No.321

Just by looking into this man's eyes, it's almost like you can make out the sombre and sorrowful story of his life, flickering like an old grainy film being projected from afar. 

Every Sunday morning for the past six years, he takes a fold-out hiking chair, sits with a clear view of the Sunday leagues in the park, obscures himself tastefully with bushes and branches and watches the 5-a-side games, with the gaze of a grizzled, heartbroken eagle. 

'They' say he used to have the ferocity of a tiger, and the grace of a Russian ballet dancer. His skills with the ball sent grown men home, weeping like disgraced scullery maids. At one point, there were even whispers of Stockport County try-outs. Until one day, everything changed... 

The accident is something only told in shadows, a myth, passed from pint to pint, pub to pub. Some said an unrepairable twisted ankle bewitched his fate. Others tell the tall tale of extremely malicious, but accurate, conker throwing children. And some have the gall to say that he simply lost his skill. 

The reason doesn't matter. There might not even be a reason. The only thing that matters is now, the geezer is an observer, not a participant... 

In brighter news, the poor guy ended up finding a new calling in life – wearing extremely luxurious clobber and being the most stylish guy in town. Happy ending, right?