Tuesday, April 20th. 7:30 PM The Stands, The Foundry, Eastfield.
The semi-final match of the League One Play-off – second leg.
The match is between Crestwood United and Rotherham United.
(Aggregate: 0-0)
The brightness of the Champions League is so intense it's blinding, but the true reality of English football can be found in the cold, corroded terraces of League One.
Ethan Matthews was standing towards the back of the corrugated-iron stands at The Foundry, his face partly hidden in the collar of a thick, dark winter coat and a black beanie drawn down over his forehead. Although he wasn't the Dictator of The Hawthorns that night, he was merely a boy from the estate, standing next to his fellow residents.
Callum Reid was tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on the metal safety barrier to his left, while Mia had her hands tightly clasped and her breath was forming visible plumes in the cold April air.
Mason Turner was fighting the war of his life on the heavily damaged and torn-up pitch.
Ethan felt his phone vibrating in the pocket of his coat.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mason: I can see the three of you in the corner there. Wonderkid, pull down your hat, since this is a local crowd tonight. We have ninety minutes to get this town to Wembley. Let's go all out.
Ethan: I'm only a fan here tonight, Mase—leave all of it on the grass, we're right behind you.
Mia: Put your phone away and get warmed up, Mason! We're calling out for you!
Ethan smiled as he locked the phone. The importance of the situation was no less than that of Paris or Milan. For Crestwood United, a team founded on community donations and determination, promotion to the Championship was essential for financial survival and would mean immortality in Eastfield.
The referee sounded the whistle.
34th Minute.
The game was a total bloodbath; there was no tactical elegance and no long, flowing sequences of passing. It was just plain, ordinary lower-league trench warfare.
Mason was a giant in the middle of the field. With the captain's armband placed over his red-and-black strips, he used his huge frame in every tackle, securing headers at the cost of suffering bruises and injuries and completely controlled the central area.
"Callum murmured, 'His sense of space is really impressive tonight,' as he watched Mason intercept a dangerous through-ball. 'He's entirely holding down their defensive line by sticking to a strict and conservative pivot.'"
"Cal," Ethan said in a quiet voice, looking steadily at his best friend, "he isn't considering the structure; he's simply refusing to lose."
75th Minute.
The tension at The Foundry was suffocating, the total score still held at 0–0, the hard surface was wearing out the players on both sides and the match had turned into a series of frantic long balls and desperate clearances.
Mason was slightly limping, putting the weight on his left knee, but he would not look at the bench.
"They need a spark," Mia whispered, biting her lip. "They look so tired."
Ethan held onto the cold metal fence and understood precisely what Mason was experiencing; it was the same deep, burning exhaustion that he had felt when playing against Manchester City on Boxing Day. However, Ethan could not control the pace of the game, for he couldn't touch the ball and manage the space, and all he could do was watch.
88th Minute.
Football is a harsh and unforgiving god and has no concern for fairy tales.
Rotherham gained a highly disputed corner on the left. The crowd at Eastfield reacted with angry protests, but the referee dismissed them.
The ball was knocked into the mixer and remained suspended in the cold air.
Mason charged into the crowd and managed to head the ball clear, but a huge centre-back from Rotherham charged into his blind side with a heavy shoulder blow which knocked him completely off balance in the air.
Mason landed heavily on the muddy ground.
The ball went past him and fell exactly onto the foot of a striker from Rotherham who was positioned at the back post. He didn't make contact with it; instead he hit a fierce volley into the roof of the net.
GOAL.
Crestwood United 0 - 1 Rotherham United. (Aggregate: 0-1)
The Foundry was filled with a dead and complete silence except for the wild celebrations of the players who had left.
Mason Turner remained in the mud for a long and painful moment down on the pitch, then struck the ground with his fist in a fierce, instinctive expression of despair before gradually pulling himself to his feet.
Ethan's stomach sank.
90+5 Minutes.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
Crestwood United 0 - 1 Rotherham United.
The idea of reaching the playoffs was over.
The Crestwood players dropped onto the mud, with a number of them crying. Eastfield got to their feet and gave the team a long, respectful standing ovation since it had given them everything, though the sadness in the air was obvious.
Ethan didn't wait; he pulled his hat down, turned to Callum and Mia, and indicated the stairs with a nod. "I'm going down."
9:45 PM. The Home Dressing Room, The Foundry.
The dressing room felt like a morgue.
Ethan positioned himself by the door, keeping out of the way as the Crestwood manager gave a quiet and emotional speech after the match. Once the manager had finished, the players then started to take off their mud-covered kits in silence.
Ethan went to the locker in the corner.
Mason was sitting on the wooden bench with his head in his hands and still had on his boots as well as his damaged red-and-black kit; he didn't look up when Ethan sat down beside him.
They remained in silence for a long time.
I lost my man on the corner, Eth," Mason finally whispered, his voice thick and hollow. He rubbed the calloused pads of his hands down his face, spreading mud over his scarred cheek. "I was completely pushed under the ball. That was the end of it. Just one mistake."
"You were pushed in the back, Mase," Ethan said firmly. "It should have been a foul. And you kept them in the tie for a hundred and eighty minutes. You didn't lose anything."
Mason shook his head and looked at the concrete floor.
"We remained in League One," Mason stated, the absolute finality of the sentence hanging heavy in the freezing room. "Based on everything we did all season, it wasn't enough. We remain in League One for another year. Another forty-six games of absolute trench warfare."
Ethan turned to look at his best friend and had seen Mason pull himself out of the darkest parts of the estate, using football as a real lifeline.
"You'll stay in charge for one more year," Ethan said in a quiet voice, his words breaking the silence in the locker room.
Mason then looked at him.
The mud has heavy gravity, Mase, Ethan went on, meeting his captain's eyes. It was you who told me the factory doesn't close, so you can't just call it a day because the concrete has hit back. Since Crestwood is still in League One, you have another twelve months to ensure that every single team in this division is scared to come to The Foundry.
Mason looked at Ethan, breathing out slowly and unevenly. Although the devastation was still visible in his eyes, a small flash of that familiar, feral Eastfield spirit started to appear in the darkness.
Mason extended his hand and grabbed the back of Ethan's neck, pulling him into a firm, brotherly hug.
"Tonight they had luck, Wonderkid," Mason rasped, his voice once more reaching its sharp edge. "Tonight they had luck."
"Yeah, they did," Ethan replied, giving Mason a hearty clap on the back.
11:30 PM. Penthouse apartment, Birmingham.
Ethan was sitting on the edge of his bed, the silence in the luxury apartment standing in sharp contrast to the heartbreak he had just abandoned in Eastfield.
He turned his attention to his phone.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mia: I've just left Mason at his flat. He'll be all right, Eth. Thank you for going down to the dressing room; he needed you.
Callum: Although the emotional impact of playoff football can be seen as extremely severe, Mason has an exceptionally high psychological threshold and will eventually get over it. You have been drawn into a Champions League Semi-Final match tomorrow morning, Ethan. The machine can't stop running.
Ethan: Look after him for a few days, guys, since he'll be back at breaking ankles by July. Cal, you're correct—the machine never stops.
Ethan locked the phone and then lay himself back down on the pillows.
Mason remained stuck in League One for one more season, but he would manage to get through it. He was made for playing in muddy conditions. The heartache, however, acted as a harsh and essential reminder for the Dictator of The Hawthorns.
Football offers absolutely nothing; you may struggle for the whole of a season and end up losing everything on a single corner kick in the 88th minute.
The semi-finals of the Champions League will be drawn by UEFA tomorrow morning, with Barcelona, Juventus and Real Madrid still in the running.
Ethan closed his eyes and the memory of Mason sitting in the mud burned its way into his mind. He wasn't merely playing for the crown any longer; he was playing for the boys who were still in the trenches.