I’ve never been that cool. Not really. You know those moments when you just look at someone and think “fuck, they’re cool”. That’s never been me. I’ve come close a couple of times: When I was six years old, I pointed at a traffic light right as it turned green. Smashed it. King of the back seat of the car that day. Later in life while working in a pub a customer threw a bottle and I caught it about an inch from my colleague’s face. That was pretty cool too. Two moments in three decades of being on the planet, though – not a great return on an investment by any metric.
It’s a Sunday and I’m walking through Kelvingrove Park. I have the type of hangover that can only be described as “exactly the type of hangover you get now that you’re 30. You idiot. You coward”. It’s freezing, but the air is fresh. Each huge, magic lungful of cold air brings me a step closer to life. I take a sip from my burnt takeaway coffee and pull the collar of my jacket up around my ears; massive plumes of warm breath leading me on my way through the crisp cold.
I see a group of wee guys playing football in the distance. I reminisce for a moment about those days: Records. Cuppy. Double Cuppy. Heads and Volleys. Running for hours on end until the Irn Bru in your system was all that kept you upright; sickly-sweet rocket fuel. Absolute Glory Days, so they were. I snap back into reality as one of the wee guys smashes a volley wide of the post. He’s lent back too much when he’s hit that, if you ask me. Hit it too well if anything. The ball sails wide of the post and rolls in my direction. I hear the shout – “here, big man”. The realisation hits me. Shit, I’m Big Man. That’s my call to arms. I immediately know what’s expected of me.
The doctor’s in session. He hands me a prescription. “One big blooter of one football. Good for what ails you.”. Get your laces right fucking through it, son. You know the kind of pass that seems to scream “yaaaaaasss” as it carves a path through the air. A 40-yard beauty straight to feet. I see the headlines – “Area Man Undoubtedly Cool”. “Big Man Steps Up”. They’ll upload this pass to YouTube. It’ll probably go viral. “Sign him up” they’ll say. “Seriously though, he could do a job”. Not the Premiership, obviously. The Lower Leagues maybe. Cove Rangers? Nah, it’s a bit cold up there, thinking about it. Queens Park? That’s it, aye. The Southside’s dead nice, isn’t it? I could be at Liverpool in five years.
Once more the cry comes – “Here, big man! Gies our ball back!”
My opportunity continues to roll towards me. Time slows down, the entire world smells like grass and expectation. Roy of the Rovers, Jimmy Grimble, Santiago Munez from Goal! and Goal 2: Living the Dream – Your boys are about to take a hell of a beating. It’s me that is going to be Goal 2: Living the Dream today.
I begin my run up and shift my weight onto my standing foot, planting it next to the ball. My kicking foot cocked behind me, ready to swing into the sweetest of connections – the type that even the most seasoned midfielder dreams of. This is going to look so cool. In Billy Bragg’s A Lover Sings he writes “there is no real substitute for a ball struck squarely and firmly”. That feeling would be my prize. Me. The ball’s rolled to me. I’ve been chosen. The Big Man. It’s me. It’s fucking me!
I come to with the sound of laughter in the distance. My body feels cold against the hard, unforgiving ground. An old boy in a bunnet stands over me asking if I’m okay. He mutters something about a patch of ice, barely concealing his own laughter. There’s coffee all over me. The ball sits barely three feet in front of me, a monument to my groggy disappointment.
I wonder if I looked cool though.
Andrew Christie 