George was always different from the other kids. For a start, he went to school at Eton, so it was obvious his dad wasn’t a dustman. If he had the choice to choose, he would have gone to the local secondary school, but of course he never really had much to say about where or how he would be tutored. An abundance of brains had never been a strong point in his family, but that in itself had never been a disadvantage. The whole world knew who they were anyway.

Even at Eton where every pupil had either a very famous or very rich father, sometime both, George stood out. He was really quiet shy and always tried to blend in with the rest, sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. The looks, the stares and whispers he could live with, he had been brought up with that. Occasionally when he actually heard the others talking about him he would give them a long determined look, his dark sapphire eyes would burn into them and then he would smile and walk away. His good looks annoyed many of his rich but spotty classmates. Just being him wasn’t easy.

The new school year had begun and as he would be seventeen in a few months the sixth form had called. This would be the year of serious study and preparation for a future, somewhat distant life. Math, Physics, English Lit. And all the other boring subjects that had plagued British schoolboys forever now had to be studied learnt and memorized. He felt like a parrot. Never having taken the academic side of school too seriously his task this year was to put his head down, swot and pass his exams. That morning’s meeting with the Headmaster had left George more than a little worried. The Head had been unusually stern and rather intimidating, probably because of the meeting with George’s father the day before witch had left the Headmaster feeling very intimidated himself. “When the head of the family speaks, people listen” it had always been like that. It was the Headmaster’s warning that had him on edge. He was expected to follow the family tradition and either joins the Royal Navy or the Army as generations of his family’s sons had done before him, after which he would eventually run the family firm. The Headmasters threat had been very simple. “If you cannot study and play football then you will not play football. I’m afraid you will leave me no alternative but to drop you from the school.”

George had looked at the Headmaster with a blank stare. His blue eyes had lost their fire and tightly compressed lips hid any reply he may have made. The Principal looked at this young boy with the Greek God’s face and idly compared him to his Great Grandfather. A handsome Greek indeed. “I’m sorry, but there it is, your father is concerned for your future as am I. We feel that the sport, although an important part of our curriculum, is and always has been secondary to the first class education that we are expected to give you. You are dismissed.” As he closed the door behind him the words “Slimy Toad” ran through George’s mind.

He was late for lessons after his meeting but the determination that shone so brightly on the field now needed to be applied in the classroom. That morning’s mathematics class blended with scoring patterns in his mind, and his knowledge of history competed with imaginary shots on goal. When the bell rang at 4 PM it was as if a ton weight had been removed from his shoulders. As soon as he reached his room, he removed his school uniform. Gray flannel trousers, blazer, shirt and tie lay in a crumpled heap on the wooden floor. George couldn’t get his boots on fast enough; quickly he put on his red shorts and then a white tee shirt. From the time he first unbuttoned his tie to the time he was on the pitch was less than five minutes. In his element now, the cool greyness of an autumn sky produced a firm easterly wind. Lying in a prone stretching position and looking up he felt the first drops of October rain land on his skin. Cold and threatening, good football weather.

He stretched and loosened his muscles. Blood pumping into his calves, muscle and sinew beginning to come alive. Flexing his ankles dropping the ball, watching it roll down his shin, holding it on his instep. A quick flick up, eyes never leaving the spinning ball for a split second. A few quick juggling moves and the ball lazily rolled off his left foot and stopped next to him like a pet dog. He jogged a lap of the field then another. His heart quickened, beating slightly faster. A fifty yard sprint once and then again. His heart was pumping now. The rest of the team was waiting for him, practice began, and he was in his rightful world. Where he should be.

The very next weekend he visited his parents. They spent a lot of time at the family residence in Windsor, not far from Eton. Sunday lunch was normally a relaxed family affair, just a couple of servants serving rare roast beef on silver platters. Virginia his elder sister, a stunning nineteen year old with golden red hair and emerald green eyes was there along with Albert, George’s younger brother. As always his father sat at the head of the long oak table with his mother at his right hand side. The children plunked their selves haphazardly around the table. Albert’s mischievous eyes darting towards Ginny. They both seemed to know a showdown was coming between George and father, but even after the pudding was long gone the subject still hadn’t been brought up. Not until Albert, bored with waiting innocently said “Dad why can’t you let George play for the Arsenal? You know they would love to sign him, along with every other club in the league. And we all know that playing football is the only thing that he’s good at.”

The silence was deafening. It had taken a twelve year old to say what everyone else had been thinking. For the first time ever Albert received a look of loving thanks from his elder brother. Father eventually spoke. “George, as your parents, we both know that you are probably the best forward of your age in England at this time. What a dubious honour this is for you. Although it is your passion and love and of course the whole family is proud of your achievements” Ginny, Albert and even mother were nodding enthusiastically. “You must understand that a career as a professional footballer cannot be allowed or condoned.” The Monarch seemed to stumble for words “ Your future lies here with this family. Nothing, I repeat nothing can interfere with your destiny. You will be the next King of England.”

Every club and agent wanted him; whole country knew how good he was but it seemed that Prince George, heir to the British throne would one day be the captain of England but not in the way he would have hoped. For the next few months he worked hard at improving his academic grades and was greatly relieved when informed that he could still play in the final game of the year, on the first Saturday in May against his school’s arch rivals, Harrow. Albert, Ginny and even his mother had badgered, cajoled and generally wore the King down to attend the event. Their Majesties had never seen their son play in a major game because of the massive media coverage that followed them everywhere. This match was the exception. The whole family would be watching along with the Headmaster. Early summer shadows lengthened as the clock hands approached three PM. The school’s main playing field was jammed packed, as always, except this time there were TV cameras everywhere.

Both teams walked onto the pitch amid rapturous applause. Albert and Ginny whooping wildly ignoring the disapproving glare form their father, who politely clapped both teams. George wore the Captains armband and took his position on the left side of the field. Harrow kicked off after winning the toss, they had the wind behind them and the sunshine shone into the Eton player’s eyes. The play was a little scrappy, more physical than skilful neither team gaining the advantage until the forty-fourth minute when a Harrow midfielder crossed to his winger who easily slipped the ball passed a sleepy Eton defender and scored.

George needed to shine in the second half and shine he did, even his father was impressed. When the final whistle blew the home crowd went wild, mainly because Eton had beat Harrow 3-1, but it was a hat trick by the Prince of Wales that had stunned the crowd. The TV cameras had caught it all. His third goal, a cannon of a shot from a half volley which thundered into the back of the net was repeated over and over on soccer channels worldwide. The final year of school was going well for him so far. He had studied hard and played harder for the last two years. His love for football grew with each game he played. A walk in the woods surrounding Windsor Castle followed a traditional Christmas lunch. Sharp December sunshine cast long shadows over the glorious countryside. The whole family loved this most special of days. The King had made his annual speech, which had, as always been broadcast and warmly received throughout the land and what was left of the Commonwealth.

The Queen, Ginny and Albert were quite a way ahead, the Corgi dogs darting playfully through the brittle winter undergrowth. George and his father were bringing up the rear; gloved hands stuffed deep in their pockets, Wellington boots crunching the late afternoon frost. “You really want to pursue this football thing of yours don’t you George”? The King never looked at his eldest son as he spoke. “Even though it means not going to University or joining the Navy. I just cannot imagine the heir to the throne not following through the normal channels of tradition. Whilst you have been kicking I have made inquiries with the Prime Minister, he in turn has advised me that in his opinion it would be possible for you to have a trial with a professional club. Providing that if you should be chosen to play for a club any salary you receive will go towards community projects in that particular community”.

George couldn’t believe his ears. They were letting him go for a tryout. By the following week the media were all over it. Within a month the King was inwardly regretting his decision. The boy had offers from every major football club in the world. The heir to the throne playing for Bayern Munich or Real Madrid indeed. Just the thought was preposterous. The family had seen a change in George; he seemed so alive and determined. Deep down within him he had always known which team he wanted to play forever since he was a little boy. Although as heir to a throne that oversaw the British Isles and the commonwealth communities, he always thought of himself as a Londoner. He knew he should have equal feelings for Glasgow, Belfast and Brisbane but having been brought up mainly at Buckingham Palace his heart belonged to that throbbing metropolis of London.

Yes it had to be a London club. He hoped he was good enough to play for the Arsenal. George had been to the grounds enough, sneaking there on a Saturday, just him and a bodyguard, never being recognized, well only once a couple of years ago. That photograph made every newspaper sports page. He was snapped jumping for joy as the Gunners winger drilled home the winning goal in the 92nd minute to beat Tottenham 3-2 in a thrilling match on a bleak January afternoon. The Arsenal had always been his favourite club, and the thought of playing for them made his heart pound faster. He had little trouble getting a tryout and he arrived well before the 9 am allotted time. Arsenal F.C. had made it quite clear that no matter who was trying out, they would be selected only if the club thought they had the potential to play on the team. In other words Prince or no Prince he had better be on his best form today.

The training ground was empty. The goal posts poked through the February gloom. The clubs management met him and unwittingly made him nervous. He began to feel better when the famous players of the Arsenal winked, smiled and shook hands with him. Who was more thrilled them or him; it was hard to say. He won the majority of the 50/50 balls, missed only one penalty out of five attempts, sprinted convincingly and gave a satisfactory performance in most aspects of the mornings training session. He felt his heading was a little weak and shooting with his left wasn’t as strong as it should have been. Lunch was a carbohydrate affair with the team. The afternoon’s makeup game was a full eleven-aside affair. Two twenty minute halves. George glided past the Captain, a strong, bulky right back and then cut inside and whipped the ball into the bottom right hand corner a minute before half time. His side had been trailing 2-0 and now went into the break only one goal down. The games pace got faster in the second half and inexperience began taking its toll on his muscles, and then somehow in a flash he was in front of the Keeper with the ball at his feet. Instinctively his right foot shot the ball forward. The goalie dived to his feet. Too late. The ball was in the back of the net. He felt exhilaration like none he had ever experienced. He glanced over to see if the Manager had seen it. Of course he had a slight nod and a wry smile let the Prince know that he had passed the test. Terms would be agreed later but yes, he was going to play for the Arsenal.

The beginning of the English 2037/38 season was without parallel. The whole country had come to a standstill; the run up in the media for the previous few months had been huge. Ashburton Grove stadium, now just over thirty years old loomed gigantic in the August sunshine. In the first game of the new season, the Arsenal had been drawn against newly promoted Millwall, finally back in the top flight after fifty years. They were playing the Arsenal on a beautiful August day.

George was in awe as he came out of the tunnel. The roar of the crowd was deafening. He had arrived and the whole world was watching, including his parents. Nobody had a reason to put in a Royal Box in the early 2000’s when the stadium was being built. The King and Queen were watching from the Directors box high above the pitch. Even Millwall supporters were on their best behaviour. He played the first half almost scoring in the fourteenth minute with a dazzling twenty-five yard chip, just clipped over the bar by the goalies fingertips. Knowing that a second half appearance was doubtful he scored a rather scrappy goal from a difficult angle only a couple of minutes before the half ended. He played a good half he thought as he watched the rest of the game from the dugout and Arsenal eventually won that hard fought game 2-1.

The next few years flew past. George’s strength and skill grew together, blending in with the players in the Arsenal. He became a respected first team player, his speed on the wing and his loose, light footwork coupled with deadly goal scoring accuracy ensured him a place as a firm favourite with North London’s faithful. George was overjoyed when they beat Manchester United to win the FA Cup in 2041 having lost in the semis the previous two years. He was called up to play for England in the same year. The press was abuzz with excitement. England played decently in the following years. The Prince was playing in the World Cup in Germany and many felt the national team would have played better if twenty three year old George Windsor had not been on the sidelines after an unfortunate call by the referee. A red card had kept him on the bench for England’s last game in the quarter final in which they lost 4-2 to Turkey.

The 42/43 season added the league cup and the following year brought them the double. Arsenal’s fifth since being at Ashburton Grove. George’s royal duties had given way to his football career. Nobody minded. The country's population was happy to have a Prince that they could connect with. Every time he was given a yellow card the press went wild. On the rare occasion he was shown the red card the people loved him more. He gave as good as he got on the field earning the respect of his club’s supporters and the country as a whole.