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On the village green, a group of children is playing football just after school. They have piled up their school bags against a wall, and use their jackets as goals : the eldest kick around the small ones who shout here and there, and the girls remain chattering apart. The plane-trees shadow turns and merely lengthens. Sitting on an old stone bench, an old man gazes at the landscape, without uttering a word. He has slow clumsy gestures, but he is not motionless. One can even see his foot moving to and fro, and the owner brings it back under the bench, with the same gesture of his arm. The player shooted, pulled his arms up as victory, and the goalkeeper ran after the lost ball, which rolled towards the bench and came to a stop before the old man. The child stopped there waiting, half through shyness, half through curiosity. The man tried to bend down, but his hand stopped before it could reach its goal, and set up trembling. He looked up towards the child, a faint smile vanishing on his wrinkled face. "I almost fell down, boy !" His voice sounded muffled, a bit thick. The child did not understand quite well : he had never before seen an adult like this old man. Maybe he is sick ? "Are you sick, Sir ?" "It’s allright boy, I’m OK..."