debt free – yars

Flowing red locks, a huge full red beard with intent blue eyes, Burke drank hard. We sat on stools in the dimly lit bar in Philadelphia bruised and battered by our common mistress rugby. The singing done, the tables danced upon and still four hundred miles from home we sat, innocent small town boy and ancient wild Irishman, companions on the pitch earlier and now with beer in comfortable silence.

The next round appeared, and and the bartender slammed down the long necked bottles of Stroh’s beer on the counter. They glistened cold and moist in the dim light, a hint of mist suspended above the openings so recently uncapped.

“Burke, do I owe you”, a young boy asks the grizzled man.

His hair is matted with blood and sweat and dirt. He turns slowly to facing me, that dim light shines out of his eyes like fire. His mouth is hard as fiery eyes glare down at me and he growls,
“A good man remembers his own debts.”

YARS ( Yet Another Rugby Story )

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