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asked him for an autograph for little Derek, but neither of us had any paper or a pen. So then we just talked a bit. About the clothes in Royce’s window. He seemed lonely. After all, it’s a long way from the west of Ireland. And then, just as he was going, he said, if I would care to meet him next week he would give me an autograph then. Of course, I said I would.” “As if he’d ever show up.” “You do believe me now, don’t you?” He dragged his jacket, which was shiny and shapeless, from the back of the chair and pushed his arms into it. She wished he paid more attention to his appearance. Wished he cared more about clothes. He was tall with a strong dark face. Handsome, she thought. “It’s the unlikeliest thing I ever heard,” he said. * * * On Saturday they made their weekly pilgrimage to watch United. Sophie and her father and little Derek went down near the goal — Geoff, as always, went with his mates higher up. United won two-nil and Casey drove in the second goal, a blend of innocence and Irish genius, going round the two big defenders on the edge of the penalty area, with her father screaming for him to pass, and beating the hesitant goalkeeper from a dozen yards. Sophie glowed with pride. Afterwards Geoff was ecstatic. “I wish he was an Englishman,” someone said on the bus. “Ireland’ll win the World Cup,” little Derek told his mother when Sophie brought him home. Her father was gone to the pub to celebrate. “What’s this you’ve been telling?” Jansie said, next week. “About what?” “Your Geoff told our Frank you met Danny Casey.” This wasn’t an inquisition, just Jansie being nosey. But Sophie was startled. “Oh, that.” Jansie frowned, sensing she was covering. “Yes — that.” “Well-yes, I did.” 80/Flamingo Reprint 2026-27