Eric Cartwright signed a few autographs on his way onto the pitch. Everyone wanted his scrawled name on a flier: young, old, male, female. That was the beauty of being a footballer: the women wanted you, the men wanted to be you, everyone loved you.
Eric ran onto the pitch and waves to his adoring crowd. They were all here to see him, he knew. Oh, sure there would be 21 other players on the pitch once the cup final kicked off, but he was the star, he was the one that would bring United the cup! He could do it all alone, no one could steal his thunder now!
The game kicked off, the opponents sat back in defense, scared, but determined, denying him all access to the goalmouth. Eric's superior strength and skill at controlling the game gave the opponents no chance, even when his own incompetent defense almost messed it up, he was there to clean up.
Half-time passed and still the game was in goalless deadlock. Then: a fumbled throw, a mishit clearance, the ball hung in the air, the crowd gasped. Eric saw his opening, the goalie was off his line, just a few yards dash and he could head it into the back of the net.
One stride, two strides, and leap!
But Eric never made contact with the ball. Instead there was just blackness...
