The football novel is dead. After careful discussion with Scottomatic in which all works of art are compared to the Big Lebowski, i.e.
“It sounds like what you have is the rug, but you don’t have the kidnapping and all the stuff that happens afterwards.”
It is true. All I had was the rug. And I have been embroidering a piss soaked rug for 3 years. Time to let it go.
I’ll keep writing little things until I get a new idea, hopefully one that includes a plot.