‘Albion kick off in the FA Cup Final and Taylor has the ball. One of the finest new talents in England; we’re hoping for tremendous things from him this afternoon.
‘He has the ball, he’s going past the midfield players and the number eight only stands and stares.
‘Now, Taylor’s through on the fullback. The City crowd are on their feet. The fullback doesn’t know what to do, he’s hardly trying to stop Taylor.
‘Taylor’s in on goal. The goalie is left standing. He doesn’t move. The ball’s in the back of the net. It’s a goal! It’s a goal!
‘The City fans go wild. Surely, it’s the most extraordinary own goal ever scored at Wembley. Or anywhere else for that matter. History has truly been made and we’re only 30 seconds into the final. What do you make of it, Trevor? …’
Nine thousand miles away in a sweaty apartment in Singapore, three men crack open the lager. What a result! One scrolls through a computer screen. The bookies never saw them coming. Bets on an own-goal at Wembley in the opening five minutes. Think of the odds on that. The winnings from betting sites across the globe start stacking up. One million, two million. It’ll be five million U.S. by the time it’s all counted and the men have skipped the country.
Albion beat City three-one, but all people talk about is Taylor, now doing three years jail time for corruption: and the sucker never saw a cent.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 