2026-04-08, 09:19 AM - Word count:
"Geronimo!"
He soared through the air, eyes fixed on the ball, twisting his hips as he manoeuvred his flying body to meet the cross - catching the bicycle kick flush on the volley - the ball arrowing towards the top corner--
"Geronimo!!"
Wait-- what?
"GERONIMO!!"
Consciousness struck with an unpleasant jolt. Geronimo Datbasted's alarm was blaring in his ear - how had that not woken him up on its own? - and the digits on the clock shone a dull accusation. 08:23.
"Bollocks!"
Late again. That's why Mam was screaming his name from downstairs.
"Geronimo y'eejit, get yiz downstairs right now and out that door ye lazy fecker!"
Standard morning really. Geronimo was a top young talent on the pitch - prodigious, they called him - but off it he was an absolute mess.
4 minutes later he was hopping out the door towards his knackered little bright yellow Fiat Punto, still pulling a sock on and with a trainer hanging from his teeth by the laces, his Mam's screeching still ringing in his ears.
The car was a horror show and the lads were bound to laugh at him about it, but that was OK. He'd earned his spot on the Stockholm IK Academy, and soon enough he'd buy himself something smarter. Something for Mam too. She put up with enough of his shite.
They'd moved not far from the training ground, and he skidded into the car park in time to join the other academy lads as they queued outside the changing room.
There was Rich Wynne and Jack Pow, both expected to provide the width and pace and crosses for big Dennis van Huntelrooy, an absolute Dutch unit who was the big hope for goals this year. Martin Krpan, Slovenian brick at the back who frankly scared the bejesus out of Geronimo.
And of course Baptiste Azzola. Geronimo was keen to strike up a friendshipe with Baptiste. The young Frenchman was a bit of a midfield maestro, and Geronimo thought they'd complement each other well; Geronimo was a left back by trade but more in the Nico O'Reilly mould than the classic full back. He always felt best inverting into midfield, spending plenty of time on the ball and marauding forwards. He felt like he could dovetail nicely with Baptiste this season.
As he set foot on the training pitch - just about remembering to tie his laces like Mam always told him - he felt like this was the start of something big. He smiled, recalling his dream, and whispered to himself...
"Geronimo."
He soared through the air, eyes fixed on the ball, twisting his hips as he manoeuvred his flying body to meet the cross - catching the bicycle kick flush on the volley - the ball arrowing towards the top corner--
"Geronimo!!"
Wait-- what?
"GERONIMO!!"
Consciousness struck with an unpleasant jolt. Geronimo Datbasted's alarm was blaring in his ear - how had that not woken him up on its own? - and the digits on the clock shone a dull accusation. 08:23.
"Bollocks!"
Late again. That's why Mam was screaming his name from downstairs.
"Geronimo y'eejit, get yiz downstairs right now and out that door ye lazy fecker!"
Standard morning really. Geronimo was a top young talent on the pitch - prodigious, they called him - but off it he was an absolute mess.
4 minutes later he was hopping out the door towards his knackered little bright yellow Fiat Punto, still pulling a sock on and with a trainer hanging from his teeth by the laces, his Mam's screeching still ringing in his ears.
The car was a horror show and the lads were bound to laugh at him about it, but that was OK. He'd earned his spot on the Stockholm IK Academy, and soon enough he'd buy himself something smarter. Something for Mam too. She put up with enough of his shite.
They'd moved not far from the training ground, and he skidded into the car park in time to join the other academy lads as they queued outside the changing room.
There was Rich Wynne and Jack Pow, both expected to provide the width and pace and crosses for big Dennis van Huntelrooy, an absolute Dutch unit who was the big hope for goals this year. Martin Krpan, Slovenian brick at the back who frankly scared the bejesus out of Geronimo.
And of course Baptiste Azzola. Geronimo was keen to strike up a friendshipe with Baptiste. The young Frenchman was a bit of a midfield maestro, and Geronimo thought they'd complement each other well; Geronimo was a left back by trade but more in the Nico O'Reilly mould than the classic full back. He always felt best inverting into midfield, spending plenty of time on the ball and marauding forwards. He felt like he could dovetail nicely with Baptiste this season.
As he set foot on the training pitch - just about remembering to tie his laces like Mam always told him - he felt like this was the start of something big. He smiled, recalling his dream, and whispered to himself...
"Geronimo."
![[Image: Geronimo-sig.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/tRPw6qYr/Geronimo-sig.png)
