By spring my priority list was carved into stone tablets: ball, tea, biscuits, oxygen. London contributed pigeons and weather; I contributed a four-year-old scouting department that operated from a pram like a mobile boardroom.
Mrs. Whitby took me on constitutional walks past embassies pretending to be palaces. I leaned forward, eyes hunting for the one thing that mattered: a game.
Found it—down a Belgravia mews where the cobbles remember secrets. Two jumpers for posts. Six kids. A leather ball with ambitions. I focused. The world went politely soft; three figures refused to fade—green sat on them like permission. Safe to join; worth the trouble.
"Stop," I told Whitby, pointing with the authority of a tiny admiral. "Football."
"Ten minutes," she said, lying with love.
I slid out of the pram and walked up to the edge of their chaos. The tallest boy, all knees and grin, looked me over like a scout with a sweet tooth.
"You're the little prince," he said—not hostile, just taking attendance.
"Sometimes the papers are from me," I said. "I can pass."
He barked a laugh. "Name's Alan Hudson. Me mum says I've got too much ball and not enough homework."
That tracked. I'd seen his name in another life—Chelsea would one day call him artist. For now, he was eight, wearing scuffed lace-ups and the expression of a boy who'd nutmeg a priest.
"Right then," Hudson said, dropping the ball. "In you get."
We started. First touch, head up, give it back—the only test that matters. I pinged it back with the instep, small angle, right weight. Green sat on Hudson and on a wiry kid with a Windsor accent who moved like a horse pretending to be human.
"I'm Peter," he said, shy and taller than he meant to be.
"Osgood?" I asked, the past life rustling under my ribs.
He shrugged, sheepish. "Sometimes."
Of course he was. The mews had no idea it was hosting The Wizard of Os in primary-school edition.
A third kid, quick feet and quicker eyebrows, arrived late with a harmonica in his pocket and hair that wanted to argue with teachers. "I'm Rod," he said, north London vowels hitching a ride. "I can play left or right or not at all if there's a piano."
"Left today," Hudson ordered magnanimously. "He"—he jerked a thumb at me—"says he can pass."
Rod grinned. "We'll find out."
We did. Hudson hit me with a wall pass; I returned it like a gift. Osgood skated into the pocket no one else saw; I slid it where the ball wanted to be; he toe-poked through a jumper post with a blush of pride. Rod, who had started on the wing and wandered into playmaking because some people are born to wander, gave me a look that said yes, fine, you can play and then tried to nutmeg the world.
They were older—Hudson eight, Osgood twelve, Rod thirteen-ish and allergic to homework—but the mews didn't care about birth certificates. It cared about triangles and laughter. We played first to five by ones; finishers took next kickoff; nutmegs earned applause, not lawsuits.
> Life-Impact: +0.1
seeded structured play (mews)
FP: 72.4 → 73.6
A shadow leaned in at the far end—flat cap, curious eyes, coat like a winter sermon. He watched a full minute, smiling while pretending not to. When Osgood scored a second with that awkward grace he'd wear like a crown one day, the man tipped his cap and moved on. I didn't need the Eye to know a Moore when I saw one, even if Bobby had only stopped to enjoy a good argument between feet and cobbles.
"Tomorrow?" Rod asked, breathless, harmonica already back in his pocket like a secret.
"Yes," I said. "Bring better jumpers."
"My jumpers are art," Hudson protested.
"They're lies," Rod replied. "Different discipline."
---
We turned it into a week. Morning: tea, letters, ladders. Afternoon: Mews League. I did the coach work without calling it coaching, because nothing kills a street game faster than adult nouns.
Two-touch rounds (kept Rod honest; enraged him productively).
Opposite Day (left foot only; Osgood sulked, improved).
Scanning game (I shouted "red!" and they had to call which door was red before receiving).
Rondos branded Keep Away From Whitby's Hat (she wore the hat into the circle and defended like a queen; Hudson learned humility).
Rod busked an outro between sets on his harmonica; Osgood grew into his knees; Hudson passed like he'd been whispered the answers by angels with scuffed boots.
> FP: 73.6 → 74.9
local mums christened The Hat Rondo; a letter to the Times mentioned "civilization returning to the lanes"
On day three, Hiroshi arrived with oranges and logistics. He sat on the wall, watched us build space with little passes, and clapped once when we made a triangle so clean the air tasted new. He didn't clap for me. He clapped for the idea. That's how you raise a child who wants to be a legend without turning him into a firework.
---
Even careful men have uncareful friends. One, with the voice of a confident bookshelf, swore he knew "an ex-professional" who could turn a promising child into a nation's problem. "Played in Italy," the friend said. "Or Ipswich. Same vibe."
A week later a man arrived in a tracksuit that had never met sweat. He shook hands like a salesman and called me "little champ." I focused. The room went soft. He didn't glow. No green, no potential. Not a danger—just nothing.
"Where'd you play?" I asked.
"Abroad," he said, smiling like a passport.
"Which club?"
"Many clubs."
"Demonstrate?" Hiroshi asked pleasantly, which is diplomat for this will be fun.
Our guest toe-poked at cones like he was trying to assassinate a garden gnome. Ankles wobbled. Knees filed grievances. A cone survived.
"I prefer the mews," I said, polite as pastry.
Hiroshi bowed a thank-you/dismissal hybrid. "We won't require your services."
My mother smiled the way film rights smile. "I learned to dance from a man who danced," she said. "Football will be the same."
He left offended at the lack of explosions.
> Life-Impact: +0.1 (avoided bad input)
FP: 74.9 → 75.6
Note (system): filtering > faking acceleration
We celebrated with Two-Goal Mayhem. Osgood invented an accidental Cruyff turn and refused to admit it. Hudson discovered that scanning before receiving makes you look like a prophet. Rod attempted a back-heel that could have opened the Channel Tunnel if he'd connected.
That night I opened [SHOP] like a sinner checking church hours. Soccer 101 still smirked at 500 FP. I closed it before I bought Cry On Cue (Dramatic) out of spite. The System wrote patience on my forehead and pretended it hadn't.
---
The mews spilled into the park. Our circle grew incorrectly but beautifully: Trevor Brooking (nine, polite, moved like a sentence that knows where it's going) showed up visiting cousins and asked if he could "have a little kick." He made the ball behave like a well-brought-up guest. Alan Hudson taught him rudeness. It took.
A Saturday, a chalked grid, a dozen kids. Mr. Doyle refereed with the leniency of a man who remembers childhood correctly. My mother brought orange slices like sacraments. Rod announced he could play goalkeeper or frontman; we told him to pick one at a time. Osgood hung on the shoulder of the last man and learned to smile while pretending not to.
> Life-Impact: +0.3
structured, inclusive play normalized; two kids diverted from no ball at home to boots on layaway
FP: 75.6 → 79.2
Hiroshi moved a shoe-shop ledger from unpaid to paid without saying a word. Whitby founded a Boot Bank in the broom cupboard next to justice.
A scout wandered by, coat large, pen loaded. He watched three minutes and started writing our futures. Mr. Doyle confiscated his business cards with priestly calm. "They're not six," he said.
"Talent has windows," the scout protested.
"So do houses," my mother said. "We don't throw rocks at either."
He left hat in hand. We put his cards in the Boot Bank under Fuel.
---
By late summer I was running my little empire like a benevolent tyrant. We added roles to rondos: the player who lost the ball became Protector of Whitby's Hat and was hunted until redeemed. We added gates for lanes and no-look pass bingo for comedy. We added jog-back races because sprinting forward means nothing if you won't return.
Somewhere between lemonade sips the Eye ticked up:
> Recruitment Eye: Lv.3
faster focus in motion; faint "who's open" hint; green only; no auto-alerts
Useful. Not noisy. It would never tell me why a pass was right; it just refused to let the right shirt fade. Seasoning, not prophecy.
> FP: 79.2 → 82.0
column coined Little Prince's Triangles; I lodged a formal objection and was ignored
Hiroshi gave a talk on youth play as civic glue at a society that collects speeches like stamps. He didn't mention the mews. He didn't have to. A councilwoman with a vote nodded at exactly the right moments. The Eye held her in quiet green. Two months later our chalk league got official hours and a shed that pretended to be a clubhouse and, crucially, a kettle.
> Life-Impact: +0.4 (cumulative +0.9 this chapter)
public access codified; shed exists; shed has tea
FP: 82.0 → 86.7
Tea is governance.
---
October brought wind and a subtle test: a proper academy taster with Mrs. Kerr, a coach whose voice is a whistle and whose eyes select character before pace. I focused on the invite; the day itself refused to fade. Green.
We went. She ran games, not drills; kept parents behind a rope; praised bravery only when it cost something. She watched off-ball movement first. I fell a little in love and gave her my best two-touch, three-look sequence like a bouquet.
"Saturday mornings, sometimes," she said. Not a pitch—an invitation.
"Sometimes," I agreed. "I have a league in a shed."
She smiled. "I like sheds."
Mr. Doyle shook her hand like a handshake deserved respect again.
> FP: 86.7 → 88.1
quiet competence ripple; no headlines, on purpose
---
Winter returned wearing mud. Boots lined up by the fire like defendants; Rod tried to tune a puddle. Osgood grew into a new degree of balance that made defenders suspicious. Hudson's passing acquired punctuation. Brooking sent a postcard that read "Found Space. Wish You Were Here."
I opened [SHOP] at night and stared at Soccer 101 until it blushed. The System filed my restraint under Sane and tried to delete Virus T from my Recently Viewed out of shame.
My plan sharpened:
Street joy daily (mews/park).
Mrs. Kerr's sessions sometimes (play first).
Mr. Doyle notebooks always (triangles, space, tea).
Sleep protected like a treaty.
Press given nothing but incorrect hat opinions.
FP hoarded like a dragon saving for boots that kick gods.
My mother rehearsed for a show; I used the corridor as a dribble tunnel; Hiroshi measured rest like a coach, bedtime like a lawyer. Whitby invented Orange Slice Logistics, which solved most world problems I care about.
> FP: 88.1 → 92.4
source: charity concert glow; Little Prince sighted dribbling backstage (anonymous source: Whitby's hat)
---
On the last Saturday of the year, our chalk league held a Silly Cup. Teams were mixed by height and whether you could pronounce triangle without giggling. Mrs. Kerr refereed with delight; Mr. Doyle performed stoicism and failed; my mother issued biscuits like medals; Hiroshi ran the far touchline like logistics in trousers.
We played a final where no one kept score and everyone knew. Osgood pirouetted into a finish that promised the future. Hudson split a defense that hadn't realized it was a defense. Rod attempted a rabona and invented modern dance. I hit a pass that bent because I'd spent a year practicing boring things with joy.
When it ended, the shed kettle sang. We toasted with tea. We sang a nonsense anthem that rhymed boots with utes because children are poets when adults are tired.
The System cleared its dry throat and tried not to be proud.
[Street-to-Pitch Summary]
FP: 72.4 → 92.9
Life-Impact: +1.0 (mews → park → permit; fake pro filtered; boots banked)
Eye: Lv.3 (faster focus, faint context, green only)
Stats: STR 0.63 → 0.78 · DEX 0.48 → 0.66 · CON 0.70 → 0.84 · INT 1.00 (skull-limited, ongoing outrage) · WIS 0.61 → 0.68 · CHA: export-controlled + cleats
Titles:
— Street Quartermaster (organizes games; +5% turnout if biscuits present)
— Triangles Ambassador (bad passes forgiven if the idea was right)
We walked home across the lawn. The ball thumped between my shoes like a heartbeat. I focused once—habit, prayer. The world softened. My people stayed. The ball stayed. The year stayed: ridiculous, correct, green.
"Tomorrow," Rod said, harmonica already singing, "we meg the milkman."
"Tomorrow," Hudson said, "we pass first."
"Tomorrow," Osgood said, quietly, "we try the thing again."
"Tomorrow," I said, "no hats."
And somewhere in the shop window, Soccer 101 pretended not to be impressed and absolutely was.