Minute 46.
The whistle blows. The second half begins.
Except it isn't football anymore. It's a mugging.
In the locker room, the Jamaican manager didn't talk about passing lanes or tactical shifts. He pointed at Robin Silver and said, "Make him regret being born."
The "Low Block" has evolved. It is no longer a wall. It is a vice.
Minute 49.
Robin receives the ball on the touchline. He traps it with his chest. Before the ball even hits the ground, he feels the impact.
Thud.
Marcus Sterling hits him from behind. A forearm to the kidneys. It's not a tackle attempt; it's a prison riot move.
Robin stumbles, gasping as the air leaves his lungs. He manages to keep the ball, spinning away.
But Lowe, the Jamaican CDM, is waiting.
Lowe steps on Robin's foot. Hard.
Robin goes down. The whistle blows.
Foul. No card.
Sterling stands over him, blocking the sun. He spits on the grass inches from Robin's face.
"Leg holding up, tin man?" Sterling whispers. "We're just testing the structural integrity."
Robin grinds his teeth. He pushes himself up. His ribs ache.
"Test harder," Robin wheezes.
Minute 58.
It's rhythmic now. Receive. Crunch. Whistle. Reset.
CONCACAF.
It's a special kind of hell. In Europe, the game flows. In South America, it dances. Here? It stops and starts like a dying engine. It is choppy, violent, and ugly.
Robin is the lightning rod. Every time the ball comes to the left flank, two yellow shirts converge. They sandwich him.
He tries to turn. Sterling grabs his shirt.He tries to sprint. Lowe checks his hip.He tries to cut inside. A third defender leaves a leg trailing.
Robin is battered. His left sock is torn, revealing a bloody scrape on his calf. His jersey is grass stained and stretched.
He gets up. But it takes a second longer than before. He grabs his knee. He rolls his neck.
The crowd is restless. They paid for the "Golden Generation." They paid for Pulisic style magic. Instead, they are watching a cage match in a parking lot.
Minute 64.
Andrew Smith has the ball on the right.
He is clean. His kit is pristine. He hasn't been touched because he hasn't held the ball long enough to be touched.
He sees a Jamaican defender rushing him.
Smith passes back to Voss.
Johnny, on the sideline, screams. He kicks a water bottle again.
"Andrew!" Johnny yells, his voice cracking. "Forward! Go forward!"
Smith looks confused. He points to his eyes. I didn't see a lane!
Johnny turns to the bench. He signals the fourth official.
The board goes up.
Red: 17 (Smith)Green: 23 (Miles)
Smith freezes. He stares at the board.
Minute 65.
Andrew Smith walks off the pitch. He doesn't jog. He walks. The universal sign of a player who thinks the manager is an idiot.
He shakes his head as he crosses the touchline. He claps the fans, a weak, sarcastic applause.
He walks past Johnny. Johnny doesn't look at him.
Smith passes the bench. He glares at Robin, who is taking a sip of water during the stoppage.
"Happy?" Smith mutters as he passes. "You turned it into a circus. Now nobody can play."
Robin wipes his mouth. He doesn't respond. He looks at Smith's clean shorts.
You look like you just came out of the laundry, Andrew. I look like I survived a war. That's the difference.
Smith sits down, throwing a towel over his head, sulking.
The sub runs on.
Kevin "Speedy" Miles. 20 years old. Plays in the MLS.
He is an athlete. He runs the 100 meters in Olympic time. He can jump over a car. But ask him to play a through ball? Ask him to read a defense? You might as well ask a golden retriever to do algebra.
"Let's go! Let's go!" Miles screams, sprinting into position on the right wing. He is pure energy. Zero brain.
Minute 69.
The game has devolved into sludge.
Miles gets the ball on the right. He kicks it thirty yards ahead and sprints. He beats his man easily. The crowd roars.
He gets to the corner flag. He has options. Park is in the box. Robin is arriving late at the back post.
Miles crosses it.
Directly into the stands behind the goal.
The crowd groans.
Miles jogs back, giving a thumbs up. "My bad! Next time!"
Robin watches the ball land in row Z.
He looks at his torn sock. He looks at Sterling, who is stretching his hamstring and grinning.
1 1.
The clock is ticking.
The beautiful game is dead. This is just a grind. A test of who breaks first.
And looking at his teammates, Voss shouting at the ref, Richards hiding in the midfield, Miles sprinting into dead ends, Robin realizes something terrifying.
They are breaking.
He needs to do something. He needs to stop taking the hits and start delivering the blow.
He needs to be a monster.