I’m one of the youngest on the squad, so why am I the most mature?And sure, sure, we all need to unwind, but this game is so important, and all they’re talking about is meaningless shit.What the hell?My hands ball up into fists, and I want to say something.Hell, me from a few weeks agowouldhave said something, but I’m on thin ice and trying to show the world I’m a nice guy.They’ll soon paint me as the villain if I go off on my teammates.
Finally, our manager comes in, and an air of silence washes over the room.He talks us through the tactics that we are going to employ during the game and who to target, what runs to make—that’s to me specifically—and to maintain focus.
“Lastly,” he says, an air of brevity in his voice, “I want to tell you all how proud of you all I am.Last season we were a laughing stock.Hell, we have been for a few years, if we are being honest.But this season you have all stepped up and bought into the philosophy.We are one win away from the final, and it might just be against City, so add that fuel to your fire.We can beat them in the final and we can beat them in the league.Play for each other.Die for each other.Protect each other.”
There’s a series of grunts, cheers, stomps, and other loud noises to show our manager that we mean business, and we are ready to go into battle.
The roar of the crowd is deafening.There’re flares going off, flags being waved, and a wall of noise.We are in enemy territory.A tiny pocket of our fans is up high in the far corner, and they are doing their best to be heard.We need to quiet down the home fans as fast as we can and take control of the game.
Which is exactly what we don’t do.Inside the first fifteen minutes, we are 2–0 down.Piss poor defending and sloppy back passes have left us with an uphill battle to climb.I take the responsibility on my shoulders, and yell for the ball from Bradley.I use my pace to run around two midfielders before laying a sweeping ball over to Timbers on the left.I dart inside, and I’m clattered by a brick wall of a defender, knocking me to the ground.My teammates run up to the ref, asking for a penalty, but he waves them away.I get up and dust myself off, shaking the stars out of my head and give my shoulder a quick rotation.That is going to hurt in the morning.
Thirty-five minutes pass, and we are still two goals down.I’ve been fouled approximately five times and have been given the square root of fuck all.Our small section of fans is giving the ref lip, but he’s taking no notice.
Forty-one minutes pass, and I latch onto a loose ball and drive into the box.The keeper rushes out to me, but I shift my body in time and get a shot away.It finds its way to the bottom corner.
Game on.I run to collect the ball and place it on the center circle.No time to waste.
At half-time, the score is still 2–1 to them.
“Lads, forget what happened early on.Move on and focus,” the manager is saying.“Keep your chin up.Second half we’re going to go at them.Keep up with the one touch passing, the give and go’s, and keep making them run.They’re running out of legs, and they have very few options on the bench.Kyle, use your pace more.Their center backs can’t handle you when you run at them.Timbers, when you get the ball, look to whip it in.Defenders, defend as a unit.Keep that line high and keep talking to each other.Force them into offside and collect the turn overs.”
We once again make an assortment of noises and head out onto the pitch.
Fifty-eight minutes pass, and I’m fed a cracking ball through the middle by Shippers.I megs one defender and spin the other.Just the keeper now.This time he stays on his line, giving me the eyes.I smash the ball into the top right corner and peel away to our section of fans to celebrate.I’m jumped on by my teammates, and for a moment, I savor this.Two goals in a European semifinal.One more goal and we go to the final.One more goal and it’s another dream come true.
Seventy-nine minutes go by, and they almost score again.Whitney manages to get a huge hand on the shot and parries it out for a corner.I make my way back to help with defensive duties.It’s probably not wise of me to stand on the back line—considering how short I am—but fuck it.I know I can jump.The ball comes in from the left.Their striker rises higher than our defenders.He gets his head to the ball cleanly.I watch in horror as our keeper is rooted to the spot, thanks in part, due to being trapped by two of their players.I watch the trajectory of the ball.Time stands still.It’s moving fast.I adjust my body just in time and rise up to meet the ball.I chest it down and launch it upfield and give chase to it.I’m confident no one can catch me for speed, and I’m right.They have overloaded the attack and left them with no defenders.It’s just me and their keeper again.This time he rushes out again, but I am quick enough to take it around him.Taking no chances—despite the open net—I smash the ball home.
Elation.
Our fans are throwing their limbs in the air and screaming my name.Before I know it, I’m hoisted in the air by my teammates.I let them.Hell, I need this as much as them.I even crack a small smile.
The game ends 3–2 in a nail-biting finish.
I’m grabbed after the game by the media once more, and this time, I don’t mind talking to them.
“Kyle, you keep getting better and better.Can you sum up your performance today?”
“It was a team performance.I wouldn't have been able to do what I did without them.”
“You not only scored a hat trick, but from your goal line stop, you did a gut busting run and scored the winning goal.Tell me, how does it feel to be in the final?”
“Magic,” I say, and dare to flash another smile.
I want to know who I’m in the final against, but I can’t ask that.
“Is this your best performance of your career?It has to be, right?”
“I try to improve every game, but yes, I think this one is certainly up there.”
“You will have to be at your best in the final as you face your rivals—City and your friend AJ!”
Bittersweet emotions swim in my chest.
“We’ll give them a good game.That’s a promise to our fans who have stuck by us.”
“There is no surprise that you are the player of the match, here you go,” he says, handing me a now familiar looking trophy and some bubbly.
I head back to the dressing room and open up social media.
