Michael didn't drive straight home. He couldn't.
His 4-0 demolition of Portsmouth was a distant, secondary victory. The realwin was standing in the tunnel, watching a skinny, 16-year-old, arrogant basketball player agree to try his "stupid little game."
He was driving his sensible, gray Audi, but his mind was in the stratosphere. He was buzzing. He was vibrating. He was the owner of a [PA 97] generational talent.
A talent no one in the world knew about. A talent who had, until ten minutes ago, never even considered kicking a football.
He was so wired, so full of a manic, joyous, system-fueled energy, that the thought of sitting alone in his small, quiet flat was unbearable. He just drove, aimlessly, through the darkening streets of Barnsley, the red-and-white scarves of celebrating fans a blur in his window.
He found himself, instinctively, pulling over by a small, floodlit community park. He cut the engine.
