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Listen to Final Whistle - Episode 2 by Final Whistle MP3 song. Final Whistle - Episode 2 song from Final Whistle is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 23:01. This high-quality MP3 track has 64 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 11 Apr 2024. Stream and download Final Whistle - Episode 2 by Final Whistle for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
A man reminisces about a vacation with his late wife, Vicki, and their loving moments together. He wakes up from a dream about her and is comforted by their daughter, Tanya. Tanya asks him to tell her the story of how he and Vicki met. He recounts their first meeting at a jazz club, their subsequent encounters, and their eventual marriage. The man realizes how lucky he is to have Tanya and appreciates his life. He reads about the death of a friend, Roy, who was involved in illegal activities. A newspaper article misquotes him as vowing to find and punish the culprits, causing him surprise. Final Whistle by J. Jackson Bentley EPISODE 2 The hot Lanzarote sun warmed my skin as I lay on the straw beach mat and massaged sun cream into the flawless golden skin on the back of the famous model who was my wife. She turned over to face me, lifting herself off the mat and pulling herself up onto her knees. She swept back straying wisps of long blonde hair with finely boned and delicate hands, her eyes twinkled with mischief. As she thrust her perfect bosom towards me, she began to loosen the yellow bikini top that restrained her full breasts. Now for the front, she said provocatively. No, not in public, I shouted a little too loudly, re-tying her strap. She laughed at my embarrassment, no doubt wondering why I was so bashful when all around us every other woman was sunbathing topless. Prude, she teased, grinning widely. I want you all to myself, I said, meaning it. She leaned over me pressing her sweetly-fragranced body onto mine, I put my arms around her, and she kissed me hard on the lips. Her delicate tongue teased mine as the familiar cooling breeze crept in from the ocean to stir fine grains of sand up all around us. Vicki pushed herself up onto her knees again, pinning my arms into the soft beach sand. I stared in awe, as always, at the perfect symmetry of her face, partly curtained by the golden hair translucent in the bright afternoon sun. She looked so beautiful and so serene against the background of gently swaying green palm leaves. Come on, she said, leaping up, her lean athletic body breaking into a jog. Let's swim. I watched her, lithe and long-legged, lope towards the inky blue sea. She turned and beckoned to me. I clambered to my feet and ran after her. She had become silhouetted against the shimmering water and the glistening rocks. She ran into the sea, lifting her legs high to maintain her momentum until it became impossible, and she was obliged to wade into the deeper water. I followed closely behind, and she shrieked like a schoolgirl as I closed in on her. Vicki turned and splashed the cold water over the warm, dry parts of my body, making the breath rush from my lungs. I gasped and grabbed her. We both fell down into the water, giggling and laughing. When we came to the surface again, her hair was flat against her scalp, and salt water washed down the contours of her face. She blinked droplets of water away, and her eyes softened. I love you, she said. Suddenly I felt strange. Without moving, she appeared to be receding in the distance like some artistic movie shot. Within a couple of seconds, it was as if I was looking at her through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. As she receded into the distance, I cried out to her. Vicki! Vicki! My croaky words reflected back at me from the bedroom wall as the vision transfigured from hopeful dream to drab reality. The hopeful dream was life with Vicki, full of loving, full of hope. Drab reality was a twenty-nine-year-old widower still fighting a burning desire to join his wife in oblivion. I hadn't had that particular disturbing dream for some time. I guessed that it was prompted by my brief encounter with death. After all, Roy had died just two nights ago. I picked up the photograph of my wife that I kept on the bedside table and looked into the untroubled eyes. Even the imminent threat of her death had failed to quell her spirit. I had relived every minute of that last holiday a thousand times as they cut away parts of her sculpted body in vain, attempting to eliminate the ever-spreading cancer. But it was too little, too late. All too soon Vicki lost her hair and then her life, and I could do nothing. That was the hard part, watching her die and feeling so helpless. Dad, are you decent? A voice piped from the door. I looked down to remind myself that I was wearing pajama trousers. Yes, come on in. A thirteen-year-old clone of my late wife bounded across the carpet and leapt onto the bed. Throwing the continental quilt over herself, she snuggled down with her arm across my stomach. Her head was resting on my chest. Without looking up, she spoke. I heard you calling Mum's name again. She fell silent, waiting for a reaction. Er, you did. It was only a dream. She held me tightly. I miss her, too. There was a pause. But now we've got each other, and that will have to do. The matter of fact intonation was too strained to ring true. Dad, she went on, tell me about when you and Mum met. I had rehearsed the story to her a thousand times since she was small. It was her favorite story. I looked down at her, and she was like a little child again. I knew that she only wanted me to relate the story because it always cheered me up. I admired her precocious amateur psychology. Okay, if you insist. I crooked my arm around her shoulders and felt her body relax as I related the romance almost word for word. I was a gawky and unwieldy youth of nineteen. I thought I knew everything. I thought I had made it. My first England under twenty-one appearance had gone so well that I went with some friends and their wives to Ronnie Scott's to celebrate. I didn't know much about jazz, but I was transfixed by the energy of the music. I was a convert. So intent was I on the musicians on stage that I failed to see your mother come in. She was with Larry, Roy Bennett, two of her catwalking friends and Mina, Larry's new wife. I clapped and I turned around to see your mom standing at the top of the stairs in a shining white dress. I couldn't breathe for a moment. She was thirty and a world-famous American model, and I was nineteen and a hopeful professional footballer. We were worlds apart. I sat transfixed as I watched her come down the stairs. I had never seen anything so liquid, so feline, so wonderful. Later in the evening I summoned up enough courage to go over to the table and speak to Uncle Roy. He introduced me to everyone. That was when I first met Larry and Mina. Your mom and Larry had recently divorced, and he had married Mina. Now admittedly, Mina is beautiful, but how could anyone, especially a renowned photographer, let Vicky Ross go? But Larry had let her go and you and your mom were living together in a big house in Surrey. I asked her to dance, and she politely refused. I was deflated. Seeing my discomfort, she charitably changed her mind and kicked off her high shoes to dance barefoot. I couldn't dance, but I didn't remember that until later. We spoke and drank until it was time to go. I was intoxicated by her, and I desperately wanted to see her again, but I said nothing and she walked out of my life, at least for a time. A few months later I attended the book launch of Larry's photographic compilation, My Wives, and your mom was there. I was given a copy of the book, and I drooled over the pictures of your mother. I wanted to marry her, but how? I bombarded her with letters and cards, flowers, and even her favorite Swiss chocolate, and eventually she invited me for dinner. I remember her opening the door, tall and graceful as ever, looking about twenty, my age, with a little four-year-old brat hanging onto her leg. Tanya thumped me at this little insult and said, Dad, disparagingly, I continued rebuked. That night was the best night of my life. We spent the whole evening sitting on my knee playing with my tie and asking if I knew any famous footballers. We ate, you fell asleep, and we sat close together on the sofa listening to music. When it was time for me to go, I was uncertain as to how forward I should be. Did we shake hands, or she expecting a kiss on the cheek? While I was wondering she put her hands on my shoulder and kissed me on the lips. I realized that despite all of smooching with my girlfriends in the past, I had never really been kissed until then. She bewitched me. As I walked away she said, You will be coming again. I nodded like a toy dog and drifted home on a cloud. Then six months later you were married, Tanya said, and, she paused for effect, you adopted the four-year-old brat. She looked at me in a mock grimace. The best thing I ever did in my life, I replied, redeeming myself. We laughed. Come on then, she remonstrated. You can't lie here all day, you have a training session in an hour and a half. I pulled her close and kissed her brow, suddenly realizing how lucky I really was. The tabloid newspapers were running the story of Roy's death under banner headlines on their front pages. The explosion had occurred too late for the Sunday papers to pick up, and so every daily newspaper carried a haunting color photograph of the smoldering BMW. The online versions even had cell phone video footage. I rested my newspaper on the condiment set as I read and ate my cornflakes. There was more speculation than fact, more colorful prose than content, but the words amounted to the allegation that Roy Bennett was involved with drugs, money laundering and loan sharking. My newspaper carried an exclusive that heroin had been found in the dead man's flat, though the police refused to confirm or deny the story. I turned over to pages two and three, which carried a two-page photo spread by no less than four different journalists who reviewed his early days, his career and his downfall. Pictures of Roy from as long ago as the 1990s and as recent as last week were reproduced. I then spotted a library picture of myself in last year's kit. I read the caption. An angry Alex Carter, United and England star, said in an exclusive interview that he would do everything he could to ensure that the culprits were found and punished. Carter, 29, a good friend and confidante of the dead man, urged the police to track the criminals down like animals. This came as a surprise to me as I had spoken to three different newspapers, expressing my feelings of anger and sadness, but never once did I suggest that I would begin any kind of crusade to find the killers. The article made me sound like a vigilante. At least they got my name and age right. I have found that one has to be thankful for small mercies with the press. Tanya appeared at the kitchen door with her school bag over her shoulder, dressed in her school uniform. We argued about the length of her skirt, I won, and she lowered it two or three millimeters. A small victory. I drained my tepid coffee and grabbed my jacket. We were running behind as usual. The Mercedes took us smoothly and speedily to the local comprehensive school, where I dropped my adopted daughter close to the gate. She looked around ensuring that no one was looking then gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. It seems it isn't cool to get on well with one's parents, so to kiss dad goodbye in public view must be distinctly warm. In the nine years I had been taking Tanya to school, I had proven to be an embarrassment, holding her hand, an asset, signing numerous autographs, and a bore, posters of me hung on some of her friend's bedroom walls. Our house was, and always has been, an open house for all the kids in the neighborhood. I had never minded, although it could be distracting to rise exhausted from the multi-gym bench to see a group of teenage girls staring open-mouthed at my sweaty body. Sometimes Tanya's friends would stay with her overnight and I would speak to them, asking them about school or their favorite pop group, and they would just turn bright red and stare, saying nothing. Still, I guess it's better than being stopped a thousand times in the supermarket while some man salivates over your wife. Vicky had been interminably patient with her admirers, and she always managed to make men feel special, even when she was trying to get rid of them. I was so lost in thought that I arrived at the training ground without any real idea of how I had managed to get there. As usual most of my teammates' cars were already there. Alexander the Late, as I was known, was maintaining his reputation. Monday training was always lighter than other days, and if we played on a Sunday it was abandoned altogether, if we won, it was sunny but cold, a typical spring morning. Aaron Morgenson, our Icelandic goalkeeper, sat down beside me as I changed into shorts and training top. Aaron had played most of his career in Denmark, and, at six feet three inches, he dominated his goal area to such an extent that the United supporters who manned the shed end had nicknamed him the Great Dane. Disregarding the geographical inaccuracy, Aaron reveled in his lauded fame. "'You meet any nice ladies yesterday?' he asked in a Scando-Mancunian accent. "'No, did you?' I teased in reply. "'Oh, your Judy is more than enough woman for me, Alex.' The Icelander insisted on calling his locally born wife your Judy, simply because she was my cousin. The fact was that I hadn't seen much of Judy since childhood, that is until my interfering mother started matchmaking for the poor boy in a strange land. "'You made the news pages today,' he said more quietly. "'Yes. Did you read about Roy Bennett?' I asked conversationally, not expecting the enigmatic reply I received. "'Alex, we need to talk about Bennett sometime, but not yet, it is too soon after he died.' "'Okay, big man,' I said a little puzzled, "'whenever you are ready.' To my knowledge the two had never met, and so I was intrigued as to what Aaron might know that I didn't. Before I could contemplate the matter further the Great Dane bounced a football off my head and challenged me to race him to the goal line. The training session passed off without incident and everyone was past fit for the weekend quarter final. We would be fielding our strongest team, we watched videos of the Wanderers, our opponents, over and over again until we learned everything that could be gleaned from moving pictures. Graham Tate, our Midlands-based scout, gave us an appraisal of their overall ability along with a brief resume of each player. Various team members chipped in with comments as he discussed a player they knew personally. Over the years we had either played with or against most of the top players in the country. The game would be tough and hard fought, even though we were the leading premiership team and they languished at the bottom of the table. We walked out of the boot room in groups, discussing all manner of things. Outside there was the usual throng of young supporters, anxious for autographs and a few kind words from their heroes. I watched the lads signing programs, photos, books, balls and even shirts. There was a light tug on my windcheater. I turned around. Mr. Carter, can I please have your autograph? A small nervous voice piped. I smiled and took the public relations headshot from a boy of about twelve years of age. Leaning against the wall I signed my name with a flourish. I have lots of pictures of you on my wall, the boy continued, and I have a shirt you wore last season. My dad had it framed for me after we won it in the raffle. There you go, young man, I said vaguely recognizing his face. Do you live nearby? I asked. Oh, I only live a few doors down the road from you, Mr. Carter. He paused for breath. My dad says you are the best United captain ever. I ruffled his hair and he ran off to a waiting car. I turned to my own car and used my remote control to unlock and open the trunk. I slung my bag and dirty boots in the back before climbing into the front seat. I started the car and looked up, ready to pull away. It was then that I noticed it. A sheet of paper had been wedged under the single windscreen wiper of my car. I climbed out expecting to find a note from a fan or admirer, but it was nothing like that at all. I unfolded the sheet to read the bold capitals. Keep your nose out of the Bennett affair, it would be very unhealthy to ensure that the culprits are found and punished. Our friend. There it was again, the quote that never was. I didn't tell the press that I would try to identify the culprits but clearly someone thought I did, and it obviously made them nervous. Naively, I wondered why an investigation by a footballer would worry the killers when there was a full-scale police investigation already underway. Perhaps I should have considered the question more deeply, but I was playing in the FA Cup quarter-final, in just a few days and crank warnings could wait, I needed to concentrate. I pulled up at the front of the ground, beside the club superstore. A crowd of youngsters, mainly teenage boys and girls were congregating looking for celebrities. It was my turn to make an appearance. They stepped aside allowing me to move into one of the reserved parking spaces. Before I could get out, the throng swarmed around my car, all talking to me at once, in an excited babble. I squeezed out of the door and had to sign a dozen autographs before I had enough space to lock the car. Kids of all ages and types queued for my scrawled signature. At the back waiting patiently were some older fans with short hair and menacing looking tattoos. Each and every one of them was smiling and taking their turn. I signed books, programs, United magazines and photographs. After ten minutes I was almost through when a dark-haired girl, with looks a man might kill for, asked me to sign her shirt. I said I would and she started to take it off. With the first sign of bare flesh I encouraged her to leave it on whilst I signed it. She turned around and I saw my name and the number nine in white lettering. I was touched. Doing my best with a bony back to rest on I signed an approximation of my name. She yelped with glee when I had finished and planted a kiss full on my lips before I could pull away whilst trying to cover my blushes. I posed for a couple of photos and slipped into the shop. Standing behind the counter I was supposed to give the impression of serving when really a young girl called Bernadette did the work while I chatted to supporters and handed over the ready-wrapped goods. It has always amazed me that people would spend so much of their hard-earned cash on football shirts, scarves, wigs and all manner of branded goods that somehow bonded them to the family club. I often worried that we might be exploiting some of them, especially the harassed parents of young children who demanded the latest kit when money was scarce. Football had changed over the last thirteen years and now, as a club, we had to rely on commercial enterprises, like the kit deals, to stay at the top. I wasn't sure that it was all for the better. I mean, where does reasonable profit-making end and profiteering begin? Perhaps I should leave the philosophy to the enigmatic Frenchman in the squad who seemed so good at it. Alex. The voice was rich with Welsh undertones and definitely female. I turned around to see a petite middle-aged woman wearing a club blazer. "'Well, look you here,' I said mimicking her accent. "'It's Blodwyn from the Valleys. Her real name was Barbara, and she managed the store. She clipped me playfully around the ear but had to stand on tiptoes to do it. "'You can cut out the casual racism,' she said smiling. "'The manager wants to see you right away,' she ordered. "'But Blodwyn you are the manager,' I teased. "'You know who I mean, the manager of the club,' she retorted. "'So be off with you.' I turned to go, and she slapped my bottom with a pair of shin pads she had sold to a young boy. The boy laughed when I jumped, and I left through the back door, buttocks stinging. The victim of workplace sexism. I walked down the long corridor that led to the manager's office. Often referred to as the Hall of Fame, it was bedecked with paintings of players and managers of yesteryear. Someday I would take my place beside the previous United captain, Captain Fantastic as he was nicknamed. I knocked on the half-open door. The boss was on the telephone. He gestured for me to sit down as he carried on talking. I sat and looked around the Spartan room that was the manager's office. Despite all of our success in recent years, Noel Stewart displayed nothing but a current team photograph on his office walls. "'Ron, the boy isn't for sale. He'll get his chance to get back in the team and before you know it, he'll be happy again.' Noel winked at me as he lied effortlessly down the phone. He listened for a few moments and finally feigning exasperation he said. "'Okay, Ron, look, you put in a halfway decent offer for a change, and I'll have a word with the chairman. It's the best I can do.' There was an exchange of pleasantries, and the phone was replaced in its cradle. Noel Stewart leaned back in his reclining chair and put his hands together as if in prayer and placed the tips of his fingers over his lips. He was looking in my direction but was not seeing me, he was lost in thought. I stared at him, the hair was thinning and the lines deepening but the eyes were bright and youthful. "'Alex, son, we have had an offer for Hugh.' He paused for my reaction. Hugh McIvor was our displaced former left winger. In the last two seasons Hugh had started only a handful of games, though he made numerous appearances as substitute. But that wasn't the real problem, and I knew we had to bring his real problem out into the open. "'Noel, Hugh doesn't really want to go. You know that, don't you? I only ever called my manager by his Christian name when we were alone together. At other times I reverted to the boss or Mr. Stewart, especially when talking to the media. "'There isn't a place for him here, Alex, he is just another big salary check at the end of each month and for what? The occasional game in the second team when he feels in the mood?' It was no secret that Hugh felt the second team beneath him, and he had a point. Which one of us would be content playing against has-beens, hope-to-be's and never-will-be's? I sided with the player I had known all of my playing career. "'What happens if we sell him and we get injury problems again, just as we did earlier in the season?' The weakness of my argument was apparent even to me. The manager didn't answer my question. "'Alex, I brought the boy into the game when I was still in Scotland. No one knows him better than me.' The manager's Scots accent became thicker as old reminiscences clouded his expression. "'Hugh will have a better chance of first-team football with Ron. Maybe the sea air will dull his desire for the drink, too.' It was out. It was all about Hugh's drinking, as if we didn't know. Neither of us was happy about it, but everything we had tried had failed. Hugh was on his way.' "'You know I trust your judgment,' I said, the argument lost. "'It'll be better for him in the long run, just you wait and see. I'll catch hold of him this afternoon, after the press conference for the wee lassie from the hospital. I excused myself from the afternoon press conference where we were to launch a fund for a young girl with cancer. It was still too soon for me to deal with the effects of the illness that took my wife. I stood up and Noel Stewart walked around the desk, put his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently he said, "'See you on the team bus then.' I nodded and we parted with a smile.
