The Never-Ending Dream

As the trophy parade around the pitch drew to a close, Allen Morrison's retirement ceremony began.

The floodlights blazing over the dusk-settled pitch dimmed one by one, and from the stands rose the familiar chant dedicated to Allen.

"For the past twenty years, I have stood by Luton Town."

Though sorrow tinged his voice, there was no lingering regret. Still, he could not conceal the trembling in his throat.

"Now, my time as a player will remain only in the history of Luton Town."

It had taken far longer than expected to finally utter those words.

Had Manager Gordon Morton not arrived at Luton Town three years ago, Allen might have hung up his boots without a second thought the moment that season ended. At thirty-eight today—and even at thirty-five back then—he had reached an age where stepping away from professional football would surprise no one.

Yet the vitality breathed into the club by a fresh manager and promising youngsters, Gordon's earnest plea, and his own stubborn, desperate attachment to Luton Town had brought him all the way here.

Luton Town were champions. They were heading to the Premier League.

It was an unspeakable joy.

Only, he would not be there among them as a player.

He knew it full well. Gasping for breath in the Championship, his body beginning to betray him—to insist on playing in the Premier League would be pure obstinacy. He could have clung to a spot on the bench as a token reserve, but he had no desire to end his journey that way.

"However, this does not mean the end between Luton Town and me."

As any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠devoted supporter already knew, Allen had spent the latter half of the season practically serving as a coach.

"Though I may never play on this pitch at Kenilworth Road again, I will remain here at Luton Town, standing alongside our lads."

At those words, the supporters who had watched his entire twenty-year odyssey—from his debut in League Two all the way to this Championship triumph—roared in celebration. It was the club's repayment for Allen Morrison's lifelong devotion, and an answer to the fans' heartfelt wish not to lose their icon overnight.

"Luton Town are now going to the Premier League."

Allen swallowed his tears, leaving only a smile. Determined not to deliver such glorious news while weeping, he roughly wiped his eyes and pressed on.

"I'm too old to grieve that there's no spot left for me out there. Just an old relic, really."

At that self-deprecating quip, middle-aged fans who had grown gray alongside Allen threw back chuckles and affectionate banter from across the stands.

"If you're an old relic, then I bloody well ought to be dead!"

"You sound fit as a fiddle to me, mate!"

"Give us one more year!"

Laughter rippled across the ground at the crowd's banter. Allen couldn't suppress a chuckle himself.

Luton Town had always been like this. Ever since their days in the fifth tier, there was no pretense or distance between the club and its supporters. Back when there weren't even barriers around the pitch, they would holler back and forth during matches and share a drink together after the final whistle.

With promotion to the top flight, Kenilworth Road would undergo sweeping redevelopment, and intimate moments like this might soon become impossible. In that sense, his might be the last retirement ceremony where a player could chat so candidly with the stands.

With that thought in mind, he spoke once more.

"I appreciate the kind words, but I'm afraid this is as far as my legs will carry me."

Finally breaking into the tears he had fought so hard to restrain, he gently set the commemorative plaque down on the turf and unfolded a sheet of paper already half-soaked in tears.

"I knew I should've read the speech first."

It was completely soaked through. Sighing, he let the paper drift onto the grass.

"Thank you, Luton Town."

Whatever had been scribbled on that scrap of paper was already overflowing from his heart anyway.

"To my parents in heaven, my brothers, my friends, and to my wife, son, and daughter standing right before me who have supported me all these years... thank you."

Perhaps the foolish thing was believing he could unpack more than twenty years of life in a single brief speech. But what did it matter? Out on this turf, he had already shared a joyful story with himself and the fans. That was enough.

"Over the past few years, Father Time cruelly whispered in my ear. He told me I was growing older, that I was too worn down to run across this familiar pitch. He whispered countlessly that it was time to hang up the shirt and boots."

He could never forget coming to the brink of retirement two years ago when told he faced over six months ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of grueling rehabilitation. Had Gordon not talked him down back then, he wouldn't be standing here today.

"Once today is over, I may never again smell this familiar grass, feel the sunbeam cutting through the corner of the ground, or taste the sheer euphoria of victory."

A coach could share in the joy of winning, yet he already knew that victory as a player was an entirely different beast. Spending the latter half of the season on the bench had made that crystal clear.

"Ever since announcing my retirement, I kept second-guessing myself. Should I take it back? Should I stay and hold on just a little longer?"

Only today did the truth finally settle in.

Seeing Luton Town lift that championship trophy high, shouting in jubilation alongside them—this was more than enough. It was a magnificent finale to his dream. How many players had retired at Luton Town over the decades, slipping quietly out the back door without even a modest farewell? To conclude the final chapter of a happy dream with equal happiness made him the luckiest man in the entire stadium.

"This speech is dedicated to the little kids who cheer my name, to the supporters over there who were once children themselves and are now heads of their own families trying to stop me from retiring, and to each and every one of you still applauding me today."

The true end was at hand. Just like the match that had concluded earlier, this speech would draw to a close, and with it, his playing career.

"Once I take off this shirt and frame it nicely... well, I'm still not entirely sure my heart is ready for that, but..."

At his confession, the entire stadium raised their voices, offering the same thunderous encouragement they had given him for two decades.

"Now, I will walk down that tunnel into the very dressing room where I made my debut—and I will leave it as a grown man."

Their cheers had always been the wind at his back and the pillar holding him up. It was time to answer their final salute.

"It was an honor to be with you at Luton Town. To give you my love and to be loved in return—it was the happiest dream I could ever have wished for."

Patting the Luton Town crest sewn over his chest, he marked his final moments upon the turf.

"Thank you. This was Allen Morrison, of Luton Town."

And with that, he brought his dream to an end.

Inside the stadium tunnel.

"I had no idea Morrison had such a way with words."

"Neither did I."

Standing beside Adelia, I watched Allen step off the pitch and embrace his family after finishing his speech. That rascal Lee Yeon had complained he was exhausted and dumped the body back onto me before vanishing into slumber, leaving me to handle the open-top bus parade and the after-party.

Meanwhile, reality seemed to have finally hit Allen. Buried in the arms of his wife—whom I remembered meeting at his restaurant—he was bawling his eyes out.

"Personally, I feel awful that we couldn't give him a grander send-off," Adelia murmured. "The stadium expansion will be finished by the end of next season..."

Having supported Luton Town from the moment she could speak—long before becoming interim chairwoman—she couldn't shake the lingering ache of seeing a true club legend depart like this.

"You don't need to worry about that. I'm certain he loved every second of it."

Every player in the squad knew how deeply attached Allen was to Kenilworth Road. He was precisely the kind of man who would cherish ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bowing out in the intimate, battered ground he knew like the back of his hand far more than in any polished, newly renovated arena.

"Oh, and the bus parade is scheduled after the FA Cup Final," she added.

"...Then we'd better finish the job properly."

"No need to put too much pressure on yourself. What you've all done already is more than enough."

Flashing a gentle smile, she said her goodbyes and brought our brief conversation to a close.

A moment later, Allen trudged into the tunnel, and the lads unleashed an avalanche of champagne over him, paying him back in full for all the times he had drenched us.

"Oi! I'm supposed to dry this shirt out and frame it, you bastards!"

Naturally, none of them were the sort to stop just because he yelled.

The entire squad embraced Allen and reveled in the moment. Eventually giving up on saving his shirt, he threw his arms around us and gave himself over completely to the night.

I hadn't lied.

Of course, the bill for the fried chicken was coming straight out of Han's bank account, but that was hardly any of my business.

In any case, even for the folks living on the exact opposite side of the globe from Luton, it was a rather happy day.