Dexter laced his new boots carefully. They felt like rockets on his feet; they felt like raging bulls ready to charge; they felt like an enormous held breath about to burst.

Dexter jogged up and down, pumping his knees to his chest, landing on his tip toes. The power of the boots wriggled up through his legs and into his tummy like a nest of snakes. Supersonic snakes zinged along his limbs and turned his hair into fire; his tongue fizzed.

As he trotted out onto the football pitch, the soft turf squelching under the hard studs of his super boots, the other players were nothing more than grey shadows to him. He was the centre of the world, of the universe; of the game.
“Phweep,” the referee blew the whistle hard, inflating his cheeks like a puffer fish.

Smoothly, Dexter rolled the ball beneath his left foot, and span around, momentarily pausing to survey the teams.

Even the birds watched him, and waited.


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