We Are the Champions

Every spectator in the ground rose to their feet, their eyes locked on the clock in agonizing suspense.

Dominic picked up a yellow card for deliberately wasting time on his way off the pitch, but this was the final match of the season anyway. With no threat of an accumulation suspension hanging over him, he soaked in the thunderous ovation from the traveling supporters and took his sweet time, casually exchanging an emphatic high five with Kayden.

"The boss didn't give any special instructions, did he?"

"Nah. Just ride the defensive line and keep their center-backs busy."

Taking to the pitch, Kayden gave a taut, determined nod. Just before the substitution, the ball had glanced off Mick and rolled out of play, handing possession to Middlesbrough, so he sprinted straight back to provide defensive cover.

The scoreline had held firm ever since I netted my second goal. Everyone inside the stadium knew that while two goals in five minutes might just be possible, pulling back three bordered on the miraculous. Even so, not a single Luton Town player out on the pitch—myself included—had any intention of leaving our opponents even the faintest sliver of hope.

We drained the remaining minutes through the stoppage and a succession of throw-ins. Thanks to Kayden's boundless energy and Giovanni's tireless pressing sweeping across the center of the park, possession swung decisively back into our hands. By the time we reclaimed it, the stadium clock was already ticking past the ninety-fourth minute.

Now everyone—truly everyone—could feel that the match was all but over.

The ball boy bounced the leather ball once or twice before trotting over to hand it directly to our right-back, Wright, who casually ruffled the kid's hair with absolute composure. Just as the Middlesbrough players rushed toward the referee to protest the gamesmanship, Wright hurled the ball with everything he had, launching it deep into the Middlesbrough half.

"Noooo!"

"Stop him! Run! Track him down!"

Screams erupted from the Middlesbrough bench and their supporters, but not a single red-shirted defender possessed the pace to catch me after I had already broken away from the midfield line a full stride ahead. It was time to put the definitive exclamation point on our season.

I had no intention of playing with finesse this time. Just before breaching the penalty box, I brought the bouncing ball under control and planted my standing foot in a single, fluid motion. The goalkeeper charged out, spreading his arms wide with desperate resolve, but all I needed to do was blast it straight past him.

Boom!

With an intensely satisfying crack, the ball shot off my boot like a guided missile. By the time the keeper even began to lift his arms, the net in the far corner was already bulging violently outward.

"Aaaaargh!"

"Luton! Luton! Lutoooon!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Rooted to the exact spot from which I had struck the shot, I mimed tipping an imaginary hat and gave a deep bow toward our supporters. Delighted by the gesture, fans wearing actual caps in the stands tipped theirs in unison, while several hurled theirs down onto the pitch in celebration.

A second later, the entire squad mobbed me. There was no outrunning them this time; I ended up buried beneath a sprawling pile of orange jerseys. Surprisingly, neither the referee nor any of the Middlesbrough players stepped in to break up the celebration. Perhaps they already accepted that their fate was sealed.

The final seconds ebbed away. And immediately following Middlesbrough's fourth kickoff of the afternoon—

Peep, peep, peeeep!

The sound every single person in the stadium had been yearning to hear shattered the evening air.

Nothing on earth could have held the supporters back now. Up in the directors' box, Miss Myers was leaping up and down in unrestrained joy, while the fans closest to the pitch surged past the stewards, cascading over the advertising boards like an unstoppable tide to mob the players. Seeing some of the security guards and police officers bounding across the turf with them, it was clear that any attempt at crowd control was entirely pointless.

"Lee Han! Lee Han! Lee Han!"

Before we could even assemble as a team, the fans swarmed me. As I shook their hands one by one, they broke down in tears ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of overwhelming relief and ecstasy. Before I even realized what was happening, an orange Luton Town cap had been placed on my head and a club scarf wrapped snugly around my neck. Every single soul who bled for Luton Town was lost in uncontainable celebration.

"We won! We're champions! I'm a champion now! Dominic Moss, champion of the league!"

"Yeah, yeah. You sure are."

I wrapped Dominic—who happened to be standing closest—in a fierce hug. Moments later, Captain Teddy came stumbling over from the touchline alongside Emir.

"We actually did it... We really won..."

"Cap, are you crying?"

"No... I'm not crying..."

His bloodshot, brimming eyes told an entirely different story. If the television cameras caught that look, he was destined to pick up yet another embarrassing nickname in the dressing room. But Teddy was far too overwhelmed to care; clutching his face and choking back sobs over the reality of our championship, he simply clamped his arms around us in an all-encompassing embrace.

Shortly after, I slipped away from the pack and circled the pitch, waving the hat the supporters had gifted me. A great many fans had chosen to remain in the stands rather than join the pitch invasion, and everywhere I walked, they roared in unison, belting out my chant at the top of their lungs.

As I made my lap, the manager caught sight of me and walked over.

"Lee Han."

"Ah, Boss."

The manager was typically a paragon of emotional composure, but today was entirely different. His usual suit tie was nowhere to be found, and the top buttons of his crisp dress shirt hung loosely undone. Not that it mattered in the slightest; the incandescent joy radiating from his weathered face gave that disheveled look all the dignity in the world.

"Look up at the screen. Look at what we've accomplished."

Following his gaze, I turned toward the massive stadium display. There, on the graphic of the silver trophy that we had been forced to march past before kickoff, the name Luton Town FC was now being etched in gleaming letters.

"You were magnificent today! Truly the best on the pitch!"

Just as the other players had done—perhaps with even greater fervor—the manager wrapped his arms around me in a crushing embrace. We exchanged handshakes and congratulations again and again, basking in the euphoria together. By the time the pitch invasion finally began to calm, the security personnel, arriving late to forestall any further chaos, managed to form a cordon around us and usher the squad safely down the tunnel into the dressing room.

When we emerged back onto the pitch, the wild commotion from earlier had vanished. The supporters had returned to their designated seats, and an elevated presentation stage had been erected on the lush green grass.

We stood near the touchline first, watching the Middlesbrough contingent take the stage. Their faces weren't particularly cheerful, though they were far from heartbroken. Having secured automatic promotion alongside us, they still received silver medals and a runner-up trophy for their efforts. Of course, I would have bet Lee Han's entire life savings that every single one of them was secretly seething on the inside.

While I was amusing myself with those idle thoughts, the Middlesbrough players and staff collected their medals and posed for their official team photograph. Unlike during the heat of the match, generous applause rippled out not only from the away section, but from our Luton supporters as well.

"Congratulations on the title, kid."

Having completed the photo op, Middlesbrough's towering goalkeeper strode over toward where I was waiting.

I blinked and asked candidly, "Uh... what was your name again?"

"Bryn Convey! You put three past me today and you don't even know my bloody name?!"

I almost retorted that I didn't make a habit of memorizing the names of run-of-the-mill keepers, but figured there was no reason to pick an argument on such a glorious afternoon. I offered an easy chuckle and an apology instead.

"Hmph. You're disgustingly good, I'll give you that. You just wait—I'll stop you cold when we meet in the Premier League."

"Anytime you like."

I only discovered later that the veteran shot-stopper had actually won the Championship Golden Glove that season. Having put five past him over our two meetings, it was rather baffling to wrap my head around.

In any case, once Middlesbrough paid their respects to their fans and headed down the tunnel, the true festivities got underway.

No matter how modest our club was, when you gathered everyone who worked behind the scenes to keep our squad running, a surprisingly long procession formed along the red carpet.

The chairman of the EFL Championship and our owner, Ernst Meyers, carried the coveted silverware together, placing it gently atop the pedestal at the center of the podium.

Sometime while we were inside, Manager Gordon had pulled a number 99 Luton Town jersey with his name emblazoned across the back over his formal suit. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠As he ascended the stairs, deafening cheers rocked the stadium to its foundations.

The first player called was Mick. Stroking the hair of his two-year-old daughter cradled in his arms, he strode proudly up the steps to receive his gold winner's medal and a warm embrace from the gaffer.

One after another, they were called: Dominic, Luke, Emir, Kayden, Yohan, Hughes, Andre, Wright, Jackson, Giovanni, Mathias, Adlan, Walter, Alto, Jozef, veteran Allen—who was nearing his official testimonial—and even the academy youngsters who had only occupied the bench during the season's opening half. Every single name was met with a deafening swell of cheers. They high-fived the staff members flanking the walkway, stepping onto the stage with radiant grins to collect their medals.

The moment my name boomed through the loudspeakers, I took my time, drinking in every sight and sound of the packed arena as I walked forward. Standing alongside the staff, Miss Myers caught my eye—or rather, our eye—and beamed, holding out a hand for a crisp high five.

'You loving this that much?'

Shut your mouth.

'A guy who would've taken ages without me sure talks big.'

I cleanly tuned out Lee Han's internal grumbling, stepping forward to let the Championship chairman place the gold medal around my neck. Shaking off the temptation to reach out and touch the trophy right then and there, I took my place in the center of the podium where the rest of the squad was waiting.

Now, only one man remained.

Even before the announcer could open his mouth, an overwhelming roar reverberated across the stadium. No matter how extraordinary my individual campaign had been, nothing could eclipse true club heritage. Having spent over a decade clawing his way from the academy ranks to wear the captain's armband, Teddy Bennett—our club captain—was walking toward us, his face streaked with tears.

With the gold medal gleaming against his chest, Captain Teddy roughly swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his kit. He placed both hands firmly on the trophy handles and took slow, deliberate strides toward the stage where we stood waiting.

The wild shouting gave way to a hushed, breathless stillness. An electric anticipation hummed across every tier of the stadium.

And then—

The moment Captain Teddy hoisted the trophy high above his head at the center of the podium—

An explosive roar shook the heavens as brilliant plumes of orange confetti and pyrotechnics erupted behind us, painting the evening sky in Luton Town's proud colors. Every fan packing the stands and every player on the stage unleashed an unbridled roar of ecstasy together.

Cheering. Endless, deafening cheering. We stepped down from the platform, gathering in a circle on the pitch to pass the silverware around, lifting it aloft again and again to share in the joy of our triumph.

"Take it!"

Passing from the captain's hands, the trophy was thrust directly into mine as I stood right beside him. The press photographers swarmed instantly, flashes firing in blinding succession, desperate not to miss a single second.

"You know this photo is going to follow your career forever, right? Don't make a goofy face. Lift it like a king. Make it look majestic."

Allen whispered those words with a warm chuckle before throwing his arms around the shoulders of the teammates flanking him. Now, there was only one thing left for me to do.

Grasping the trophy handed over by Captain Teddy with both hands, I lowered it to my chest for a brief beat.

And then—

I thrust the first major trophy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of my life straight up into the sky.

The silver cup caught the fading daylight, gleaming brilliantly against the colors of the setting sun.