Derryl Flynn
Fast approaching forty, life’s experiences haven’t mellowed
Terry Gallagher any; angry and disillusioned; sickened by the mindless violence
all around him and trying to come to terms with his own thuggish past, a legacy
of life on the Broughton estates, he decides to make good. Here is a story of
one man and his unwilling buddy who form a football team and strive to bring
colour and self-esteem into the lives of a rag bag bunch of thirteen year old
scallies.
On a forgotten piece of waste ground the lads shape their
adopted home. With stolen scaffolding for goalposts and a twenty-four hour
pitch surveillance protection programme patrolled through the telescopic sight
of a .22 air rifle, this bunch of dead end kids begin their footballing
adventure. From an inauspicious start in the local Junior District Football
League to potential glory in the prestigious County Cup, for Terry Gallagher
and West Broughton Albion, the season unfolds amidst a backdrop of manic
depression, squalor, depravity, heroin addiction, yardies, guns and death;
where a web of bizarre and tragic circumstances transpire to push the mental
state of this reluctant philanthropist to the limit and ultimately tip him over
the edge.
Derryl
Flynn lives in Bradford in England. The
seeds to this story were planted during Derryl’s five-year stint as a football
coach/manager in the Bradford area and in district junior leagues. Derryl has studied Film,
Theatre and Television at Bradford Art College and worked in the soft
furnishings trade for the last twenty years. He is currently working on his
next novel entitled Scrapyard Blues which is about a young musician imprisoned for life for a
murder he didn’t commit.
"A kaleidoscope of colour
they weren’t. The array of kit and club colours on display, although varied,
certainly wasn’t up to date. Some were sporting tops faded and baggy like
they’d been boil-washed a million times. Others in gear that was either so
tight it was obviously a Christmas present from days of yore, or so big it had
been purloined from an older brother’s wardrobe. Others weren’t in what you
could describe kit at all and even a couple of kids had turned up in school
uniform. The footwear was even less impressive, and Terry’s heart sank a little
as he looked at what some of these kids had to walk around in. For some, what
they had on their feet now was all they possessed, be it a shoe, a trainer or a
boot. Those who wore Nike’s or Addidas gave themselves away as being skilled
shoplifters rather than affluent.
This bunch of lads looked
as grey and depressing as the background from which they came. Terry knew his
job was to bring a bit of colour into their lives. He was under no illusions.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He looked around this scruffy little bunch of
oiks, who despite their raggedness seemed keen enough. No, he thought to
himself, it wasn’t going to be easy, but it all starts here."
