He was accelerating down the left flank, toeing the ball forward exactly the same length each time, as though there’s a hidden magnet controlling his touch with the ball. With curved legs like a taut bow, he, a consummate dribbler, sashayed his way past other defenders, constantly cutting inside, and let out a stunner, a banana kick that saw the ball curve away from the charging goalkeeper into the far post.
I remember this solo rhythmic run of my father here—once his home ground—whenever I walk past it, his six-foot-frame image popping up whatever direction I look at.