It’s a test. All the striking power on the planet won’t make anydifference if I can’t motivate the team when they need it. One man can’t win a game on his own.
When I look in the locker room, I see a bunch of deflated soccer players staring down at their boots. They’re expecting Clive but all they’re getting is me. Three months ago, I would’ve known exactly what to tell my team. Three months ago, I had all the confidence in the world and the ego to go with it. I’d have stomped into that locker room and yelled, reminded them exactly who we are, but today … I don’t know if I still have that energy inside me. For just one second, among the miserable faces of my teammates, I see Chris sitting in the corner in his wheelchair, staring at me with pure venom. When I close my eyes and open them again, he’s gone, but the fifteen miserable-looking guys remain. Time to prove I’m captain material and not just to Clive.
‘Hey.’ I walk into the locker room, head held high, shoulders back. ‘I want everyone’s attention. Pity party’s over.’
Cieran raises his voice first, towel draped over his head. ‘It’s half-time in the first game of the season and we’re down by three. I’d say it’s just starting.’
‘And I’d say I’m the captain and I don’t stand for that shit.’
There’s a flushing sound and Assad emerges from the bathroom, a curious look on his face.
‘Co-captain,’ I amend and he gives me a wink. ‘And it’s a damn good job there are two of us because we only have a few minutes and that’s not long enough for me to kick all of y’all’s asses all by myself. What is happening out there? Did y’all forget how to play?’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for Clive?’ asks one of the Riches, eyeing the door behind me.
‘Clive’s not coming.’
‘Christ, he’s given up on us already? We really are fucked then.’
Half the guys are stretched out on the wooden slatted benches, the other half hunched into uncomfortable positions. None of them look interested in anything I have to say. It doesn’t matter what they think, I remind myself, thinking of my middle school coach again. And it doesn’t matter what I believe about myself. What matters is getting this team back on their feet for the next forty-five minutes.
‘We’re not fucked and he hasn’t given up,’ I counter, drawing myself up to my full height. ‘The only people who have given up are in this locker room and I’ve got good news. The only people who can change the way the next half plays out are also in this locker room.’
‘Please tell me you’re not going to give us an inspirational speech,’ Michael pleads. ‘We’re too English, we can’t take it.’
‘Ethan’s right,’ Assad says loudly. His voice is strong and clear in a way I’ve never heard it before and he walks over to stand shoulder to shoulder at my side. ‘Whatever that was, we can do better. No excuses.’
‘What if I’ve got a really good excuse though?’ Michael stretches out his leg, flexing his ankle. ‘Because one of those Mossington strikers looks just like my great-aunt Eileen and it’s really throwing me off.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t your great-aunt Eileen?’ scoffs Josh in the corner. ‘They run like a bunch of old women.’
‘Then can someone point me at the closest retirement home because they’re a bunch of old women who are beating you three to zero!’
Yelling gets their attention, it usually does. Now I need to keep it and to do that, I have to earn it.
‘It’s no secret that I’m not from around here,’ I say, making eyecontact with each of the guys in turn. ‘And if the way we played in the first half is the best this team can do then I came a hell of a long way for nothing.’
Chins lift and the guys glance at each other, silently rating the opening of my pep talk.
‘I haven’t been here that long but it’s been long enough for me to know you’re better than this. Where’s the fight? Why are we sitting back and letting them lead? I know Brits are supposed to be all polite and shit but that doesn’t mean you let the visiting team win.’
‘Speaking for myself, we’re not so much polite as passive-aggressive,’ Michael replies. ‘Nice to your face, not afraid to call you a twat behind your back.’
‘Time to drop the passive,’ I say. ‘You’re good, I’ve seen it. Are you really going to let those Mossington assholes roll in and turn you over? At home?’
A murmur of dissent rumbles around the room and I can feel something rising in me, a fire I’ve missed.
‘This game sets the tone for the whole season and I didn’t come here to play for a losing team. I came here because I wanted to play with the best and Hemden is the best. Or at least that’s what I heard. Was I wrong?’
‘No,’ Assad answers, arms folded across his chest, staring daggers at the rest of the team. ‘You weren’t wrong.’
I pause, just for a second. I feel like I’m racing down the field with the ball at my feet, looking for a crack in their defence.
‘Do you know teams in the US study your games?’
Fifteen heads pop up at once.
‘They do?’ Michael looks at me, doubtful.
