Hushed anticipation. He lined up the free-kick. This was it. His chance.
He pictured it in his mind. The flight the ball would take as it left his foot. The swerve and arc that would send it right into the top corner of the goal. The net billowing and straining to contain the power.
A deep breath. Settle. Then two walking paces, the a swing of his magic left foot. He felt the perfect connection as boot met ball. It flew threw the air just as he knew it would. The net billowed. He raised his arms and waited to hear the roar of the crowd.
‘Daa-aad!’ whined George. ‘You promised you wouldn’t hit it too hard. I’m only seven.’
The disgruntled boy retrieved the ball and rolled it back out.
‘Sorry, son. Got carried away.’ He pulled his t-shirt down over his expanding midriff. He had to accept those glory days were gone, but, he smiled to himself… he still had it.