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. Theylook 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 mydesperation 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.
