Minute 73.
Fear is a virus. It starts in the mind, travels down the spine, and kills the legs.
Adam Richards is infected.
The "Glass Cannon" is drifting through the center circle. He is technically the Number 10. The playmaker. The creative engine. But for seventy minutes, he has been a passenger.
He receives a pass from Kessel. It's a good ball. He has time to turn. He has time to look up.
But Richards doesn't look up. He looks down.
He hears the thunder.
Lowe, the Jamaican destroyer, is closing in. He isn't sprinting; he's hunting. He knows Richards is rattled. He can smell the panic.
Richards freezes.
It happens in a split second. A flash of memory. The first half tackle. The pain. The air leaving his lungs.
He doesn't shield the ball. He doesn't pass it. He flinches. He braces for an impact that hasn't happened yet.
Crunch.
Lowe arrives. He wins the ball cleanly, but his momentum carries him through the player. It's a legal tackle, executed with the force of a train wreck.
Richards hits the turf. He doesn't roll. He doesn't grab his ankle.
He curls into a fetal ball.
He covers his face with his hands. And he starts to cry.
It's not the scream of a broken bone. It's the soft, jagged sobbing of a man who has been mentally broken.
The referee whistles. Stoppage.
Medics run onto the field.
Robin stands ten yards away. He watches. He sees the shaking shoulders. He sees the shame radiating off Richards like heat waves.
It wasn't the tackle that killed him. It was the fear of the tackle.
They lift him onto the stretcher. Richards doesn't uncover his face. He hides from the cameras. He hides from the crowd. He knows. Everyone knows.
The Glass Cannon didn't fire. It shattered.
Minute 76.
The sideline.
Johnny watches the stretcher disappear into the tunnel. He doesn't look sympathetic. He looks furious.
He turns to the bench.
The logical move is to bring on a defensive midfielder. Lock down the draw. 1 1 is a respectable result against a physical team in the opening game. It's safe. It's points on the board.
Johnny looks at the defensive mids.
Then he looks at Dante Cruz. A striker. A raw, unpolished target man who plays in Belgium.
"Cruz," Johnny barks. "Get in."
Voss, standing near the touchline for water, eyes the coach. "We're bringing on a striker? We need control, Johnny."
"Control is a myth," Johnny snaps. "We're going 4 2 4."
Voss's eyes widen. "That leaves the midfield open. They'll overrun us."
"Let them try," Johnny says.
He whistles. He points two fingers at his eyes, then points at Robin.
Robin looks over.
Johnny makes a cutting motion across his neck. Then he points forward.
Cut the cord.
No defensive duties. No tracking back.
Stay up. Kill.
Robin nods.
Minute 82.
The game is open now. It's chaos.
With Richards gone and Cruz up top with Park, the US midfield is empty. It's just Kessel and Russo trying to hold back the tide.
Jamaica sees the blood in the water. They are pouring forward.
Robin is isolated on the left. He is gasping for air.
The humidity is suffocating. It feels like breathing soup. His jersey is plastered to his skin.
His right leg is throbbing. The metal rod inside his tibia feels heavy, like an anchor dragging him down. Every step sends a dull, metallic ache up his thigh.
Snap.
He hears it. A phantom sound in his head. The memory of the bone breaking.
He shakes his head, flinging sweat droplets onto the grass.
Shut up.
He looks at Sterling. The Jamaican right back is tired too. He's breathing hard, hands on his knees. But he's watching Robin.
"You done, kid?" Sterling wheezes. "You look done."
Robin straightens up. He forces his posture to hold.
"I'm just waiting," Robin whispers.
"For what? The ambulance?"
"For the mistake."
Minute 85.
1 1.
The clock is bleeding away. The crowd is anxious. They sense the vulnerability.
Robin stands on the halfway line. He is a ghost. He hasn't touched the ball in ten minutes.
But he is watching. He is waiting.
Johnny said Output is King.
Robin Silver has zero goals. Zero assists.
He isn't tired anymore. He is desperate.
And desperation is a dangerous fuel.