The opening paragraph of the travel book's final chapter
The
ball thumped against the churchyard wall and someone cheered. Nobody could
remember the score, and we were probably losing, but that was incontrovertibly
a goal for our team. I hadn’t had anything to do with it. I was bent double in
the centre of the pitch, trying to catch my breath. We were a thousand metres
above sea level, and football in Vermosh was fast and physical. I was also the
oldest player on the field by nearly twenty years, and for most of those twenty
years I’d been smoking half an ounce of tobacco a day. Both teams charged back
down the slope, chasing the ball back towards our goal. I still couldn’t move. Nobody
in the small crowd who’d gathered to watch the match showed any sign
of volunteering to take my place. When someone tried to pass me the ball, more
out of sympathy than need, and I toed it straight to one of our opponents, I
decided that it was best for all concerned if I retired hurt. My absence
wouldn’t affect the result. Lydia and Sam gave two loyal cheers as I limped off
and hoisted myself over the churchyard gate.
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