This sporting life : a novel / David Storey
| dc.contributor | Gilliver, Peter Oxford Dictionaries Oxford University Press Oxford |
| dc.contributor.author | Storey, David, 1933- |
| dc.coverage.placeName | London |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-21T15:54:00Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T15:54:00Z |
| dc.date.created | 1960 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0072 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0072 |
| dc.description.abstract | Resource deposited with the Oxford Text Archive. |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 459 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Legacy Collection |
| dc.rights | Use of this resource is restricted in some manner. Usually this means that it is available for non-commercial use only with prior permission of the depositor and on condition that this header is included in its entirety with any copy distributed. |
| dc.rights.uri | https://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/licence-ota |
| dc.rights.label | ACA |
| dc.subject.lcsh | English fiction -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Novels |
| dc.title | This sporting life : a novel / David Storey |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 469283 |
| files.count | 1 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
Files for this item
- Name
- storey-0072.txt
- Size
- 458.28 KB
- Format
- Text file
- Description
- Version of the work in plain text format
<D 1960>[First pub. Longmans,this ed. Allen Lane 5th imp.1974] <A D. STOREY> <T This Sporting Life> <S I> <C i> <P 1> I had my head to Mellor's backside, waiting for the ball to come between his legs. @He was too slow. I was moving away when the leather shot back into my hands and, before I could pass, a shoulder came up to my jaw. It rammed my teeth together wih a force that stunned me to blackness. @The first thing I see is Mellor's vaguely apologetic face alongside that of Dai -- the trainer -- who's bending down with the sponge, whipping water at me. @"Come off for a bit,' he says. "You've cut your mouth.' @I stand up with his hands knotted in my armpits. I call Mellor a few things; the players watch unconcernedly, re+ lieved at the interlude. I walk off with Dai shoving an ammonia phial up my nose. @I sit on the bench till he's finished shouting some advice on to the field, then he presses his fingers round my mouth and his thumbs roll back my lips. "Christ, man,' he says. "You've . . .
