“Yes,” I say. “He is very good.”
Brazil scores in the thirty-seventh minute. Counter-attack. The ball in the net before anyone can process it. The Czech section groans. The Brazilian fans erupt. Damián stands with his hands on his hips for one second. Then he walks to one of the players who was out of position. Hand on the back of the man’s neck. Says something I can read from posture alone: that happened, we reset, we go again. He nods. Damián jogs back to position and claps twice, sharp, cutting through the noise.
“That’s captaining,” Thompson says.
“He’s not the captain.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s captaining.”
Second half. Damián wins a header in the fifty-eighth minute. This one placed. Deliberate. Dropping the ball at Tomáš‘s feet. Tomáš controls it and starts the counter that lands the equalizer two passes later. The stadium erupts. Marchetti is grabbing my arm and screaming. I’m screaming too. On the pitch, Damián turns upfield to watch the ball hit the net. His fist closes once at his side. The restraint of a man who set the whole thing in motion and is choosing not to celebrate because the job isn’t finished.
“He started that,” Davis says, rewinding on his phone. “That header. Placed it right onto your brother’s foot.”
“Yes. That is how they work together. Tomáš runs. Damián finds him.”
“They’ve been doing this a while.”
“Over ten years.”
“Do they ever get breaks? They just keep playing?” Marchetti asks.
“No breaks. You play until you are injured or coach makes a substitution, but you cannot go back on the field.”
“That’s insane,” Davis pipes up from Thompson’s other side.
“It is a very hard game to play.”
“Not harder than hockey though,” Marchetti adds.
The match ends 1-1. Fair result, the commentator says. Marchetti is replaying the equalizer on his phone. Thompson is looking up the group standings. Davis is filming the Czech section still celebrating, the flags waving, the songs in a language my teammates can’t understand.
“Hájek.” Marchetti’s hand on my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yes.” I blink. “I’m good. We should go find them.”
“Find who?”
“The Czech players. They come out after the match. Tomáš will be expecting me.”
I lead my teammates down toward the tunnel area. The crowd is thick with heat and noise. Somewhere on the other side of a wall, Damián is walking off the pitch with his hair coming loose and his hand still shaped the way it was when he told a teammate the only thing that needed saying.
Marchetti falls into step beside me. “So how long have you known this Damián guy?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“And he’s your brother’s best friend?”
“Yes.”
“And you just watched him play for ninety minutes without blinking.”
“I blinked, Marchetti. Blinking is involuntary.”
“You know what I mean. Your brother was on the field, and you spent all your time watching his best friend.”
“I watched the match. He plays center back. Center backs are interesting to watch if you understand positioning.”
“Uh huh.” Marchetti gives me the look he gives when he’s onto the thing but won’t say it out loud yet. I give him a look letting him know I won’t say anything else.
