There’s Only One Danny Garvey
By David F. Ross
Today I am re-showing you an excerpt/extract from the book – There’s Only One Danny Garvey by David F. Ross. It may inspire you for an Easter Read. It’s great for not just sport, including football fans, but also for those looking for a bit of hope. The extract/excerpt, along with the blurb will give you a sense of what is within the book and may well whet your appetite for more…
I have read and reviewed a book by David F. Ross before and he’s a very good author.
Take a look at the blurb, an excerpt from the book and finally a bit about the Scottish author himself and praise for the book.
Danny Garvey was a sixteen-year old footballing prodigy. Professional clubs clamoured to sign him, and a glittering future beckoned.
And yet, his early promise remained unfulfilled, and Danny is back home in the tiny village of Barshaw to manage the struggling junior team he once played for. What’s more, he’s hiding a secret about a tragic night, thirteen years earlier, that changed the course of several lives. There’s only one Danny Garvey, they once chanted … and that’s the problem.
A story of irrational hopes and fevered dreams – of unstoppable passion and unflinching commitment in the face of defeat – There’s Only One Danny Garvey is, above all, an unforgettable tale about finding hope and redemption in the most unexpected of places.
—There hasn’t been a word out of him since he got up. Every question or remark I’ve made gets ignored. He’s always had these periods where he just retreats into himself. It’s like he’s in a trance; impossible to reach. I hope today isn’t another one of those times.
Thirteen seasons have passed, but I walk into this dilapidated place known to everyone as The Barn like I was returning to it after a disappointing two-week summer break. I’m anxious. Sweating. Not about the job – about the interview; the kind of social situation I dread. I wander down the narrow corridor. It hasn’t seen fresh paint since Higgy volunteered to decorate three months before I left. The carpets are new, strangely enough. Loud and headache-inducing, admittedly, but new.
I pass the office, a large cupboard rammed with everything from cleaners’ mops, detergent supplies and cans of petrol, to last season’s team strips, balls and training equipment. It smells like something has crawled in there and died. Months ago.
The changing rooms are exactly as I remember them. Cold, dark, windowless and stinking of a mix of stale body odour and Ralgex spray. The showers drip. The urinal trough is dented in the middle, leaving a puddle at the opposite end from the drain. And the light switch has gone on strike. I make a mental note to swap the home and away dressing rooms for next season. There’s not much to choose between them but I’d rather we benefitted from a working radiator when winter hits.
The season we got to the league cup final, a small army of volunteers materialised. The facilities were transformed. Amazing what a wee bit of spit, polish and elbow grease can achieve, they’d say proudly. A selfless backroom team, galvanised by the unfettered joy of an unexpected cup run.
Failure, on the other hand, is like a rot that sets into everything and everyone. A blanket of gloom descending on a whole community of desperate men. For this is a corner of community life that is almost exclusively male. A pervading depression descends. There’s too much invested. Too little self-control on the sidelines when that investment bears nothing. Fans arguing and fighting amongst themselves. As if the village didn’t have enough to contend with.
—I came in three hours ago. I hoovered the committee-room carpet, after spreading this powdery freshener stuff that I’d seen advertised. It smells like a bloody perfume counter. I dusted. I scrubbed. I laid out clean glasses and placed the chairs for the committee tight together, like a defensive wall facing a Beckham free kick. I put the heater on, to shift the chill that makes your fingers go blue. It’s a new season. New hope. I hope the interviewing panel notice.
Praise for There’s Only One Danny Garvey
‘Full of comedy, pathos & great tunes’ Hardeep Singh Kohli •
‘Warm, funny & evocative’ Chris Brookmyre •
‘Dark, hilarious & heartbreaking’ Muriel Gray • ‘An astonishing tour de force’ John Niven • ‘A real new talent on the Scottish literary scene’ Press & Journal • ‘By turn hilarious and heart-breaking, more than anything Ross creates beautifully rounded characters full of humanity and
perhaps most of all, hope’ Liam Rudden, Scotsman • ‘‘David Ross carved out an enduring place for himself among contemporary Scottish novelists’ Alastair Mabb, Herald Scotland • ‘This is a book that might just make you cry like nobody’s watching’ Iain MacLeod, Sunday Mail
About the Author
David F. Ross was born in Glasgow in 1964 and has lived in Kilmarnock for over 30 years. He is a graduate of the Mackintosh School of Architecture at Glasgow School of Art, an architect by day, and a hilarious social media commentator, author and enabler by night. His debut novel The Last Days of Disco was shortlisted for the Authors Club Best First Novel Award, and received exceptional critical acclaim, as did the other two books in the Disco Days Trilogy: The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespasand The Man Who Loved Islands. David lives in Ayrshire.