Feeney emerged from the changing sheds just before seven. A man of modest proportions whose ginger hair was in the final throes of a grudging retreat from the top of his head, and a hasty redeployment to the front of his face, Feeney knew that this night could be his night. His eyes scanned the park as he stepped onto the grass. He walked quickly, light on his feet, like a recently-retired River Dancer. He nodded and came across for a chat.