(… Continuation from part 2 of this tale…) George Woodcock had managed to cement in his place after those two matches. A lot of people were accusing the manager of being biased towards his son and picking him in the team. Maybe his father was, maybe he wasn’t; George would never know. But he finished
(….Continuation from part 1 of this tale….) The Chelsea Under-17s were facing the Watford Under-17s in a crucial FA Youth Cup quarter-final encounter. With the former trailing 1-0 at half-time, the manager pushed George Woodcock to a more advanced attacking role in order to put pressure on Watford’s strong defense. A lot of people were
He moved his head slowly from left to right. Then right to left. Right, left, right, left; he slowly repeated the motions smiling as he watched the glinting line shimmer across the lustrous surfaces. He loved the way the line sunk as it crossed over the letters that were etched into the silver surfaces of
In Guatemala there lives a small tribe of thirty-five, ranging from newborns to elders well into their seventies. They work together in harmony, in a wooded area behind the ruins of a huge pyramid erected centuries ago by the Aztecs, or the Incas, or the Mayans, I forgot which. It’s mightily impressive, whoever built it.