The following story was written by Gerry Galvin (Co. Galway, Ireland), known as the first gourmet chef of Ireland. After retiring from his career as a restaurateur and author of cookbooks, Gerry has focused his creative energy on writing poetry and fiction.
I’ve been in athletics a long time. Athletes in our family for generations. My old man sprinted, made the national relay team. Won a bronze at Oslo in the fifties. I had promise until the car smash – two fibulas fractured.
We’re not quitters. I went back to the track, trained as an official starter. Ran for public office too. Politics is long-distance stuff. Marathon. Kept at it, up the ladder to mayor. The new stadium was my baby. Gave it everything even my name: Bobby’s Bowl. Made enemies, told necessary lies, paid off a few guys. They played “My Way” for me at the opening.
And now, what? This new mayor, friend of the environment but no friend of mine, what’s he up to? Rezoning. He’s full of it.
“Bobby’s Bowl is a blight on the city, move it to a green field site.”
He refuses to see me, take my calls. He can’t do this and get away with it.
Next Sunday’s the last track event at Bobby’s Bowl. He’ll be there lording it with his lackeys on the podium. I’ll be at the starting line. Haven’t missed a meet in ten years. You’ll know me. I’m the guy with the straw hat and white, short-sleeved shirt. It says “Official” in gold on the breast pocket. I keep the gun in an old Wild West holster, belted round the waist. Even close up it looks real. If you start something, finish it.