It was a hot summer night, with the leaves hanging down, and the grass on the ground smelling sweet. Up the road, on the outside of town, a football match was well into the second half. The underdogs, The Denholm Wanderers, had taken the lead, much to surprise of everyone, and their star striker ... wee Jimmy McSprout, was storming up the wing, the ball obeying his every command, responding to his every tap and touch, and dancing under the floodlights to wee Jimmy McSprout's tune. A goal was coming ... Jimmy knew it. The crowd of 12 hardcore Denholm Wanderers fans knew it. The oppositions fans knew it ... both of them. Even Patch, the groundskeeper's blind spaniel knew it.
Jimmy's moment of glory was within one deftly aimed sweep of his right foot, when disaster struck. His left ankle, weakened after many a childhood tumble while running away with apples stolen from old Mr Davie's orchard (which was always awkward, because old Mr Davie was also a close friend of old Mr McSprout, Jimmy's dad) buckled, sending Jimmy crashing to the beautifully manicured turf, the ball careening away in the direction of Patch, the unfortunate and unsuspecting blind spaniel.
Jimmy lay ... a crumpled ruin of a lad, his dreams of making it to the 'big time' in tatters, his ankle a rapidly swelling mess of bruising and pain.