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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The playground was empty except for a boy and his ball. The sky above the council estate was a dull grey, the kind of overcast that seemed to weigh on the rows of concrete high-rises and tired streets below. Jamie Thompson stood at the centre of the cracked concrete pitch, his breath fogging in the cold evening air.
His clothes hung loosely on his wiry frame, a hand-me-down tracksuit two sizes too big, and his shoes were scuffed trainers held together by glue and hope. In front of him, two dented bins served as makeshift goalposts.
He balanced the ball on his right foot, staring at the invisible crowd in his imagination. The noise of the estate, the distant shouts, the muffled music, the hum of passing cars, faded as he focused. This wasn't just a playground anymore. This was Wembley Stadium.
