Thursday, October 15th. 10:00 AM. Riverton Video Room.
The video room was a portacabin with blackout blinds taped to the windows. The air was thick with the smell of damp carpet and unwashed training kits.
Mick Harrigan stood by the projector screen, tapping it with a plastic ruler.
"Crestwood," Harrigan grunted. "They are cockroaches. You stamp on them, they scuttle away, they come back. They are sitting 16th. Four points above us. This is a six-pointer."
He clicked a button. A grainy video of Crestwood vs. York City began to play.
"Their defense is organized," Harrigan noted. "They don't have pace, but they have structure. It's held together by this lump."
He paused the video. The screen froze on a player in a yellow shirt, mid-air, winning a header against two strikers.
Mason Turner.
"The captain," Harrigan said. "Turner. He's 18, but he plays like a 35-year-old bricklayer. He wins 82% of his aerial duels. If you float a cross into the box, you are giving him a gift. Do not cross it high. Drill it low. Make him turn."
Ethan sat in the back row, arms crossed. It was a surreal, out-of-body experience to hear his manager dissecting his best friend like a problem to be solved.
Harrigan clicked again. The video cut to a winger chasing a lost cause, sliding in to keep the ball in play, then winning a cheap foul.
Callum Reid.
"And this little rat," Harrigan pointed. "Reid. He's quick. He's annoying. He will talk to you all game. He will try to wind you up. Do not listen to him. If he gets past you, put him in the stand. He doesn't like the physical stuff."
Ethan bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. Callum hates the physical stuff, but he doesn't shy away from it.
Harrigan turned to the room. "Matthews!"
Ethan jumped. "Boss?"
"You know them," Harrigan stated. "You grew up with them. What's the weakness?"
The room turned to look at Ethan. The 'spy' in the camp.
Ethan looked at the frozen image of Mason. "Turner reads the game better than anyone in this league," Ethan said honestly. "But he turns slow on his left side. If you run at his left shoulder, he has to adjust. That's the gap."
Harrigan nodded, impressed. "Good. We target the left shoulder."
Ethan felt a pang of guilt. He had just sold out his best friend. But this was the job.
Saturday, October 17th. 2:45 PM. The Tunnel.
The Riverton tunnel was narrow, smelling of wintergreen.
Ethan stood in the line, adjusting his captain's armband (Harrigan had given it to him last week after the regular captain got suspended). "You talk the most," Harrigan had reasoned.
He looked to his left. The Crestwood team was lined up. They looked like a unit. Battle-hardened by the relegation fights.
At the front stood Mason. He looked bigger than the last time Ethan saw him. Broader chest. His face was set in that familiar, stoic scowl. He was staring straight ahead.
Behind him was Callum, bouncing on his toes, chewing gum furiously.
Ethan leaned across the divide. "Alright, skip?"
Mason turned his head slowly. He looked at Ethan. He didn't smile. "Alright, skip."
"Pitch looks heavy," Ethan said, trying to break the tension.
"Mud is mud," Mason replied. "We're used to it."
Callum leaned out from behind Mason. He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't cry when I nutmeg you, Eth."
"Don't cry when I put you in the stand," Ethan shot back, quoting Harrigan.
"Lads," the referee shouted. "Let's go."
Mason turned forward. He slapped his hands together. "Crestwood! Let's work! Nobody rests!"
Ethan felt a shiver. He wasn't playing with his friends today. He was playing opponents.
Kickoff.
Riverton vs. Crestwood.
The game started with a thud. A high ball from kickoff. Mason rose above the Riverton striker and headed it 40 yards back into the Riverton half.
"Mine!" Ethan shouted.
He controlled the header on his chest. He looked up. Callum was already pressing him, sprinting like a terrier.
Ethan didn't panic. He waited for Callum to commit, then dragged the ball back and popped a pass around him. "Too slow, Cal," Ethan whispered as he jogged past.
"Lucky bounce," Callum muttered, chasing back.
20th Minute.
The game was a gridlock. Crestwood were disciplined. Mason was marshaling the back line perfectly, stepping up to catch Riverton offside every time Ethan tried a through ball.
Ethan was frustrated. He dropped deeper to get the ball.
He picked it up in the center circle. He saw a gap. He drove forward. He went past one midfielder. Then another.
He was bearing down on the defense. Mason stepped out to meet him.
It was the moment they had played out a thousand times in the park at Eastfield. Ethan vs. Mason. The Unstoppable Object vs. The Immovable Wall.
Ethan dropped his shoulder to go right (Mason's strong side). Mason bought the feint—just for a microsecond. Ethan cut back to the left (the weak shoulder).
He was through. He touched the ball past Mason.
But Mason didn't turn. He knew he was beaten for pace. So he did the professional thing. He stepped across Ethan's line. He used his hip. A "tactical obstruction."
Thud.
Ethan slammed into Mason's side. It was like running into a lamppost. Ethan went down hard.
Whistle.
The referee ran over. Yellow card for Mason.
Mason didn't argue. He offered a hand to Ethan. Ethan took it. Mason hauled him up.
"You targeted the left," Mason said quietly. "Smart."
"You blocked me," Ethan grimaced, rubbing his ribs. "Cynical."
"Necessary," Mason shrugged. "You were in."
55th Minute.
The score was 0-0.
Crestwood won a corner. Callum trotted over to take it. The Riverton fans hurled abuse at him. Callum blew them a kiss.
"Mark up!" Ethan shouted, pointing at Mason. "Don't let him jump!"
Ethan found himself standing next to Mason in the six-yard box. "You're not scoring today, Mase," Ethan said, leaning on him.
"Watch me," Mason grunted.
Callum whipped the ball in. It was a peach. Mason moved. He shoved Ethan—hard—in the chest to create a yard of space. Ethan stumbled back.
Mason jumped. Free header. He connected.
But he didn't head it at the goal. He headed it across the goal. A knockdown. Right into the path of the Crestwood striker, Deano.
Deano swung a boot. The ball flew into the net.
GOAL. 0-1 Crestwood.
Mason didn't celebrate wildly. He just pointed to Deano. Ethan stood in the six-yard box, hands on his hips. He had been done. The "shove and go." Oldest trick in the book, and Mason had used it on him.
75th Minute.
Riverton were desperate. Harrigan was kicking water bottles on the sideline.
Ethan received the ball on the edge of the box. "Shoot!" the crowd screamed.
Ethan wound up. He saw a flash of yellow sliding in. Callum.
Callum was trying to make a block. He was late. If Ethan followed through with the shot, he would kick Callum. He might break Callum's ankle.
In the Premier League, you follow through. You take the shot. But this was Callum.
Ethan hesitated. He pulled his kick slightly, trying to lift the ball over Callum's leg rather than driving through it.
The hesitation cost power. The shot floated. The Crestwood keeper caught it easily.
"Why didn't you smash it?!" Baz screamed at Ethan.
"He was there!" Ethan shouted back.
Ethan looked down at Callum, who was getting up. Callum looked at him. He knew. "You pulled out," Callum whispered. "Soft."
Ethan felt a flash of anger. I saved your ankle, you idiot.
88th Minute.
Ethan was angry now. Angry at the score. Angry at Callum. Angry at himself.
He got the ball deep. He didn't look for a pass. He just ran. He powered past the midfield. He rode a tackle.
He reached the edge of the box. Mason was there again. The Wall.
This time, Ethan didn't feint. He played a one-two with Baz. A wall pass. Mason turned to track the ball, but Ethan was gone. He ghosted past him.
Ethan collected the return pass. He was one-on-one with the keeper. He didn't hesitate. He smashed it low and hard.
GOAL. 1-1.
Ethan didn't celebrate. He grabbed the ball out of the net and ran back to the center circle. "We go for the winner!" he roared.
He ran past Mason. Mason didn't look at him. He was staring at the ground, furious with himself for losing the runner.
Full Time. Riverton 1 - 1 Crestwood.
The whistle blew. The rivalry ended instantly.
Ethan collapsed on the grass. Two seconds later, a shadow fell over him. He looked up. Mason was standing there. He reached a hand down.
Ethan took it. Mason pulled him into a hug. A real, sweaty, rib-crushing hug.
"You're annoying," Mason said into his ear. "You're actually annoying to play against."
"You shoved me for the goal," Ethan accused, pulling back.
"Veteran move," Mason grinned. "You'll learn."
Callum limped over. He had a bag of ice on his ankle. "1-1," Callum said. "Boring. But fair."
"I could have broken your leg," Ethan told him. "In the 75th minute. I pulled out."
Callum looked at him. "I know. Thanks. But next time? Shoot. Don't go easy on me."
Harrigan walked onto the pitch. He saw his captain hugging the opposition. Usually, he would be furious. But he saw the respect.
"Good point," Harrigan grunted as he walked past. "You stopped the rot."
Ethan stood with his friends in the middle of the empty pitch. The fans were leaving. They were covered in mud. They were bruised. They were exhausted.
"Nando's?" Callum asked.
"Nando's," Ethan and Mason agreed in unison.
Ethan looked at his knee. It was caked in dirt. It was sore. But it had survived the Friends Derby. And he had scored.
Survival. He was doing more than surviving. He was starting to live again.