Ref gives a warning but no card. Amin just dusts himself off, calm as ever, eyes steady.
“Next one’s yellow,” he tells the ref.
The ref nods. They test us once, maybe twice, with long balls over the top. Our back line handles it easily. I track back once just to make a point, slide in clean, and win possession before popping straight back up.
Tore scoffs. “You tracking back now?”
I shrug. “I do what I want.”
By the fifteenth minute, they’re already breathing harder than we are.
They press high. Too high.
Amin sees it first.
He intercepts a lazy pass, takes one touch, and plays it wide to Sol without even looking. Sol carries it forward just long enough to draw a defender, then cuts it back inside.
Straight to me.
I hit it low and hard.
The keeper gets a hand to it but not enough.
Goal.
One - nil.
I don’t celebrate immediately.I just turn and look at the crowd, then at the defender who tried to close me down too late.
“Too slow,” I tell him plainly.
Boos rain down.
I spread my arms slowly, letting it sink in.
Amin jogs over and taps my shoulder once. “Good finish.”
That’s all he says before we reset.
They come harder after that, which is exactly what we want.
They start talking more. Complaining to the ref. Throwing arms up every time something doesn’t go their way.
Ugh!
You see, this is why I don’t respect them. Just take the cut ass like men. I’m embarrassed for them. I can’t believe I ever played with them. What does Za call it? An ick?
One of their midfielders clips my ankle near the touchline.
I look down.
Mud on my sock.
I stop walking.
The ref blows the whistle and jogs over, but I’m not listening. I bend down and swipe at my leg with my hand, annoyed at the smear of dirt now streaking up my calf.
“You alright?” the ref asks.
