The whistle sounds, blew by the referee, one of Tatsuya’s people he had brought along.
He didn’t say much, but the whistle made everything official in a way none of their voices ever could, and something about hearing an actual whistle instead of a shout makes the whole thing feel less like Sunday but something more.
Eight teams meant it’s a quarterfinal, straight from the first game, down to the final, thirty minutes each half, sixty total, and if it was level after that, no extra time, straight to penalties.
This match — Rui’s side in red bibs against a side in blue — was the very first of the day’s four quarterfinals, which meant other teams are still waiting their turn with nothing better to do than crowd the fence and watch, the whole tournament’s first real impression being written in real time by whoever happened to be on this particular patchy field right now.
Rui’s side lined up eleven 4-2-4: Tomoya in goal; Rui at right back, Kaito and Sho at center back, Jin at left back; a midfield of Ken** anchoring the center alongside Renta, with Shun wide right and Kota wide left; and up top, Yamato paired with Ryo.
Across from them, the blues fielded a 4-4-2 with Haruki in goal; a back four of Kenji , Daiki, Ryusei, and Aoi; a midfield of Hayato and Souta through the middle, Reo and Naoya wide midfielders; and a front two of Takumi and Ryosuke.
The opening minutes belonged mostly to the blues, Takumi and Ryosuke pressing high and direct, testing Jin down the left with pace that had him retreating more than he’d have liked inside the first sixty seconds.
Souta found space in the third minute, a driving run through the center that Ken managed to smother more through effort than elegance, conceding a corner rather than a clean chance. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
“Stay tight!” Ken shouted, organizing the box, and Kaito and Sho both rose for the delivery, Kaito’s header clearing it cleanly out for a reds throw-in.
Yamato, up top, spent the first few minutes making runs nobody found, shouting for the ball with the same stubborn confidence he’d shown in the huddle before kickoff, and it was Renta, midway through the sixth minute, who finally threaded a pass that nearly reached him — Aoi reading it half a step early and cutting it out before Yamato could get a touch.
“The ball needed to be better !” Yamato called back, indignant.
“You’re not a statue, get to the ball next time” Ken called back, without much sympathy, already turning his attention to the blues’ next attack and how to stop it.
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The blues came closest in the eighth minute, Reo cutting inside from the right and forcing a low save out of Tomoya that the young keeper parried away rather than held, the rebound scrambled clear by a combination of Sho’s boot and pure luck before Ryosuke could pounce on it.
“Good hands,” Sho called over, and Tomoya, breathing hard, just nodded, too focused to spare the energy for words.
On the far touchline, Tatsuya watched the whole exchange without moving from his crate, ball still rolling idle under one foot, the specific unhurried attention of a man who’d clearly seen a hundred of these opening quarters settle into their real shape only once the nerves finally burned off.
By the ten-minute mark, the game had settled into an even, cagey rhythm where both sides are testing each other, neither committing fully, the scoreline still blank at nil-nil, and the crowd along the fence, still swelling as the rest of the day’s teams filtered in to watch the tournament’s opening statement being made, leaned a little closer with every fresh minute that passed.
(Author)
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