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Two legs are better than one
"PASS RUN SHOOT,
PASS RUN SHOOT" was the gagging sound of the pretty ugly manager as his yellow
shimmering spit bounced across the changing room.
"Lads,
I need ya to get the game in the bag...
smash it.
If you can't cut the mustard then you'll get no custard."
His enthusiasm was like watching ants die.
His inadequate 'motivation' was clearly misunderstood.
His cylindrical coarse finger pointed at us as he continued barking.
"I wanna go home with a smile on my face...
and, I want you too."
His sermon failed miserably.
The manager was a four foot dwarf who wore a ripped
charcoal cap
which exposed his shaggy unkempt hair.
He had splintered freckles and baggy eyes which looked like fat Weetabix
biscuits.
His weather beaten face looked rugged and ancient.
Snot and sweat appeared from the left side of his jagged nose.
His ear lobe was pierced with cheap
jewellery.
His chin was densely populated with warts and blisters as if it was holiday
to pathogens.
He wore a navy coat which clung onto him like a virus.
His serpentine zip
was a meandering path which ran along his coat.
The irregular pattern bewildered me as it was designed in a spiral like
black hole which sucked the light from my eyes.
His antique sepia watch followed the order of movements his wrists made.
His chestnut trousers looked
like the twisted ladder of DNA as his greasy genes picked up dust as he
moved along the room in a spiral like form.
Adjacent to him,
as always,
was his cone shaped
dog that had the habit of licking his fuzzy ear every ten seconds.
The dog was like his owner;
stubborn as mules.
Twelve tired players were frozen like statues as the manager kept yapping on.
PICK UP YOUR EARS LADS.
I want ya ta cut to the chase and keep ya chin up.
New kid on the block must play perfect.
You pull the plug and I'll pull your head off."
His ungrammatical sentence turned into a serious joke.
He pointed at my innocent face as I kangarooed from the bench like a knee-jerk
reaction.
The changing rooms roared at me as the echo sailed across the pentagonal
room.
The smell of odour emerging from the cheesy feet of my team mates made me
imitate a grotesque vomit which cheered up the lads.
The oily taste of 99% pure British chips visited my
brain as I salivated immaturely.
The pungent smell of leather emerging from the chairman's seat erected the
roots of my walnut hair as if an electric current was passed through it.
Eventually the time came to depart from the fetid room.
Goosebumps came to visit my helpless hair.
I could smell the hotdogs as they drifted away in the darkness.
I see the spherical stadium with its concave architecture.
The
lampposts shone their fluorescent green lights as the moon moved in an
elliptical orbit around the stadium.
The avocado green gritty grass,
with its metallic look,
forced me shivering like I was in the Antarctic.
My pale red cheeks imploded thrusting a spec of saliva towards the ground.
The 9000 square metres of prison anchored my body as I walked
across as slow as a snail.
The thunderous cawing sound of the crowd was full of chatter and violent
swears.
The crackling of drunken women and the bawling of sober men soared amongst us.
Clenched fists and turquoise flags were waving forwards and
backwards as the out of tune songs were shouted as if a million monkeys were
cawing in a jungle.
The barking of women shouting at their children made my lips u-shaped
and my cheeks contract.
The streamlined cars zoomed past me as the air pushed against my runny nose.
The chants and clattering of the crowd made me go down like a lead balloon.
It was raining cats and dogs,
I felt under the weather.
"3 nil plonker!"
The opposing captain, proud as a peacock,
accurately estimated the score as he buzzed past me like a bee,
whistling like a bird with cancer.
The rain soaked his head forcing him to penetrate his silky fingers in his moist
hair.
He turned his back at me laughing like a hyena.
"Hold your horses you lanky overgrown caveman" was the offensive response I
gave as I laughed vigorously like a hyena.
"Let's see you talk with your feet
in the game".
A cautious but deadly approach made me look foolish and embarrassed
I needed to make him taste his own medicine.
"Come on lads, find your feet.
Mibbs, you're not playing with a full deck."
The muddy manager cried with all his might as he cupped his hands on his cheeks.
Demotivation flipped me out,
grieved me as I swore under my tangy breath.
I felt nervous and jittered as I frantically chased the ball.
A figure jockeyed towards me and locked his creepy eyes at mine.
He was a round shaped man whose shoulders supported his face.
His eyes were so bloodshot as if it was on fire.
His brows were in the shape of lightning bolts
and his nose looked like a crooked Pinocchio.
He was as agile as a monkey.
His bushy hair looked homemade from second-hand wire which covered his evil right eye.
This gave his hair the appearance that it was carefully woven and imported from
a third world country which sent a confusing unknown message.
The man's teeth were in the shape of ice cream cones and his tongue looked
like a rugged ancient carpet.
He was as hard as nails and as big as a bear.
The ball cycled by me as I bolted towards the goal.
A dashing cheetah was going to light
light the stadium on fire.
I aimed to sprint past the creature and into the wanted penalty zone.
The terrain of the jungle made me apprehensive but I continued my aim.
Within a flash I sprung to the sky as the trapezoid tree trunk disrupted the momentum.
The creature forced its leg in my quadriceps resulting into an unintended somersault.
I could feel the tendons being ripped apart,
my ligaments,
dry as bone, snapped as the cartilage failed to prevent my bones from grinding.
My heart was heavily beating;
it was on a trampoline jumping out of my torso.
An earthquake was happening in my mouth.
Friction between my teeth was intense.
I tried to scream but nothing came out of my throat;
volume was denatured.
My face was as pale as death.
The living dead were beneath me.
Death was around the corner,
waiting to greet me.
The noisy silence deafened me as I rubbed my eyes in an elliptical motion.
The feeling of 50000 people,
watching you fall was utterly disgraceful.
The smell of alkali from the antibiotic rose from the nozzle which was sprayed on my knee.
"Pull him out,
the squealing one."
The manager exclaimed showing no signs of empathy and feeling.
"Son, you're gonna fight your way to victory whatever the weather.
Pull ya socks up
and be a man.
They've ran out of steam.
Now's your time ta show um what ya made uv.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Its nat aboot getting knocked out, its aboot getting bak up.
Break a leg son.
All ya need to do is score;
it's as easy as ABC".
The spontaneous words of encouragement made me determined to win the final.
I was as brave as a lion;
I couldn't let this injury affect me
I couldn't let this injury affect me
I roared with all my might,
letting know everyone that I will score.
I steadily walked back into the
dungeon of doom that I had once feared.
My hair was being blown by the high pressure of the wind pressing against my face.
My eyes were wide open as I scanned the area.
I could feel victory running down my veins.
My crusty lips tasted the breeze of the howling wind.
I felt like a superhero;
the glamorous girls who were cheerleading flattered at me as some
invisible force flung my hair like an elastic band.
Time was ticking.
Only one minute of extra-time remained.
This was the time and place
in which the improbable must arrive.
The hexagon-painted ball flew ten yards past
the last defender and landed
comfortably into the side of my right foot.
The crowd were silenced.
The bird on the top of the stadium stopped singing its melodious tune.
The grazed grass erected,
trying to keep me as slow as a sloth.
The motionless goalkeeper stood on the bright white line and stared at my wide eyes.
The tension was building up;
I tried to be as cool as a cucumber.
My heart was heavily beating.
It was on a trampoline,
springing away from my torso.
The sweat from my dishevelled hair dripped
down to the bottom of my lip.
The taste of the salt remained on the tip of my tongue.
I aimed towards the top left corner,
looking for the unorthodox theory of hits and hope.
I positioned my right leg facing towards the ground and fired the ball like a cannon...
a loose cannon. I slipped.
My blushing face was as red as a tomato.
My mustard eyes dilated.
As I plunged to the earthly ground I could smell the
repellent patch of grass diffuse in me.
The deafening silence immobilised my body.
The blinding illumination blurred my eyes.
My heart skipped a beat...
Ten figures bolted towards me like elephants on a stampede.
The fired attempt was as straight as an arrow as it rammed into the back of the net.
I was floating a couple of metres above the ground.
The glorious goal made me energetic,
elated and excited as I positioned my right thumb on the tip of my nose and
wiggled my fingers in front of the defeated,
outraged opposition.
Overwhelmed,
on top of the world;
I zoomed into the crowed and flew on top of them.
Yesterday was the best
day of my life.
Fancy sparkling fireworks sailed into the air as I saw them fly past the shining stars.
The pride I felt exceeded the feeling of when I watched England crowned
as world champions of 1966.
The beautiful sensation lifted in the air.
2-1 final result!