, feet up, to leave his stud marks high inside the winger's thigh. The free kick, mishit, spun off an outstretched boot and crossed the line into the net. One-nil. Fifty or so visiting fans charged their opponents' end, sharpened coins bright in tight fists. |