Alistair Finch.
See Chapter 1 for headers.
Lex is consumed, engulfed in emotion as he kneels prostrate on the football pitch. They all might think he is praying, and perhaps he is in his own heathen way. That is, if prayer has anything to do with overwhelming emotion, the humbling sensation of recognizing powers and forces greater than yourself and being on the verge of hysteria and tears. And thinking about dead people who you would will alive if you could for this moment, this astronomically cosmic moment in time.
He stands up to the sound of 1,000 people chanting in his ear, screaming nothing in particular. He tears his shirt off and whirls it in the air, and he is suddenly accosted by his teammates. In an onslaught of bodies, he feels himself up in the air, over the crowds, and now he's hollering. Because in blood and sweat and tears he's waited for this moment, for this day that even he often thought would never come. The day when he's finally earned his mettle at Excelsior. And he's thrilled.
He finds himself terrestrial again, save for leaps in the air, and demonstrations of a joy he can barely contain. And that's when his eyes focus and he see Alistair Finch, local newscaster, there in front of him.
"Alexander," Alistair says, running up to him, beaming and all smiles, "How do you feel right now, in this moment." Lex stares at the man just a fraction of a moment longer than he should. He has imagined this conversation a million times and it is more than a little surreal to actually be living it.
"Awesome!" he yells.
"So, what do you say to people who say that American footballers do not pull their own weight?"
"Absolute rubbish!" he yells again. It was the one question and answer he has dreamt about, made even sweeter by the fact that his father hates it when he sounds British. It was apparently the only pretension that bothered Lionel. Lex figures some assimilation comes with the territory, and even if it doesn't, the fact that it peeves his father is motive enough.
And then there were are questions, of which Lex only has a vague awareness of. Because he is too busy absorbing the moment. He remembers words like "football," "goals," "defense," "kits." He remembers saying snips of phrases, "I just thank...," "...such a day...," "final moments...," "Ian Callum." They flow in and out in a sparse coherency that he hopes someone else will remember, when he has time to actually think.
He's aware that he hasn't saved any lives, or changed the world, or even made any money. But he was a hero in his own little microcosm, and man, does he feel great.
He's going to treat everyone to a pint tonight. Today's his day, and he's gonna savor every minute of it.