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Harmison: What are you doing here? Are you hurt? Santiago: No, no, no, no. I got great news. Harmison: What? Santiago: I made the reserve squad. Harmison: Oh, that's great. Santiago: I've only one week left on my trial. I mean, this game is make-or-break. If the boss sees me do well, he'll keep me on. Harmison: I'm sure he will. Man: Halt. Do you play for Newcastle? Santiago: Yeah. Man: Well, sign your name on that. Santiago: OK. Harmison: They'll all be asking for your autograph soon. You know. Santiago: Will that bother you? What is your problem with footballers? Harmison: I don't have a problem with football. It's fame I have a problem with. It's my dad's fault. He was in a rock band that got hot for five minutes. Santiago: No way. Would I know him? Harmison: I doubt it. I was only three. Anyway, the point is, some of the players remind me of him. One minute they're nice, uncomplicated guys and the next they're ridiculously rich arseholes who walk out on their families. Santiago: It was my mother who left mine. Coach: Sit down. Pay attention. The Dagger's hamstring seems be holding up, so we’re going to give him a half. Santiago, I want you on the right flank. Keep track the number eight. He's a slippery bugger. | 
