Certainly, in a paper folder, he had kept a few newspaper clippings and a series of photos that told what he had been in the prime of life. But Maryan Wisniewski was not a man to reread the past. Even less to sublimate it. No doubt he held this discretion from his modest origins, from this Polish blood which has done so much to keep the black heart of the mines of the North beating. Before earning a living playing football, his experience in the galleries had taught him to remain humble. A little over a year ago, on a cold afternoon, we warmed ourselves to the fire of his memories which crackled under the breath of our questions. Sitting in his house
