Twenty-two

Behind the door, a whistle across the night. We are off. We think of fields back home, foreign fields. Warmer. Greener. We run forward. Eyes on the prize, boys. We trip, we dive; we cry out for each other while the whistles scream overhead.

Behind the door, a whistle across the night. They are off. They think of fields back home, foreign fields. Warmer. Greener. They run forward. Eyes on the prize, boys. They trip, they dive; they cry out to each other while the whistle screams overhead. Afterwards, they ask each other who brought the ball, but no-one knows.

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