Reader’s shortstory
Football. It was his passion. But with little hope of ever playing professionally, he could dream, couldn’t he? As the middle child of five, born to a poor family, dreams were all he had.
Overlooked among his siblings, he was not the tall, handsome, eldest brother now out at work and bringing money into the house, and not the youngest sister, a pretty blonde baby girl that his father doted on.
His birthday was overlooked too as he was born two days before Christmas.
But this year had been different when an aunt had dropped in on his birthday and presented him with a real, regulation-size leather football.
They lived in an area around his father’s place of work. Small back-to-back terraced houses, built for the workers in the heavy industry of steam engines and rolling stock. Open green spaces were rare, but he desperately wanted to kick his ball about. Wandering the back alleys around his home, he came upon the side of a neighbour’s house. Just like his house, it was a squat, red-brick building with a tall chimney at the top.
There was no one around and it was a quiet Sunday afternoon, there would be no harm in it, surely? He backed up, eyeing the middle bricks, which were a darker colour than those around them. He dropped the ball and kicked.
Bam! On target first time, the ball bounced back to his feet. Bam! And again the ball was on target for the second time. Bam! Every time he kicked out he got that heavy leather ball right on those two middle bricks.
Nothing could stop him now, he ran around the defence opposition, dribbling the ball. He passed it back and his midfielder lobbed it back at him, landing just in front of his powerful right foot.
Bam! Goal! The winning goal in the FA Cup final has just been scored! The crowds rise to their feet shouting, cheering, whistling and clapping. In the front row, the boy sees his mother and father waving their club scarves and smiling broadly. He’d done it, they had noticed him, they were proud of him.
“Oi!” A loud angry voice broke his reverie. “What do you think you’re doing? Kicking that ball against my wall, you’ve woken the baby, now clear off or I’ll tell your parents!”
If you’d like to submit a short story (up to 500 words) and see it published, email siobhan. mcnally@ mirror.co.uk