Chapter 1
E.M
There was a loud thud on my door. “Get your **** out of bed! We have training boy!” a grizzly voice bellowed. I jumped up and rubbed my eyes as I tried to adjust to the light of morning. “Come on Ezra! You’ll get nowhere in life if you don’t get up and run towards what you want!” he continued shouting. “Eric...it’s too early to start being hard on him again,” I heard mother say quietly behind the door.
My dad had a crazy way of doing things but he was right. I needed to get up and get going. Today he was making me run for 15 miles then we would work on my heading and put in more work on my passing which was coming along better. He wanted me to be a more complete player and ready for my trial with local club Port Vale in a week.
As they both quietly argued what they considered to be “hard” behind the door, I slipped out of bed and started getting ready. As customary on training days with dad, I measured my height and weight to see if I was bulking up. I was only 16 but dad said I needed to have the strength of a 30 year old, mentally and physically, to make it big. Next I slipped on my now tattered ‘98/’99 full Manchester United kit. That was a legendary season for my favorite club and wearing the kit always gave me an extra boost. One that I needed today. I grabbed my shoes and looked in the mirror. My dark brown eyes looked back at me and I could see the hunger. From the top of my curly black covered crown all the way down to the curve of my big toe.
Unfortunately, this hunger was literal as much as it was figurative and I opened the door to my parents. “Morning you two!” I said with a beaming smile. “5ft 10 and 156 pounds dad,” I told him my measurements before heading off to the kitchen.
“See? You’ve created a monster,” my mom said to him. Though I wasn’t looking at her, I knew she was smiling and shaking her head in response to his grin. He loved seeing me this prepared and ready.
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Later that day, I laid exhausted on the grass of the local field. I could barely feel my limbs. It was another long and arduous day training with dad and I certainly felt the burn and so much more. “What’s your name boy?” my dad asked as he dropped to a sit beside me. “Ezra. Ezra Morrison,” I responded through my heavy breathing. “Repeat it. What’s your name?” he again asked. “Ezra Morrison!” I shouted with confidence. “That’s my boy. Know your name. Say it with belief and someday, you’ll hear them singing it from the stands!” he shouted.
That was our ritual. Everyday after training he would make me shout my name. My dad wanted me to have a long and successful career. Eric Morrison, 50 year old lawyer who grew up right here in Stoke-on-Trent. He was pretty good at what he did and could move out of this city whenever he wanted to but he and his father, and his grandfather and his grandfather’s father and so on and so on grew up here and not one of them left. He married my mother, Elizabeth, when they were both 22 after being highschool sweethearts. They never left each other’s side and that being said, my mother too went to law school with him and became a lawyer.
So why wasn’t I being groomed to follow in their footsteps? Well, the trend for the Morrison men was to never break tradition. So they all grew up and stayed in Stoke-on-Trent, they all married fairly young and they all became successful lawyers. My dad wanted me to finally break that. Be the one to be free. Why?. When he was 12 he watched his first football game and knew that’s what he wanted to do and he expressed this to his father. He would work every weekend just like he has me working now towards this - much to his father’s chagrin. Then one day, his father had enough when my father was spotted by him talking to a scout. Dad said all the teles in his house were removed and the phones were disconnected. Football magazines were replaced with books about history and law and he wasn’t allowed to leave the house unsupervised again. It was a total lockdown and there was nothing he could do about it. So that’s when he promised my mother as soon as I was born - “Whatever he wants to do, I’ll help him to do it. Help him to be his own man. Not a Morrison.” It just worked out in his favor that as soon as I was able to walk, I soon followed it with being able to kick a ball. By the time I was 7, I knew I wanted to play football and nothing made my father happier. He was not only helping me to achieve my dream but living his through me.
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