Chapter 63: Is Football More Important Than Life And Death? Part 1

Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio

While the outside world was abuzz with the news of the revival of the football hooligans and the death of an innocent boy, George Wood was still doing the repetitive and boring basic training, day after day, on the second field at the youth team training ground. It was as if he and the rest of the world existed on two different planes. He was unconcerned with and uninterested in any news from the outside world. He had only one thought in his mind: to reach the goal set by his manager, to play in the matches, and to earn money for his mother's medical treatment.

Twain, dressed in all black, appeared on the sidelines and called out to Wood's coach. The two men spoke a few words to each other in low voices. Then the coach left, and Twain walked out toward him. Although Twain wore black clothes all the timeblack trousers, black leather shoes, even sunglasses on cloudy dayshe seemed different to Wood today. His black suit was newer, stiffer.

"George," he spoke to Wood in a low voice. "Tomorrow you don't need to train."

Wood did not say anything. He knew that Twain must have something to add.

"Do you have a black suit?" Tang En pointed to him and asked.

Wood shook his head.

Looking down at his watch, Tang En beckoned to Wood. "You don't have to train now. Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Wood did not move.

"To buy you a suit, a shirt, and a tie."

"I don't like to wear those things." Wood did not want to go. He did not want to waste his time on dressing up.

"Do you think I'm trying to dress you up to take you to a party? Do you remember that time you signed an autograph for that little kid over there?" Tang En pointed to the wire netting fence in the distance.

Wood nodded. That was the first time he had signed an autograph for a fan. It was a scene he would never forget.

"Do you know his name?"

Wood shook his head. He had not asked, and nobody had told him.

"Gavin, Gavin Bernard. Remember this name. We'll attend his funeral tomorrow morning."

George Wood was shocked.

Gavin's grandmother stood on one side while being supported by her arms. She wore a black hat with a dropped veil covering her face which could not be seen. She would go up to speak later, and Tang En was worried whether the elderly lady could withstand that kind of anguish.

Michael's wife was paralyzed in his arms, and her eyes stared blankly at Gavin's aunt who was standing up front and sobbing. It was almost a week since his death, and the pain that was left to this family had not diminished.

On the left side of the church, were Gavin's relatives, schoolmates, and teachers. Michael's friends and the Forest team coaches and players were on the right.

Wood sat beside Tang En and was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and tie that he bought for him yesterday. With his lips pursed, he sat without saying a word. He was not visibly sad like the rest of the people around him. There was no expression on his face.

Tang En thought maybe he could understand this kid, because maybe they were similar.

George Wood's one and only fan so far, his admirer, was now lying in the cold black coffin. He would never look for him to sign an autograph and never be on the sidelines to see him train again.

Because everyone was so sad, the relatives on the stage quickly ended their speeches, and the priest said the final prayer. Then the coffin was lifted, and the crowd headed toward the cemetery behind the church.

There was no funeral music at the funeral. For Gavin, Michael chose "Tears in Heaven" written by Eric Clapton for his beloved son who had died young. The gloomy guitar accompanied Clapton's raspy singing. Everyone's heart was broken.

Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?

Would it be the same if I saw you in heaven?

The black wooden coffin was carefully lowered down, and Tang En noticed that there was a small-sized Forest jersey on the lid. There was a large bloodstain on the chest and neckline, with Wood's name still prominent through the bloodstain. He gently put the white lily in his hand on the coffin over the Forest emblem.

Behind him, Wood knelt on one knee and carefully put the flower in his hand on his own name on the jersey before he got up and left with Twain.

Standing on the side, Tang En watched as one by one players from the crowd stepped forward to lay the flowers in tribute. They consciously went to his side after they had laid the flowers in tribute, so more and more people gathered around him. He did a count, and everyone from the First Team had come. David Kerslake, the youth team manager, also came. Michael Dawson might have been the saddest person on the team. Among this group of players, he and Michael Bernard knew each other the longest, and their relationship was the best. It could be said that Michael had watched Dawson go from an unknown kid step by step to a professional star player. Michael lost his son, and Dawson had lost a brother.

Tang En patted Dawson on the shoulder but did not know how to comfort him.

In the end he sighed, "Let's all go back and have a good rest. We have a match tomorrow."

Watching the crowd gradually disperse, Tang En found that Wood was still by his side. He seemed a little strange. "You should go back, too. There's no training today. Spend some time with your mother."

Wood nodded and turned to leave, but Tang En stopped him again. "George, make sure you become a big star!"

George pursed his lips and nodded vigorously.

"Go back." Tang En waved, and Wood turned and walked away from the depressing place.

When Wood left, Tang En looked at Michael, who was still comforting his wife, and felt that it was better not to disturb them at this time, even if it was just to say goodbye.

He decided to go to Burns' bar for a drink and get drunk. And after a night's sleep, he should be okay after waking up.

When he came to the cemetery gate, he saw Pierce Brosnan, the reporter from the Nottingham Evening Post, gasping for air while running toward him. Because of Gavin, Tang En honestly disliked the media more and more. It colored his view of anyone who worked in the media industry.