The prickle at Tierney's neck receded and these drab confines folded around him like an Oxford greatcoat. He wondered briefly if he was unconsciously sending the death threats to himself, to pepper the monotony. Smith, Morris and Pucill - the penalty kings all - drove their kicks home and, as usual stepping up to the spot he felt the old burn in his stomach, but either the layers of hide which had accumulated on his body or the lack of external stimuli had cancelled its significance. He delved for the recognition of that magic but it wouldn't come. Not that it would help his cause. If anything, rekindling the glory of his life - the beautiful game - would only send him deeper into a funk. Better to carry the dead baby inside him. Better to - ....