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I had been persuading my parents for years to let me go. You see, spurs had approached me three times for trials, all of which my mum and dad had said I couldn’t go. Every time I felt a surge of hated for them, but within days it passed. This feeling came and went three times until I turned 14.
That exact day I remember getting the letter in the post offering me trials. Not only were they offering, but this would be my last chance. You see, clubs are only allowed to approach youths four times, and this was my fourth.
I remember spending days jumping around hassling my parents, until they said ok. I remember the moment so well. When my dad had said it, I couldn’t believe it. At first I thought he was joking. But then seven days later I was in the car on my way to White Hart Lane.
I thought the trials had gone well, infant they went perfectly. I made every pass I should’ve, I scored every time I should’ve and the Gods sure must have been looking down on me that day.
I got it. I found out three days later, when David Pleat phoned my dad at his work. He had said I had huge potential and the club wanted to exploit that. When he came home bearing news, my mum cracked open the champagne and we went out to have a Chinese that night.
For the next few weeks I was living in a dream world, telling all my friends about it, and just thoroughly looking forward to it. Then the training started.
It wasn’t that I hated it; it was just really hard work. We were running for what seemed like an age, then practicing our skills.
This was how it would be for weeks on end, training with the occasional match on a Saturday. All was going well and I was pretty much a regular in the team.
Then the news came. The manager called me back after training and broke I, somewhat not gently. He told me there and then that I had been picked to play for the first team, I was only 16!
The next week seemed to go on forever. I started training with the first team, to get to know them and their playing styles. I fitted in quite well, although I was a lot younger than most of them.
Then the day came; all I remember of that day was walking up through the tunnel to the pitch. Kick off, and I rolled the ball back to Gus Poyet. It was then that I felt a bone crunching pain in my ankle. My opposite man had come in hard, a bit too keen to impress, and had late tackled me, right in the anklebone. The stretcher came and I was carried off, straight into an ambulance and to the hospital. Here I lay for hours, through x rays and doctors examining me, waiting to see the damage. Then it came…
I was told it was a straight break. Eight weeks in plaster, and the possibility of never playing football again….
As for what you've actually written, it sounds a little too much at times like you're just telling your mates, and so leaving out a lot of detail. Try and fill it out a bit.
> my mum cracked open
> the champagne and we went out to have a Chinese that night.
No wonder footballers are living the high life so young. The parents get them onto champers at only 14.
Sorry but this did nothing for me as there wasn't anything in this that invoked any emotion from me. No suggestions on how to improve it though.
Instead of having it end with him just being carried away on a stretcher, make him carry on like some demented David Beckham/Black Knight from the Holy Grail and score a goal even with half the bones in his body broken.
Trust me.
I know it is rushed and very little detial, any other criticisms?
I had been persuading my parents for years to let me go. You see, spurs had approached me three times for trials, all of which my mum and dad had said I couldn’t go. Every time I felt a surge of hated for them, but within days it passed. This feeling came and went three times until I turned 14.
That exact day I remember getting the letter in the post offering me trials. Not only were they offering, but this would be my last chance. You see, clubs are only allowed to approach youths four times, and this was my fourth.
I remember spending days jumping around hassling my parents, until they said ok. I remember the moment so well. When my dad had said it, I couldn’t believe it. At first I thought he was joking. But then seven days later I was in the car on my way to White Hart Lane.
I thought the trials had gone well, infant they went perfectly. I made every pass I should’ve, I scored every time I should’ve and the Gods sure must have been looking down on me that day.
I got it. I found out three days later, when David Pleat phoned my dad at his work. He had said I had huge potential and the club wanted to exploit that. When he came home bearing news, my mum cracked open the champagne and we went out to have a Chinese that night.
For the next few weeks I was living in a dream world, telling all my friends about it, and just thoroughly looking forward to it. Then the training started.
It wasn’t that I hated it; it was just really hard work. We were running for what seemed like an age, then practicing our skills.
This was how it would be for weeks on end, training with the occasional match on a Saturday. All was going well and I was pretty much a regular in the team.
Then the news came. The manager called me back after training and broke I, somewhat not gently. He told me there and then that I had been picked to play for the first team, I was only 16!
The next week seemed to go on forever. I started training with the first team, to get to know them and their playing styles. I fitted in quite well, although I was a lot younger than most of them.
Then the day came; all I remember of that day was walking up through the tunnel to the pitch. Kick off, and I rolled the ball back to Gus Poyet. It was then that I felt a bone crunching pain in my ankle. My opposite man had come in hard, a bit too keen to impress, and had late tackled me, right in the anklebone. The stretcher came and I was carried off, straight into an ambulance and to the hospital. Here I lay for hours, through x rays and doctors examining me, waiting to see the damage. Then it came…
I was told it was a straight break. Eight weeks in plaster, and the possibility of never playing football again….