Twain stood on the training ground number 2 in Wilford. A dense forest was in front of his eyes, and the mottled shadows of the woods were at his feet. The day's training had ended, and the players had left, but there was one more man practicing on the training ground.
Twain stood on the sidelines and watched the man who was practicing.
The scene was familiar to him.
In the afterglow of the setting sun under the darkening red sky, Wilford appeared fragmented by the dividing shadows of the forest on the west side. The whole training ground was quiet. There was no sound but the thuds of a football being kicked and hitting the goalpost, net, and wire fence. There was the occasional cry of a bird. It was a big contrast to the noisy scene during the day.
When he was still young, he had been here to watch the man in front of him practice countless times. At that time, the man was only a child.
