Michael stood in the director’s box at Pride Park, a tiny, isolated island of red in a vast, roaring, 30,000-seat ocean of black and white. T
he noise was deafening.
In his ear, the live radio feed crackled to life, the commentator’s voice already giddy, barely audible over the din.
"WELCOME, ladies and gentlemen, to a pulsating Pride Park for what is, without a doubt, the ’Game of the Century’ in League One! It’s number two, Derby County, the ’Benchmark’ of the division, taking on the ’Barnsley Braves,’ the ’Kid Genius’ Michael Sterling’s team of giant-killers! The atmosphere in here... I can barely hear myself think! It is absolutely electric!"
Michael’s heart was a frantic, pounding drum. He remembered the tunnel, just five minutes ago.
His "Braves" had walked out, their faces pale but set in a mask of grim, warrior-like determination.
They were feeding off Arthur’s "war" speech.
Then the Derby County players had walked out. They weren’t "geezers" like his father’s team.
They were professionals. Big, fast, powerful,
[CA 70]
athletes in their absolute prime. They hadn’t laughed at the Barnsley kids. They hadn’t patronized them. They had just...
looked
at them, their eyes cold, analytical, and full of a quiet, brutal confidence. They were here to do a job. They were here to win.
Michael felt a cold, prickling dread. This was, by far, the most dangerous, most
complete
team they had ever faced.
PHWEEEEEEET!
Derby, fueled by their 30,000 screaming fans,
exploded
out of the blocks. They were pressing with the intensity of a Premier League team.
Barnsley couldn’t breathe.
The "Holy Trinity," the "Butterflies with Switchblades," were butterflies in a wind tunnel. They couldn’t get a touch. Jamie Weston, for the first time in his life, was being out-run by his opposing fullback. Finn Riley, the "Wild Fox," tried a trick and was just... unceremoniously,
legally
, and powerfully, shoved off the ball. Danny Fletcher, the "Brain," had no time to think.
He was being suffocated by Derby’s captain, a 32-year-old veteran midfielder who seemed to have ten lungs.
"And it is ALL Derby County!" the commentator shrieked in Michael’s ear.
"The ’Braves’ are pinned! They cannot get out of their own half! This is a
statement
of intent from the home side! They are showing Barnsley the
real
benchmark for promotion!"
Michael gripped the armrest of his chair, his knuckles white. This was
hell
. His team was being dismantled. This was worse than Old Trafford, because this was a team in their
own league
. This was the level they had to reach. And they were miles off.
The pressure was relentless. It was a siege.
In the 19th minute, the inevitable finally happened.
A Derby attacker, on the edge of the box, was closed down by a desperate, lunging tackle from Dave Bishop. The tackle was clean. He got the ball.
But the referee, swept up in the passionate roar of the home crowd, blew his whistle.
A foul.
A free kick.
A gift.
A deafening, triumphant roar went up from the 30,000 Derby fans.
"Oh, that is unbelievably soft!" the commentator yelled.
"Dave Bishop clearly got the ball! But the referee has given it! And this... this is Max Bird’s territory. This is
prime
territory for the Derby captain..."
Michael’s heart sank into his shoes. He had seen the tapes.
Max Bird, the Derby captain. He was a
[CA 70]
player with a [Set Piece: 18/20] stat. He was a dead-ball specialist. This was a guaranteed goal.
The crowd went quiet, a low, expectant, hungry hum. Bird placed the ball. 30 yards out. He took his run-up.
He struck it.
It wasn’t a Power Shot. It was a masterpiece. It curled, beautifully, magically,
up
and
over
the wall, and then began to dip, viciously, heading for the one, unsaveable spot: the top-left corner.
Michael’s heart stopped. It’s in. 1-0.
But he had forgotten about his keeper.
Sam Jones, Barnsley’s young,
[PA 80]
goalkeeper, had been a quiet, solid, but unremarkable presence all season. He was a "good shot-stopper."
Today, he became a
great
one.
He moved. He didn’t just
dive
. He
exploded
. He launched his entire, 6’3" frame sideways, his body perfectly horizontal, his arm at a full, desperate, superhuman stretch. He was flying.
The ball was dipping.
Ting!
The sound was tiny, but it was the most beautiful sound Michael had ever heard.
Sam Jones’s fingertips, the very,
very
end of his glove, just...
grazed
the ball. It wasn’t enough to stop it. But it was enough to
change
it.
The ball, its perfect, goal-bound trajectory shifted by a single millimeter,
smashed
...
CRACK!
...against the crossbar.
The sound echoed around the stunned stadium like a gunshot.
The ball rocketed down, onto the goal line, and spun, wickedly, across the face of the goal.
The Derby striker, a
[CA 69]
poacher, was there! He was one yard out! An empty net! He just had to tap it in!
He slid...
WHOOSH!
A red shirt. A
desperate
, last-ditch, sliding clearance from Captain Dave Bishop, who had scrambled to his feet. He hooked the ball off the line, over the bar, and out for a corner.
The entire 30,000-person stadium, which had been on its feet, celebrating, let out a single, unified, agonized
groan
.
The commentator was just
screaming
.
"WHAT A SAVE! WHAT... A... SAVE! I DO NOT BELIEVE IT! SAM JONES, OUT OF
NOWHERE
! He has just pulled off the save of the
season
! That was in! It was in all the way! The ’OP Keeper’ indeed! Sam Jones has just kept his team in this war!"
Michael was on his feet, his hands on his head, his mouth open. He was applauding. He was roaring.
"YES! SAM! YES!"
That save... it didn’t just save a goal. It changed the
game
.
It was like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over the 30,000 screaming fans. The wall of noise faltered.
And it was like a shot of pure, uncut adrenaline had been jabbed into the heart of the Barnsley players.
They had survived. They had faced the hurricane, and they were still standing.
The resulting corner was cleared. The ball fell to Tom Harrison.
And the 20th minute began.