osullivan

What news!

Ravagings were rendert to the throwing joint of the head quarterbacksman, leaving Good Sir Palmer rheumy about the oculars and with marked dryness about the vaginal lips. I spake to him as he lay upon to greensward, “Good Sir Palmer, do husband your strength. Your labors require potency in the throwing arm. Is it rubella? Your eyes have yet to roll behind their lids, there is still time. Maintain pressure on the joint until we can apply leaches and allow my haymakers to triumph in your wake.” His rejoinder to me came thusly: “Where are the trainers? Can someone get this incomprehensible mick off me?” Unappreciative lout, how I knit my brows at his person!

But where Crisis has befallen he, the divine mistress of Opportunity has belavisht me with her grace. Here, only when my mind was blackent and consumpt with ideas that the Lord had smote me through continuous potato famine and six wives all lost to complications of child birth, now I am tasked with leading the first team offense into the heat of preseasonal conflict.

Being a first team quartered back is a station of immense responsibility. Therefore, to saw that I am a Man of Distinction I bought my first comb and toothstring, so as to make my appearance less “gruesome” “grueful” and “marked by grue”. It seems some had taken note of mine efforts. Whilst cording my tattering pant string, I was approached by a toff representing a three-lettered entity he said was known to all and sundry as “HBO”. This “HBO”, he said, would make a projected story of our trainings by use of moving daguerrotype. I promised to make winner’s pose prior to each haymaker, for this the camera likes.

One practice was particularly eventful. I could feel the moving daguerrotype channel its attention on my visage. How the cigarette girls would swoon when next I came upon the boulevard! Feeling flush with vainglory, I removed my claddings in the locker quarters when I was approached by the Black of Assumed Spaniard Surname.

He spake things to me of indeterminate subject. So flummoxed was I that I feigned understanding rather than ask elucidation.

“Child Please,” he exclaimed.

“Begging your pardon. Do you address me in the manner of an unruly urchin?” I puzzled.

“Child Please,” he repeated, as if I had said nothing at all.

“Sir!” I thundered. “Though it is my sworn mission to deliver you footballs on the field of play, your manner in the dressing quarters strikes me as irksome! Cease this irksomeness!”

“Man, Child Please,” he said, defiantly.

As I reared back to deliver the mother of all haymakers to this senseless ruffian, I was restrained from behind by the steady arm of headmaster Lewis. With one look I knew I risked more than sourness in the haymaker hand if I followed through on my swing. The Fake Spaniard took advantage of the momentary stillness to chase after a thing emitting a shiny light, whereafter Headmaster Lewis drew me aside and assured me that if anyone would strike this man-child, it would be he.

It was the first time I’d seen him serious.