banter

Red Number Three slides across the halfway line, carving a rift through the icy layer atop the turf. The Blue centre midfielder topples spectacularly like a felled oak, crashing shoulder-first into the ground with a thud. Multiple, resonant cries of ‘Ref!’ flood Gallin’s ears, but as he winces...

Blue Number Four scoops up the ball and wipes away the moisture in a makeshift pouch in front of his shirt whilst hastily scouting the pitch for an available and well-positioned teammate. Gallin blows again on his whistle. ‘Red throw. It’s red ball,’ he says with some conviction. The spectators...

Gallin gently forces open the heavy, ill-fitting door to the referees’ changing block to be immediately hit by the familiar pong of well-ripened muck, damp leather, ammonia, Ralgex and various indefinable but nonetheless appreciable scents of the body. It is a combination of smells you just...