Michael sat in his office looking at the training schedule. The sun was actually shining which was a rare miracle in Yorkshire.
Arthur Milton was sitting on the sofa. He was counting stacks of new training bibs.
"Boss," Arthur said. "These new bibs are gold. Literally gold color. The players will look like Ferrero Rocher chocolates running around."
"It is for visibility Arthur," Michael said. "And because we are the Golden Generation."
"I like chocolate," Arthur muttered.
Then the phone rang.
It was not the office phone. It was Michael's personal mobile. The one that only a few people had.
He looked at the screen. It was his father.
Michael picked it up.
"Dad? Everything okay? Did the toaster explode again?"
There was a silence on the other end.
"Michael," his father's voice was quiet. It was shaky. "You need to come to the hospital. It is your mother."
The world stopped.
The tactical plans vanished. The gold bibs vanished. The Premier League title race vanished.
