Alex sat at the kitchen table. It was a Tuesday morning in North London. It was raining.
On the table, sitting on a placemat usually reserved for hot pots, was the World Cup trophy.
It was the replica, of course. The real one was in a vault somewhere in Switzerland. But this one was heavy, gold, and shiny.
Alex was eating cornflakes.
"Do not drop milk on the trophy, Alex," his mum said, pouring tea. "It is very hard to clean gold."
"I am careful, mum," Alex said.
His dad walked in. He was wearing his bathrobe. He stopped. He looked at the trophy. He looked at Alex. He shook his head.
"It is still there," his dad whispered. "I thought I dreamt it."
"It is real, dad," Alex smiled.
"You are a World Champion," his dad said, sitting down. "You are eighteen years old. You have completed football. What are you going to do today?"
Alex swallowed a spoonful of cereal.
"I have to take the bins out," Alex said. "It is Tuesday."
