Chapter 5 Tobík
Marchetti is explaining soccer to Thompson and getting everything wrong.
“It’s basically hockey without the ice,” he says as we cross the bridge toward the stadium. “Two nets. Two goalies. Guys trying to score. Same sport, different surface.”
“It is not the same sport,” I say. “The field is much larger. The game is ninety minutes. There is no fighting.”
“No fighting?” Marchetti looks personally wounded. “What do they do when someone pisses them off?”
“They fall down and hold their leg.”
“That’s not a sport. That’s theater.”
Thompson adjusts his sunglasses. “You’ve been in the league how many years? And you’ve fought once, Marchetti. Once. And you lost.”
“I didn’t lose. I was surprised. There’s a difference.”
“You were surprised by a fist?”
“I was surprised by the angle of the fist. The fist itself was expected.”
“In hockey,” I say, “there is a code. If a player hits your teammate, you respond. There are rules for the fighting. You agree to it first.”
“Wait.” Marchetti stops walking. “You’re telling me they don’t even have THAT? No fighting code?”
“No. They have yellow cards. A referee shows you a piece of paper.”
“Paper.” Marchetti stares at me. “A man fouls your teammate and the consequence is STATIONERY?”
“The stationery has authority, Marchetti. Two yellow cards and you leave the match.”
“Hockey: you punch someone. Soccer: you get a sticky note from a crossing guard. Thompson, are you hearing this?”
“I’m hearing it. I’m choosing not to engage.”
Davis is ahead of us filming. Mercedes-Benz Stadium rises into the late afternoon, all steel and glass and angles.
The plaza is packed. Green and yellow for Brazil.
Red and blue and white for Czechia. Between them every nation that landed in Atlanta and didn’t want to miss the day.
The concrete is radiating June up through my shoes.
“Hájek, how does the scoring work?” Thompson asks. “Is there a clock that counts down?”
“The clock counts up. To ninety minutes.”
“Up?”
“Yes. Up.”
“Why?” Thompson pushes his sunglasses up for a moment.
“I do not know why.” I shrug. “It is simply how it works.”
“That’s chaos. That’s a clock that doesn’t know its own purpose.”
“I think the clock knows its purpose. It is you who does not understand the clock.”
“Oh SHIT,” Marchetti says, pointing. “Hájek just came for you.”
“He stated a fact. I’m choosing not to be offended.”
“Also,” I say, “there is added time. The referee decides how many extra minutes to play after ninety. Nobody knows exactly when the match will end.”
Thompson stops walking. “The referee just picks a number?”
“Based on stoppages. Injuries. Substitutions.”
“So the game could end at ninety-two or ninety-seven and nobody knows until it happens?”
“Correct.”
“That’s anarchy,” Davis chimes in.
“It is football.”
“Same thing.”
Fifty feet from the main gate, the first one happens. A woman in a Firebirds shirt steps into our path, her face already lit up.
“Oh my god. Tobías?” She’s smiling so wide I can see the gap between her front teeth. “From the Beltline? My friend and I follow you. Can I get a picture?”
“Of course,” I say. “Yes, I would be happy to.”
She tucks in beside me and holds the phone up and I do the face. She hugs me afterward, briefly, the way strangers hug in Atlanta because the city has decided strangers can say hi and hug.
“Thank you so much. My friend Keisha is going to freak out.”
“Tell Keisha I say hello.”
“I WILL. Oh my god. Okay. Enjoy the match!”
She disappears into the crowd. I start walking. The silence behind me has weight. Three pairs of eyes are doing math on the back of my head.
“What,” Marchetti says, “was that?”
“A photograph.”
“She knew your NAME.”
“Many people know my name, Marchetti. I play professional hockey. My name is on my jersey.”
“She didn’t call you Hájek. She called you TOBíAS. Nobody calls you Tobías. Your own teammates don’t call you Tobías. Who IS she?”
“A woman from the Beltline. I guess she sees me on my walk.”
“Your WALK?”
“I walk the Beltline. In the mornings. This is not a secret.”
Thompson is watching me like a man recalculating everything he knows about me. Davis has lowered his phone. Marchetti is opening and closing his mouth in a way that suggests his brain is processing information faster than his face can respond.
Thirty more yards. A man in a food truck apron jogs over from a pop-up stand.
“Hey, it’s the Beltline guy! Selfie king! I showed my wife the photo you posted of our shrimp taco. She cried.”
“Your shrimp taco deserved recognition. It was very emotional.”
“You’re the best, man. Go Czechia, right?”
“Go Czechia.”
He claps my shoulder and jogs back. Thompson takes off his sunglasses.
“Hájek.”
“Yes.”
“How many people in this city know you?”
“I do not have an exact number. That seems like a difficult thing to count.”
“More than five?”
“Yes.”
“More than fifty?”
I consider. The Beltline regulars. The foodie meetup. The coffee shop circle. The flower stand woman. Jordan and her staff. Claire and Bagel’s dog-walking network.
“I think more than fifty, yes.”
“More than FIFTY?” Marchetti grabs the back of his own neck. “We’ve been on the same team for nine months. I’ve sat next to you on planes. I have NEVER seen anyone recognize you outside a rink. And you’re telling me you have fifty friends in this city?”
“They are not all friends. Some are acquaintances. Some are people who follow my Instagram account.”
“You have an Instagram account?”
“Most people have an Instagram account, Marchetti.”
“I follow you on Instagram. I’ve never seen any of this.”
“It is a different account. A personal one. For the city.”
“A SECRET Instagram?”
“It is not a secret. It is simply separate. I post photographs of my walks and the food and the dogs. People seem to enjoy it.”
Davis has his phone up again. “I’m finding this account. What’s the handle?”
“I would prefer not to share the handle at this time.”
“At this TIME? Hájek, you’re a celebrity. In ATLANTA. And none of us knew.”
We pass through the gate. Two women wave from a concession line.
“Beltline regular!” one of them calls. “Tell your friend with the golden retriever we miss her!”
“I will tell Claire,” I say. “She will be very pleased.”
I wave. They wave back. Marchetti stops walking entirely.
“Thompson.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m having a crisis.”
“I can see that.”
“We live with this man. We KNOW this man. And he’s out here being the mayor of Atlanta.”
“I am not the mayor. The mayor is a different person. I have not met the mayor.”
“YET,” Davis says, pointing at me. “You haven’t met the mayor YET.”
Thompson puts his sunglasses back on. He’s smiling, though. The small one he does when you’ve genuinely surprised him, which is rare.
“Hájek. You are full of mysteries.”
“I do not have mysteries. I have a morning walk.”
We find our seats. Section 126, lower bowl, close enough to see faces.
The stadium is filling with a sound I’ve only heard on television before.
A hum that builds without a single moment you can point to and say that’s where it started.
The roof is closed. The light is electric.
The air is filled with the smells of turf and beer and sunscreen and the heat of seventy thousand bodies in a sealed bowl in June.
Marchetti is reading the match program. “Your brother’s number ten?”
“Yes. Attacking midfielder.”
“And the big guy? Number four?”
The number is on the screen above the pitch. MARE?. Center back. Six foot four.
“That is Damián,” I say. “He plays center back. He is the defensive anchor.”
“Wait,” Davis says. “That’s your brother’s friend, right?”
“Yes.”
The teams emerge from the tunnel and seventy thousand voices crack open at once.
The Czech side in red. The Brazilians in gold and green.
The flags ripple. I find him before the camera does.
Hands behind his back. Hair up. Eyes forward.
The red shirt across his shoulders and the number four between his shoulder blades.
Tomá? is five spots down the line, smaller, lighter, vibrating the way he does before he runs.
They’re both singing the anthem. Damián’s mouth moves with certainty. His eyes are already on the pitch. He’s inside the game before the whistle has blown.
The pitch opens up and twenty-two bodies organize themselves into shape. Damián wins the first aerial duel in the fourth minute. The Brazilian striker comes in fast and he’s already there. The jump timed so precisely, the ball meets his forehead at a height nobody else on the pitch can reach.
“Holy shit,” Marchetti says. “He just jumped over that guy.”
“He did not jump over him. He out-timed him.”
“Hájek, you understand this sport?”
“I understand positioning. Positioning is positioning in every sport.”
“Okay, explain this to me then. In hockey, the goalie covers most of the net. It’s a small net. Why is the soccer net so ENORMOUS? You could park a car in there.”
“The goalkeeper cannot use his hands outside a certain area. The field is very large. A large net creates difficulty.”
“But the goalie can use his hands INSIDE the area?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if an outfield player uses his hands?”
“The other team is given a free kick. Or a penalty.”
“Even by accident?”
“Even by accident. There was a famous incident where the ball hit a player’s hand and the other team received a penalty and there was a riot.”
“A RIOT? You said there was no fighting!”
“The players do not fight. The fans occasionally riot.”
“Hockey fans don’t riot.”
“Counterpoint. Philly and Vancouver,” Thompson says.
“Vancouver was one time. And Philly fans are crazy.”
Tomá? wins a tackle at midfield. Drives forward. Passes wide. The crowd leans. The chance comes to nothing. Sixty yards from the ball, Damián is already adjusting position, already seeing what might happen three moves from now.
“He’s good,” Thompson says.
“Yes,” I say. “He is very good.”
Brazil scores in the thirty-seventh minute.
Counter-attack. The ball in the net before anyone can process it.
The Czech section groans. The Brazilian fans erupt.
Damián stands with his hands on his hips for one second.
Then he walks to one of the players who was out of position.
Hand on the back of the man’s neck. Says something I can read from posture alone: that happened, we reset, we go again.
He nods. Damián jogs back to position and claps twice, sharp, cutting through the noise.
“That’s captaining,” Thompson says.
“He’s not the captain.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s captaining.”
Second half. Damián wins a header in the fifty-eighth minute.
This one placed. Deliberate. Dropping the ball at Tomá?‘s feet. Tomá? controls it and starts the counter that lands the equalizer two passes later. The stadium erupts. Marchetti is grabbing my arm and screaming. I’m screaming too.
On the pitch, Damián turns upfield to watch the ball hit the net.
His fist closes once at his side. The restraint of a man who set the whole thing in motion and is choosing not to celebrate because the job isn’t finished.
“He started that,” Davis says, rewinding on his phone. “That header. Placed it right onto your brother’s foot.”
“Yes. That is how they work together. Tomá? runs. Damián finds him.”
“They’ve been doing this a while.”
“Over ten years.”
“Do they ever get breaks? They just keep playing?” Marchetti asks.
“No breaks. You play until you are injured or coach makes a substitution, but you cannot go back on the field.”
“That’s insane,” Davis pipes up from Thompson’s other side.
“It is a very hard game to play.”
“Not harder than hockey though,” Marchetti adds.
The match ends 1-1. Fair result, the commentator says. Marchetti is replaying the equalizer on his phone. Thompson is looking up the group standings. Davis is filming the Czech section still celebrating, the flags waving, the songs in a language my teammates can’t understand.
“Hájek.” Marchetti’s hand on my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yes.” I blink. “I’m good. We should go find them.”
“Find who?”
“The Czech players. They come out after the match. Tomá? will be expecting me.”
I lead my teammates down toward the tunnel area. The crowd is thick with heat and noise. Somewhere on the other side of a wall, Damián is walking off the pitch with his hair coming loose and his hand still shaped the way it was when he told a teammate the only thing that needed saying.
Marchetti falls into step beside me. “So how long have you known this Damián guy?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“And he’s your brother’s best friend?”
“Yes.”
“And you just watched him play for ninety minutes without blinking.”
“I blinked, Marchetti. Blinking is involuntary.”
“You know what I mean. Your brother was on the field, and you spent all your time watching his best friend.”
“I watched the match. He plays center back. Center backs are interesting to watch if you understand positioning.”
“Uh huh.” Marchetti gives me the look he gives when he’s onto the thing but won’t say it out loud yet. I give him a look letting him know I won’t say anything else.
We turn the corner toward the players’ tunnel.
The air is cooler here, underground. Voices echo off concrete.
My pulse is sitting high in my throat. I’m going to be standing in front of Damián with grass stains on his socks and ninety minutes of the pitch still on his skin, and my teammates are going to be watching, and my face is going to do something that I won’t be able to hide. I’m going to let it.