Page 80 of The Underdog

“My boy’s first professional game.”

“My boy’s first goal.”

“My boy’s first time in the paper.”

All at once, there seems to be a gap. Gramps appeared to date each image over the years, but now, there is nothing. There’s a period in time where not a single picture is documented, and as I flip the page, I see why.

“When one journey ends, it can only mean another is about to begin.”

There, Warren lies in the hospital, hardly giving a thumbs up to the camera as his knee is bandaged and slung in front of him.

Compared to the other pictures, in this one, there’s no hope lighting up his eyes. My heart sinks as my memories take me back to the article I’d read back in Crawley.

Warren Park—Game-winning goal, career-ending shot.

The sight of this picture breaks my heart. Because despite the pitiful attempt at a lighthearted smile Warren is giving to the camera, I know just how broken he must have been in this moment.

I force myself to flip the page, and that hope in his eyes is one that takes several more page turns for me to see again.

Finally, there’s a natural progression from Warren standing on the sidelines of the pitch to being right back on the field, falling into his role.

“My boy. Coach of Crawfield.”

My heart softens at the photo. There he is.

The Warren that I stumbled into on my first day, the Warren that I’ve come to know as my own.

An emptiness follows that aching nostalgia as I reach the last page in the book—where, finally, it’s as if the two of them have replicated the first picture they took together. The only difference is that now, instead of smiling at the camera, as their arms are slung around one another, they’re smiling at each other.

I feel like my heart is about to burst.

“I know you’ll find someone, sunshine. But when you do…I have one condition.”

I look up at him curiously. “And that is?”

“They need to be a Crawfield fan.”

I close the book shut. It’s as if the answer suddenly makes itself clear in my mind—just like it did the day I stood up to my parents and began this Crawfield journey.

I’ve always been a fan of sequels.

“Thank you, Gramps.” I place the album back on the table, turning off the TV as I march my way over to the door. I pause in the doorway, glancing over my shoulder at the room for one final moment before I finally close it behind me.

The second I make my way out of the house, I pull my phone from my back pocket and start to dial.

It only takes a couple of rings before a familiar voice picks up.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Cunningham.” My voice is determined and willed. “I know what I’m going to do with the money.”

TWENTY-SIX

W A R R E N

Shoes.

Underwear.

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