Hardcore

Every Monday night I limp home, muscles stretched and shredded nearly beyond repair. The soon-to-be-wife wrenches her eyes away from the television momentarily to cast a sympathetic glance.

"That was a long game," she might say. "Sit down, I made you rice crispy buns."

It's really very precious. Most women, I'm led to believe, would be far less accomodating. Perhaps it's a trap. Once the papers are signed on August 1 the transformation will occur.

"Football?? The garden centre is open late tonight and then it's down to Woodies. You've got plenty of shovelling to do and the tulips have to be down by 10.32pm on the third quarter moon of the year or else they'll come up all purple and crooked."

Somehow, though, I don't think so. After all, she sat with me through two Champions League semi-finals last week - and that was after she accompanied me to Old Trafford for the Porto match in the previous round. That checked one item on her to-do list. Another is to visit the Nou Camp for a Barca game.

And she didn't dump me when I produced a Shamrock Rovers season ticket as a Valentine's Day present!

So this evening I dashed home from work, as I do every Monday, changed into more suitable attire and headed off to Dunshaughlin for a game of five-a-side.

As per usual I returned home with a littany of injuries to accompany the muscular strains that come with age. This time it was a strained ankle, a bruised hand that was rattled by the world's most powerful shot ever, a strange twinge in the groin and a dodgy left knee.

But I'll be back out on the pitch on Wednesday morning - this time in Tallaght with a group of lads in work. And so help me I'll be ready for next Monday's installment.

Cause I'm hardcore.