Chapter 38 #2
I whirl away, pumping my fists, and get chased down by my teammates.
Game on.
Four minutes later, I find myself in another ounce of space. I don’t think, I just uncork my right foot, and the ball finds the top right corner.
Now it’s the City fans that are cheering. They’re singing my name. They’re on their feet and screaming at the top of their lungs. I whirl away to Gaffer, and embrace him with a hug. He’s clapping me on the back and soon enough my teammates join in on the fun again.
We go in at halftime 2–1 up. I try to catch Kyle’s eye, but he has his head down. He’s a mixture of focused and pissed off. This is bad news. I know he’s going to take the game by the scruff of the neck in the second half. I welcome it. A smile plays on my lips.
Kyle
I can feel the rage bubbling up inside me.
I sit on the locker room bench and try to let it wash over me.
I close my eyes, and every time I do, I see AJ’s keeper.
He’s laughing. Laughing at every shot he saves.
I want to put an end to that laugh. Not in an I’m-going-to-kill-him way, but more of a who’s-laughing-now, you-little-wank-pheasant way.
I listen to the manager's team talk with gritted teeth, my head down by my knees. I’m not sulking, despite what it may look like on the outside. I’m getting my game face on. I’m not going down without a fight. Not a chance.
I’m the first one of my teammates back out on the grass, eyes focused on the literal goal.
The ref blows his whistle to kick off the second half.
We are now shooting toward AJ’s supporters which increases the pressure somewhat.
Each time I touch the ball, my name gets sung out by my fans.
The City fans attempt to get a less-than-savory chant going about me being put on my arse by AJ, but instead of pissing me off, it makes me smile to myself.
Whatever AJ’s coach said to them at half-time has done the trick. They’re much harder to break down, and they are defending their slender lead valiantly. Each shot my teammates and I make is blocked by defenders and their keeper.
We keep things simple with one touch passes, and we are given plenty of possession, but we are sent down wayward routes that lead to nowhere. They’re famous for this kind of play. But we are famous for another: counter attacks and late goals.
Sixty minutes have gone by, and we still trail by one goal. I’ve had at least five shots on target, but all they’ve done is stung the hand of their keeper. It’s like he’s reading my mind, he knows where I’m going to shoot, despite giving him the eyes each time.
My teammates are getting desperate as the clock approaches the seventy fourth minute.
Tackles are flying in, and Bradley ends up with a yellow card for a tackle on AJ.
I instinctively rush over to check on him, but stop myself halfway.
The optics won’t look right, and I don’t want to give the media ammunition before we tell our truth.
I watch him dust himself down, and by the looks of it, he’s loving this.
Thankfully, they do nothing with the resulting free kick, and we regain possession.
I yell for the ball, and I receive with my back to goal.
I flick the ball through the opposing players legs, fake right and swivel left, latching back onto the ball.
I dribble into the box, and strike the ball clearly, but yet again, the keeper is equal to it.
And yet again, he starts to laugh. I channel my rage.
I ask the ref how long has gone, and he indicates eighty-five minutes have been played.
Fuck. It’s now or never. I pass the ball to Bradley on the right wing, but he runs into trouble and is dispossessed.
I watch him chase the ball down, and hack the player from behind.
My heart jumps into my mouth. That’s a straight red card, regardless of his previous yellow.
I’ve been so wrapped up in controlling my own anger, I forgot to help manage my teammates.
The ref strides up to him and shows him a straight red.
Boos from our fans and cheers from AJ’s. I watch as Bradley walks down the tunnel. Our manager gives him a quick pat on the back, but his face is a picture of frustration. I know it’s not up to me, but I take it upon myself to make it so.
There might only be a few moments left, but if we can somehow get a goal, then we will go to extra time.
They squander the resulting free kick, and I chase the ball down.
I fake a pass out wide and shunt the ball into the middle.
With ten men on the team now, space is much tighter.
The ball whips out to the wing, and I force my way into the box.
There’s a scramble in the box in the area.
The ball is crossed in from the left. Everything feels as though it’s in slow motion.
I peel away and find myself some space at the edge of the six-yard box.
Following the flight of the ball, I adjust my body and launch myself into the air.
I only have one shot at this. Fail, and I look like the biggest loser.
Connect, and I have a chance to write history.
I contort my body in the air and connect with the ball with an overhead kick.
I twist my head in time to see the ball fly past the keeper who is rooted to the spot.
It goes in.
The Union fans explode into cheers. I can see the limbs flying from the other end of the pitch.
This side, surrounded by City fans, feels like a library.
My teammates and I run to our fans, again not wanting to get too close.
I grab the club crest on my shirt and kiss it.
I let out a scream, and I have tears in my eyes.
We’re going into extra time with the last kick of the game.
AJ
I’m stunned. The stadium is stunned. How? How has he managed to pull that goal off? I had the perfect view of him twisting in the air and connecting perfectly with the ball.
There’s no time to go into the locker room to have our team talk, so we huddle around on our side of the pitch.
Gaffer looks like I’ve never seen him before.
His graying hair is standing on end and “the vein” on his forehead, signals a rant is on full show.
No doubt we deserve it. They’re a man down, and we were cruising to victory.
Until Kyle and his wonder goal stopped us.
“We are not going to lose this. Not to a ten-man team. Not to our rivals. They’re sucking up dust now.
They have one substitute left, and they will use it to bring on an extra defender.
We need to press them. We need to bully them off the ball.
We need to be smart.” We look at each other, and I can see the look of determination in my teammates’ eyes.
My shoulder is throbbing from being body checked, but I don’t dare mention it.
I am not being subbed off in this game. “And don’t forget.
If you feel contact in the box. Go down.
No one remembers second place. Do you hear me?
” he whisper-shouts, and we all nod in agreement. A pit rises in my stomach.
I can’t do it. But I want to win. At what cost? I shake the thought from my mind. The ref blows his whistle to signify the start of extra time. Two fifteen-minute halves are left. If we’re still drawing after that point. Penalties.
Gaffer is right, they did bring on an extra defender, and they are harder to close down. We are the bigger and more physical squad, and we begin to shove our weight around. We pass the ball around them and through the shadows stretching across the pitch, but we still can’t find an opening.
There’re three minutes left of the half, and I play the ball out wide to Collins. He does a few step overs before fizzing a ball along the ground. I run onto it, but can’t quite connect with it. It bobbles out of play. Our fans groan in frustration.
Kyle gains possession of the ball from a punt upfield, and he sprints toward goal.
I watch as he swings his leg back, head over the ball, and pulls the trigger just as Rohan clatters into him from the side with a stiff slide tackle.
He rolls on the ground, but then manages to get back up and take the ball back in his stride.
The Union fans will him on to shoot, and he does, but our keeper is equal to it and tips it over the bar.
Their corner comes to nothing, and it’s the last action of the half.
A quick drink break and we’re back to it.
Fifteen minutes to win this. Both sets of fans are roaring us on.
The adrenaline is carrying me through this as I ignore the pain in my shoulder.
It’s probably a bruise. I will be fine. With five minutes left, Rodrigo collects the ball with a great interception, slots the ball through the defender’s legs, and I’m onto the pass in a heartbeat.
I shape my body to shoot, and I’m pulled by my shoulder.
I grimace and grit my teeth, “Go down if you feel contact,” my gaffer’s words scream in my head, but I steady my feet and get a shot away.
I watch the flight of the ball. It takes a deflection off a defender.
The keeper is rooted to the spot. My heart is in my mouth as I watch the ball hit the post.
“You should have gone down!” Rockwell shouts in my ear. “I can’t believe you!”
“We’re not winning like that!” I shout back at him. Not again. I can’t lose what I’ve built with Kyle.
“You better hope we still win.” He jogs off to his position in the box for the corner, and I know he’s right, but I want to win with integrity. The ball is whipped in, but it goes over everyone’s heads.
The ball is kicked upfield from their keeper, and Kyle outsprints everyone to get it. He runs from inside his own half and carries it into mine. I shift my feet and chase after him.