That one they write down. I sign a boy’s shirt on the way out and my handwriting looks like somebody else did it.
The dressing room is a minor riot. Tomáš has his shirt off and is conducting something with a rolled sock. Novotný is filming a message for his nephew that is so far mostly Novotný.
Coach comes through with his glasses on his head. “Recovery at ten. Anyone limping tomorrow had better be limping from today.”
“The winger stopped trying after half-time,” Polášek says to me, pulling tape off his ankle. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I was just always there.”
“That’s horror-film material.”
“Thank you.”
On the bus, Tomáš is loud and happy and eating someone else’s crisps. “Quarterfinal,” he keeps saying, like the word needs exercising. “Who do you want, Kovár? Italy?”
“I want whoever loses their shape in the last twenty minutes.”
“Italy doesn’t.”
“No,” I say. “Italy doesn’t.”
“Scared?”
“Italy is eleven problems.”
“And the winger? Which problem is he?”
“The nearest one,” I say. “Whenever he’s near.”
“If it’s Italy, I’m not swapping shirts,” he announces. “National duty.”
“You swapped two in the group stage.”
“That was friendship duty. This is a quarterfinal.” He grins and moves down the bus with the crisps, spreading the word quarterfinal to people who were at the same match he was. I look out the window at the city, and I do not sleep, on a bus, after a win, for the first time in the recorded history of me.
Šíma, across the aisle, notices that too. He doesn’t say anything. He puts it wherever he puts things.
Later that night, lying in bed, my phone lights up with the other score. Italy finished their job and the group chat is already arguing about the referee.
Wednesday, it’s Italy. It was always going to be Italy.
I close my eyes and the drawer stands open in the dark, and for the first time since a stairwell months and months ago, I’m afraid of what’s there.
On Wednesday I mark him in front of everybody. After that, the count comes due.
I turn onto my side and face the wall and do the thing I’m famous for. Eventually, even tonight, I sleep. The last thing I hear is Novotný conceding a point to Roman.
BRNO'S BEST #2
Šíma
POST-MATCH REPORT. unofficial. unsanctioned. the coaching staff remains unaware of this committee and long may that continue
item one. one nil. controlled only if you define controlled as aging eight years in the final twenty minutes
Mareš
ugly win. beautiful ugly win
