The problem with running after a person in real life is situated in the latter part of the description. Real life. There’s no quick cuts, distorted guitar riffs or a montage of jumping over obstacles edited within it. It’s just a lot of heavy breathing, panting, a trickle of sweat, and the dawning realisation that you’ve probably gone a bit over the top. It wasn’t that I started chasing after the kid’s dad as a joke. To me, it was no laughing matter. And if I’d have caught up with him, I’d had all intentions of stoning him to death. Leaving a blooded puddle to marinate the astroturf. I couldn’t blame the other parents for assuming I’d acted out a bad joke by bursting into a sprint across the field with my hands raised. Neither could I pass judgement on my victim, for quickly gauging me mad and fleeing away as quick as possible. But irrelevant of anyone’s interpretations of my outburst, there was no getting around the fact that I tried, very hard, to assault an innocent member of the public who was spending his Sunday morning cheering on his only son in the first under 12’s football match of the season. Three weeks prior, my wife had had a rather heavy intervention with me, with hopes I retire my head coaching duties for the foreseeable. It was a bit of a blow, knowing she had doubts in my ability to remain calm in stressful situations. Sort of, patronising. As if she no longer had confidence in my professionalism. As I thrashed across the field with my arms looking like a Scooby-Doo monster, I found it difficult to argue my defence. I thought it best to have my story straight before I either caught the guy or stopped to catch my breath. Either for the sake of my therapist or the police report I’d inevitably have to fill out during questioning. I needed content. Examples. Reasons to explain how life had really hit me hard the past few months. How I lost my job due to workplace bullying and sarcastic replies to managers who talked down to me. My recent lack of patience towards micromanagement and bad attitudes in general. How I no longer wanted to be the guy who took shit from anyone. I know it sounds pretty unconvincing, but I really have tried everything. Yoga, changing my diet, meditation, stress balls. Anything and everything YouTube gurus suggest for halting irritant and occasionally aggressive thoughts. Ironically, joining a sports team was one of the first recommendations I’d received for reducing stress. Granted I was in a managing capacity, but all under the umbrella of a fun hobby. I often wonder if other sufferers of declining mental health worry that they haven’t really gotten anything wrong with them. I mean, to get diagnosed they very rarely perform any tests. Not real ones, anyway. I’d answered a few questions but there wasn’t an ounce of me in a doctor’s petri-dish. Maybe the connections in my brain were fine. Maybe the chemicals are released or created in the exact fashion evolution intended. Maybe I was just a bastard. It’s quite possible. Me being a bastard. I mean, sure… losing both of my parents in the space of six months, the job I’ve already mentioned, and other little niggles are bound to get on top of anyone, no matter how sane they start out. Years ago I used to think of life as a Pick-And-Mix. Where I could find the treats I liked and fill up my big bag with all of the positives without any of the negatives. It’s only now that I realise that every tub, no matter how delicious it seems at first taste, carries enough sugar to take a toe, and will in no uncertain terms, contribute to your death. I was a good half mile into the chase when I reached the verdict that I couldn’t use my mental health as an excuse for my actions. I don’t think it would be fair. More and more of the population are reaching new mental lows, and they’re not assaulting anyone. I couldn’t use my grief or job worry either. Not a jury in the world would cast sympathy on a middle-class white guy who drives a car with seat warmers and holidays in the south of France. And quite right, too. Nope… I was just going to have the face the facts I’d spent the entire chase submerging in my subconscious. That when a child’s football coach gets told from a fat, snobby parent how the formation is all wrong and to tell them to pass more, the possibility of tearing the arms away from said parent and arranging them in a satanic symbol across their body in front of both adults and children alike becomes the only intelligent option.