In the summer of 1990, on the freshly asphalted open lot across from Wool's Orphanage in the London suburbs, a group of children relentlessly chased after a brand-new football.
More than a dozen children around ten years old ran freely across the lot. This had once been the orphans' favorite activity.
What, you asked why it was their former favorite sport? Simple: because there was a green-clad smurf on the pitch who only cared about showing off, leaving the other children unable to even touch the ball.
A row of children sat on the old bench by the lot, biting into popsicles fresh from the freezer as they watched the few people still on the pitch with disgruntled expressions.
The spot where they were sitting had originally belonged to the smurf on the field. He normally had no interest in playing football with these kids, but Italy had been hosting the World Cup lately. The matches on television had made someone itch to play, so he had splurged on the same model of ball used in the World Cup and come here to ruthlessly bully kids.
One child had just received a goal kick from the goalkeeper and was about to push forward. Before he could even turn around, a green blur entered his vision. Then he was sent flying by an elbow, landing flat on his backside and losing possession.
"Man! Hahaha—"
The evil green shorts seized possession with an elbow, then glued the ball to his feet and rapidly advanced.
The opposing defenders were already used to this. Three or four of them closed in together, prepared to steal the ball from the green shorts, even leaving his other teammates completely unmarked.
Faced with a three-man press, the green shorts only needed to slip the ball through to