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(… Continuation from part 3 of this tale…)
“Why the hell are you playing football on that?!” he demanded. “Get the hell out of the house and play.”
Rob looked at him with an annoyed expression. “Okay, dad,” he said returning to his game.
“Didn’t you hear me?” George yelled approaching his son. “I told you to shut that stupid game!”
“I can’t do it now, dad. It’s an online game.”
“I don’t care,” he replied pouncing on his son and grabbing his controller. “Give that to me!”
Rob did not let go of the controller protesting his father to let go. George was finally able to pry it out his hand but in doing so hit his elbow right into his son’s face. Rob fell to the ground while covering his face with his hands. When he removed them, George saw that he had given him a black eye and a bleeding nose.
“MOM!” yelled his son. “MOM!”
Samantha rushed into the room and let out a gasp when she saw the scene. She ran up to her son. “What the hell?! How did this happen?” She knew the answer before Rob replied.
He pointed his finger at George. “Dad hit me.”
“It was an accident,” protested George. “The runt would not give me his controller.”
Samantha glared at her husband. “Enough is enough, George! You can’t act like this all the time with us. You’re ruining the kids.”
George glared back at her. He was too drunk to think rationally. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, Sam! This is my house. All of you ungrateful bastards are living on my money and my legacy.”
Samantha looked at him with her mouth agape. But George was not done yet. “You think anyone cares about how you look Samantha?!” he ranted. “You were only hot for a few years. Now you’re old and your whole body is full of plastic from surgery! Nobody cares about you. The only reason people know you is because of me. You were a nobody before you met me!”
Samantha had gone red with rage now. How dare he? Even their son looked at the whole scene in shock. Samantha let out a deep breath then shouted with the same intensity back at her husband. “Well, if that’s what you think then we’ll leave your fucking house! I’m taking the kids back to my mother’s. They can’t be safe in their own house thanks to you.”
“Yeah, fuck off,” replied George. “There’ll finally be some peace around this damned place.”
George was all over the news within the next few weeks but not for the reasons he wanted. The divorce between him and Samantha was trending with several news reporters stalking and hunting him down whenever he left the house. He didn’t need this shit. Several times he had had to control himself from clocking a reporter in the face.
Samantha won custody over both their children along with half of his wealth and child support payments. What a bitch! Waited for me to become rich and then took it all. But joke’s on her, I still got enough for myself and can easily make more.
For the first few weeks after his divorce, he invited over hookers inside his home and had loads of fun as he drank and fucked away his worries. But it was only a matter of time before their absence would hit them hard. Every morning, when he was hungover, he would search the house for them before he would realize they had left. The only people in the house were the maids and he would fire them for the smallest of things.
The steak is rare! I asked for medium-rare!
There’s still dust on this trophy! What do I pay you for?!
The tea is too hot!
It came to the point where even booze and women would not fill the void that his family had left behind. He wanted them to come back but he could never ask them to. His inflated ego would never allow it. He would rather die than beg for them to come back.
He still had their picture inside the trophy room, just a small picture frame that was insignificant in size to the huge frames that held portraits of teams, of him receiving awards, of smiling with other famous footballers. He missed them. He missed all this inside the room.
He could become the greatest manager in the world but would never be able to put his foot on the pitch as a player ever again. They would never sing his name like they did for him as a player. He still remembered his favorite chant of him.
He’s hard as a rock
Hide your wife and daughter
They’re in for a shock!
He won’t care if it’s a him or her
He’ll give them his fucking cock!
George Woodcock, George Woodcock!
He smiled at that chant. Even on the pitch he could not help smiling when he heard it. It was such a funny chant and he loved the supporters for making it up. He loved all the Chelsea fans but they would never sing his name like that ever again. He could not bear that. He just couldn’t.
George Woodcock lived off football. It was his oxygen. Was life even worth living if he could never play on the field again?
He added more scotch to the crystalline glass. He then grabbed a bottle of pills and emptied the whole thing into his palm. He shoved them into his mouth and emptied the whole glass with one big gulp.
George Woodcock was found dead in his mansion in a confirmed suicide attempt after a maid entered his room to give him his lunch. The whole footballing world mourned his death with news channels all over England and the world showing clips of his greatest footballing moments.
He was the best English striker to grace the game.
The footballing world has lost an important figure.
Legend Woodcock kills himself just two years after a legendary treble-winning season with Chelsea.
Even the club legends such as Drogba, Terry, Zola and Lampard paid respects to him hailing him as the best player to ever wear the Chelsea shirt.
His death led to Chelsea building a statue of him in front of the Stamford Bridge stadium as a tribute to him. He never got to see that wish of his granted.
George perhaps would have wanted his body to be buried in the football field of the Stamford Bridge stadium.
After all, it was where he belonged.
Written by Abdullah Riaz
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