Game Day Blues
Molly
SATURDAYS ARE STARTING to become my favorite part of Ireland.
At home, games were scattered a lot, usually on Wednesdays or Fridays, wedged between school days and homework.
At first I thought that a slower schedule would disrupt my training or something, that I’d lose my edge with so much time between matches, but I’m finding that I actually enjoy playing every Saturday—and having every fourth Saturday off.
It isn’t just the adrenaline of the game days that make Saturdays feel like the best part. There’s also the pre-game lunches, the post-game celebrations (or commiserations, depending on the outcome), and the car rides sprinkled throughout the day that I get from Niall.
Those car rides are up there on my list of favorite things, a bubble of just-us-time, where we can talk about anything and everything, or say nothing at all.
Contending with all of that, the rest of the week just can’t compare.
Weekdays are for uniforms, and schoolwork, and practices every other day. Sunday is a wind-down, and usually I spent it doing something with Lorraine (and lately, Mom and Jamie, who things have been getting better with day by day). But Saturdays... Saturdays are for football.
God, if my friends at home could hear me calling it that now...
It’s Saturday, December 1st. The air has a bite to it now, a sharpness that promises snow even though Niall and everyone else has told me it rarely actually snows in Mayville.
This game and the one we play on the 15th will be our last games until we go on Holiday break, which lasts until January 20th.
The thought of almost six weeks off is both a relief and a source of anxiety. Part of me is desperate for the break, for the chance to sleep in and not have to think about tactics or fitness or about if what I’m eating is going to make me sluggish all day.
But another part of me, the part that’s been playing soccer since I could walk, is already dreading the time away from the pitch.
Niall explained that our spring schedule will be much more packed. The schedule stays the same until about March, that’s when we start to see if we qualify to play for the Clover Cup in May.
The Clover Cup is a championship thing that works similar to how the playoffs worked back home. There’s a bracket and everything. The team who wins the Clover Cup gets a trophy and bragging rights, but also a decent chunk of money that goes to the school’s sports programs.
“Lot’s of press, too,” Niall tells me. We’re still parked in the Escort, having just got back from lunch at Mulligan’s with the boys. Or the lads, as Niall would say. “Ireland’s press eats up anything underdog related.”
“Would we be the underdogs?” I ask, chewing on a fry from my to-go container. It’s a bit soggy now, but I don’t mind. I’m too keyed up for the game to really taste anything anyway.
Niall laughs, a throaty sound that makes my stomach do a little flip. “Fuck no. We’re reigning champs. Mayville’s been winning that thing three years in a row now.”
“And yet you still can’t fund a girls’ team, huh?” I tease, popping another fry in my mouth. I love giving him a hard time about that, but it’s mostly just for show. Mostly.
I do miss playing with girls. But I get through by reminding myself that all of this will lead to that someday.
Niall groans, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t remind me.”
It’s been a relatively good day. It’s kind of cold, but alright when the wind isn’t blowing. And Mom, Jamie and Lorraine are all coming to the game tonight, since Lorraine has been begging to come to one since we got here.
Most of the guys on the team have their family at games all the time. I think at least one of Finn’s parents come to almost every game. Me, I’ve never really had that kind of constance, even in America. It’s not something that I really envy, but I guess that’s because I’m not used to it.
Still, it feels like a treat when someone does come for me.
“How’s your knee?” I ask him, trying to get a feel for if I should look out for it during the game. I try to make a habit of asking him now and then, before games and training sessions.
He always says the same thing, but I can’t stop myself from checking.
“Fine,” he shrugs, stealing one of my fries. I level a glare at him, but not because of the stolen food. It’s because of the casual way he says it, the way he always says it.
He looks at me, his stormy eyes softening. “What? It is. I really feel fine today, Mols. I’m not messing.”
I should believe him—I totally want to. But I’ve believed him before—about not having a problem with drinking—and I ended up being wrong.
My biggest fear is that this injury is worse than he ever lets on to anyone, that he’s pushing himself too hard, trying to be the best, and that one day he’s going to push too far and break for good.
And if that does happen, I know I’d feel ridden with guilt because I was complicit in helping him hide it.
“How was your last appointment?” I ask, knowing he had one with his doctor on most Wednesdays. He’d usually go during lunch time, and his Mam would drop him back off at school before the end of the day.
“Same as always,” he says, turning to look out the window. “If the doctors don’t see anything wrong then neither do I.”
“Niall...” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I’m alright,” he says, voice firmer but still kind. He turns back to face me, his gaze intense. “I’m always alright.”
And I want to believe him, God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling me everything, that he’s hiding something, and that something is going to come back to bite us both.
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FAIRVIEW IS ONE of, if not the, best teams we’ve played against this year.
From the moment they step onto the pitch, it’s clear that they’re in a different league to the teams we’ve been playing.
They have this air of confidence—real confidence, not fake confidence that covers up arrogance—and it makes them formidable opponents. Their defense is well-organized, their midfielders keep possession, and their attackers are deadly.
They move with a fluidity that’s a stark contrast to the more direct, physical style of the play that’s common here. They’re good, and they know it.
I’m once again back to my old position, the center-mid spot I’ve always felt most comfortable in. It was nice to take over for Niall for a bit, but there’s no doubt it’s for the better that he's back to being our hybrid.
He has a way of seeing the game, of reading the flow, that’s almost uncanny. He’s the engine of our team, the one who makes everything tick. Last week, we won our game with a shutout.
But this week, Fairview isn’t letting us get away with anything.
The first half feels like a contorted blur, filled with running and tackling and near misses. The pitch is slick with a light rain that started falling just before kickoff, and the ball is skidding around, making it difficult to control.
Fairview’s players are faster than most of us, more technical, and they’re passing circles around us. It feels like the Saints are struggling to keep up.
The first half ends 1-1, after Finn scores off a cross from Declan, a scrappy goal that comes more from luck than skill, and Fairview equalizes with a penalty kick from a foul I didn’t even see happen.
All I saw was the ref pointing to the spot, and their number 9 stepping up to take it. He sends Liam the wrong way, and the ball hits the back of the net.
I glance up at the stands as we walk off the field, where Lorraine is sitting on Jamie’s lap next to Mom. The three of them are bundled up in hats and scarves, their faces flush with cold and excitement. They’re cheering and clapping with most of the other spectators as we walk off.
I wave at them, and Lorraine jumps up and down on Jamie’s lap, waving both of her arms back at me, her face split in a toothy grin.
I take a sip of water and look back at the field, where Fairview’s players are huddled together, talking strategy. They look calm and focused, the exact opposite of how I feel right now. And I’m not alone either. The rest of our team looks like a mess, too.
“Alright,” Niall says, gathering us around. “Second half, we need to keep possession better. Fitz. mark their number 10 tighter—he’s their playmaker. Molly, try to stay wide when we’re attacking, they're weak on their wings. We need to use speed and stretch their defense.”
I nod, wiping a bead of sweat off my brow. He runs a few other orders, completely back in his element as the captain, the leader, the one everyone looks to for guidance. When he’s done, we do our chant—two, four, six, eight, SAINTS—and split off, ready to go back out there and fight.
Fairview kicks off, and their number 10 gets a hold of the ball right away, and starts dribbling towards our goal.
Joey sticks to him like glue, but the kid is quick.
He’s l feet and fancy moves, a blur of motion that I’m sure is mesmerizing to watch, but a nightmare to play with.
He passes to their striker, who takes a shot, but Liam blocks it easily.
We counterattack. Niall intercepts the ball and quickly passes to me and I’m off, dribbling up the field, the wind whipping at my back.
I can feel the eyes of the crowd on me, the weight of their expectations, but I block it out, focusing on the ball at my feet, on the space ahead of me.
I pass to Declan on the wing, who takes it down the line.
He crosses it in, but Gerard’s header goes just wide, skimming the outside of the post and rolling out of play.
A collective groan goes through the crowd, and I can feel the frustration building.
Fairview regains possession, and their number 10—Kerwin, his white jersey says—is once again orchestrating their attack. He’s everywhere, popping up in pockets of space, dictating the tempo of the game, pulling our defense out of shape.
I track back, trying to help Joey mark him, but not before he passes to their left winger, who takes a shot from a tight angle. Liam saves it again, a brilliant diving stop, but the rebound falls to their striker, who’s there to tap it in.
2-1 Fairview.
We restart the game, this time trying for a more aggressive approach. We have to, we have no other choice. We’re running out of time, and a one-goal deficit feels like a mountain we’re not sure we can climb.
I pass to Aidan, who dribbles past their right back and crosses it in, the shot getting blocked but the rebound falls to me.
I take a shot, putting everything I have into it, but their goalkeeper is damn good and he saves it.
Fairview clears the ball and we’re back to defending, my legs heavy and lungs burning.
Their number 10 is everywhere—dribbling, passing, shooting—and it’s clear that he’s their best player and for a good reason.
If I was just a spectator in this game, I’d have a lot of respect for him, no matter what side I was rooting for. He’s talented, no doubt about it. But most of that respect is getting overshadowed right now by my need to get this game back on track and by the clawing desire to win.
It’s in the 75th minute when I get my chance.
The game is stretched, both teams pushing forward, looking for the next goal.
Niall intercepts a pass from their number 10, a perfectly timed tackle that sends the other player tumbling to the ground.
He quickly passes to me. I dribble up the field, dodging their defenders, my feet moving faster than they ever have before.
I can see Finn making a run, a flash of navy against the green pitch. I pass to him, putting him one-on-one with the goal keeper. He shoots, but their goalkeeper saves it again.
The rebound comes back to me, and I have a clear shot at the goal. I take it, putting all my frustration, all my anger, all my desperation into it. The ball flies through the air, a white missile heading for the back of the net.
It hits the crossbar and bounces back into play.
That’s two goals I fucked up. One was simply caught by the goalkeeper, but this one, this one was on me. I’m the one who missed. I messed up. I made the mistake.
Fairview clears the ball, and the next thing I know their number 10 is sprinting toward our goal. He passes to their striker, who takes a shot, and Liam’s too late when he dives for it. The ball sails past him and into the back of the net.
3-1 Fairview.
The whistle blows soon after—final score.
We lost.
And I could’ve stopped it.