The first fifteen minutes of the match were a slow-motion car crash, a horrifying, unravelling disaster that I was powerless to prevent. My gesture of faith, my grand, symbolic act of loyalty, had backfired in the most spectacular, soul-crushing way imaginable.
Lewis, the player I had tried to save, was drowning, and he was pulling the entire team down with him. He was a man playing with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was crushing him.
Every touch was a nervous, hesitant fumble. Every pass was a desperate, hopeful punt. Every decision was a moment of paralysing indecision. He was a ghost, a shadow of the calm, composed defender who had been the bedrock of our preseason success.
The crowd, a respectable 150 or so who had turned up for our first home game of the season, could see it. His teammates could see it. And I, standing on the touchline, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest, could see it most clearly of all.
