End of Season

SATURDAY. Early spring. One last beer and you're on your way. Outside, you stand for a moment on the footpath. The late afternoon sky's a deep blue and the air still has a wintry edge. You stretch, breathe deep. You're vaguely aware, as you always are at this time of year, of the smell of the new season. You can never identify any particular source, but it's as familiar to you as that of your own body. Traces of a thousand days -- a lifetime spent in this one place -- filter in with every breath. That's how you'd like to remember that day: as just one of many identical days, as a day that can be recalled only momentarily in a whiff of spring air. As one of those many days (most days, almost a lifetime of days) that seem to disappear, to evaporate as you exhale. SATURDAY. End of football season -- early spring. You've coached the town team to victory this year -- haven't had to buy a drink all afternoon. One last beer and you're on your way. Outside, you stand for a moment on the footpath. The late afternoon sky's a deep blue and the air still has a wintry edge. You stretch, breathe deep. You're vaguely aware, as you always are at this time of year, of the smell of the new season. You can never identify any particular source -- cut grass, blossom, ripening fruit, petrol, burning timber, livestock -- but it's as familiar to you as that of your own body. Traces of ten thousand days -- a lifetime spent in this one place -- filter in with every breath. You saunter over to the park, hands in pockets. You're looking forward to the walk home in the cool: you know from past experience that it'll clear your head; that you'll be able to stay awake for dinner tonight, some telly, maybe even a bit of ... Aaah -- but you've a bellyful all right. You feel good -- the end of the week, the beer, the off-hand admiration of your mates. You feel confident, strong, in control. You know who you are, what you want, where you're going. A man in his prime. And you're content. Content. You wave casually to some guy who's leaving as you enter -- an O'Brien, you think, from out of town. You greet him easily, the way you'd greet anyone, but he hurries past, head down, without acknowledging you. Shit on his liver. Not your problem.