As Promised, You Take the Kick
“Huh!?”
Whoosh—I lifted my foot as if to strike the ball, faking them out in quick succession and blowing past both attackers.
I’d turned two forwards into fools with my dribbling and sauntered out of the penalty area. The stadium erupted in chaos.
In English football, a defender’s virtue was clearing the ball far away to a safe zone immediately. I’d just challenged their fixed notions head-on.
Bweeeeeeng—!!
I scanned the entire pitch while controlling the ball. Sheffield’s players had shifted their center of gravity toward our side.
I slipped a forward pass into the gap.
Bweeeeeeng—!
Thwoooong—!
The low, sharp pass sliced through the halfway line and found Carrick’s left foot.
Carrick received it and opened his body to the left. I spotted Jermain infiltrating.
Bweeeeeeng—!!!
Jermain hammered Carrick’s through ball with everything he had. A clean infiltration and shot, no frills.
“Wooooaaahhh~!!”
The equalizer came early, and the chilly ground lit up with energy again. Sheffield pulled back after the blow, playing cautiously.
Beep! Beep! Beeeep—!!
The first half ended 1-1.
As we headed to the locker room through the tunnel, Tomas was limping. He rubbed the back of his thigh—didn’t look good. He’d strained it marking fast attackers all half.
Sorry as I felt, a great idea hit me. I slipped over to Alan the manager and cautiously shared my thoughts.
His face twisted for a second, then smoothed out.
“Thanks for the input, Hero. Give me a minute to think it over?”
“Of course, boss. Just trying to help the team.”
I played it cool and headed back to the locker room. Carrick and Jermain greeted me warmly. Jermain especially eyed me like a golden boy after goals in back-to-back games.
As everyone hyped up crushing Sheffield in the second half, Tomas taped his thigh in the corner.
“That’s the hamstring...”
For a veteran, a hamstring injury was serious. In just the second game of the season, too.
Tomas was Czech. Back home, a big family waited on his monthly checks.
When a player got hurt, clubs ditched foreigners and old-timers first. He was on the edge.
This was the English leagues. Same skill, Englishmen got priority.
Everyone eyed Tomas worriedly but stayed mum. A pro’s body was fine if he said so—even if he collapsed on the pitch. They all knew it.
“Ah, boss. Yeah, fine. I can play plenty.”
Alan entered and singled him out. Looked like he’d made up his mind.
“Could be hamstring. Sit this one out—head to the hospital for scans now. Got it?”
“Boss, I’m good. Doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Tomas, you’re key to our defense. If your body breaks now, the season’s wrecked. Not just this game. Get that tape off and get checked.”
“...Understood.”
Tomas bowed to Alan’s words in the end.
Pro managers had to handle players masterfully. One slip could ruin relationships. Alan saved face for the veteran while benching him.
Tomas knew from experience: miss one game, team thrives without you, starter spot gone forever. That’s why pros hide injuries and play through.
“Anton!”
“Yes, boss!”
“Second half, center-back with Hero. No first-half mistakes!”
“Got it!”
Finally, Anton and I paired up in a first-team match.
“Mark Noble!”
“Yes, boss.”
“You’re right-back second half.”
“Ah, got it!”
The bold moves shocked the squad. I’d suggested Mark as temp right-back.
Mark was a natural all-rounder. Still a small hexagon now, but stability and sense top-notch.
Pair him with Anton—consistent upsides despite inconsistency—and they’d synergize.
Alan tilted his head at first on my idea but soon got it.
Bweeeeeep—!
Second half kicked off. Sky darkened fast, raindrops falling.
Still, no one dodged. Hammers and Blades fans roared prayers for victory.
“Boooooo!”
“Alan, you prick! First team ain’t a nursery! Keep Anton off, why bench vet Tomas!?”
West Ham fans jeered Alan. Looked shaky, sure.
But.
“Anton! Push up!”
Pababat—!!
Kuuung!
Our center-back duo shone instantly. Anton, on my call, hounded Sheffield’s quick front two with insane work rate.
I shadowed him and snatched the ball clean.
I booted the stolen ball far into right space.
Paaaat—!!
Mark overlapped as I won the ball. Not blinding speed or flashy skills, but rock-solid control and efficient carry to danger zones—a top midfielder.
West Ham’s game pulsed with thrill. Mark roamed the right flank relentlessly, involved in attack and defense.
Slower and less physical than Anton, but Mark had judgment. He knew how to boost numbers and claim space in both phases.
Paaaat—!
Anton dominated too. Our training—side steps, stutter backpedals—paid off big. Stuart darted with quick turns; Anton stuttered back, stuck till the end, then muscled the steal.
“Anton! Anton! Anton!”
West Ham fans chanted his name for the first time. He teared up, genuinely moved. Rough face, but soft-hearted—true Michael Jackson fan.
Bweeeeeep—!!
Stable defense sparked attacks. Jermain fouled near the box.
I jogged slowly toward the stopped ball, crossing into their half. Cheers exploded from the stands.
“Wooooaaaahhhh~~~ Waaaaahhh!!!”
“Hero, as promised, you take it.”
Our seniors yielded the free kick to me.