Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Vardy came downstairs at five in the morning.

Mateo was already on the treadmill in the garage, thirty minutes into his sprint intervals, when he heard the back door open and saw Vardy in the doorway rubbing his eyes and holding a mug.

"You didn't have to wake up so early." Mateo said.

"I know. I know." Vardy set the mug down on the workbench. "I woke up. Thought I'd come see what all this fuss is about."

Mateo slowed the treadmill and reached for his water bottle.

Vardy had been living in the house for eight days. In that time he had discovered that Mateo's schedule was, by any reasonable standard, insane. Four-thirty in the garage. Seven with Farfán driving them to training. Full first-team session. Afternoon gym. Home by six, dinner, an hour of match footage, bed by ten. Every day, no exceptions.

He'd slept through the first few mornings. Then he'd tried to join in and lasted forty-five minutes before collapsing on the mat and swearing quietly at the ceiling. After that he stopped trying to keep up and started making himself useful in other ways. Breakfast at seven. Laundry. Fridge stocked with things he thought Mateo would eat. He hadn't asked for permission, and Mateo hadn't argued with him about it. It was easier to let a man earn his rent than to explain why he didn't have to.

"You don't have to be up at five," Mateo said.

"I know. I'm nervous. Can't sleep."

"Cologne today. Third-tier League match. There's no reason to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous about the match. I'm nervous about what people expect from me." Vardy picked up his mug again. "First goal was a fluke. Second was a scrappy tap-in. If I don't score today, everyone starts asking whether I'm a one-week wonder."

"You don't score every match. That's not how strikers work."

"Right." Vardy stared at his coffee. "Right."

He took the coffee upstairs and got dressed for training.

Round Twenty against Cologne at home was, mercifully, straightforward.

Mateo assisted Farfán inside ten minutes. An outside-of-the-foot pass from the centre cut through Cologne's midfield line and gave Farfán the space he needed to strike from the right. Farfán didn't hesitate. Right foot, curling, top corner. He wheeled toward the crowd and made a heart shape with his hands at the nearest camera. Mateo caught up with him near the corner flag.

"For Melissa?" Mateo asked.

"Her birthday. She's watching from Lima with the kids."

"Congratulations. Tell her I said happy birthday."

"She'll be pleased. I forgot to send flowers this morning, so I needed the goal."

He was still grinning when the play restarted.

The second goal arrived in the 19th minute. Mateo danced past a Cologne midfielder with a sharp La Croqueta, slipping a weighted through ball into Raúl's path. The Spaniard deftly chipped the rushing goalkeeper with effortless grace. Two-nil before twenty minutes had even ticked by. Cologne packed eleven men behind the ball for the rest of the half, and Mateo dropped his tempo, choosing to conserve energy for a result that was already decided.

Vardy came on for Farfán in the 70th minute.

The home crowd gave him a warm, loud roar of encouragement the moment the stadium announcer called his name. A few supporters in the lower tier were already sporting makeshift Vardy shirts, hastily put together after the Hoffenheim match. Farfán jogged off toward the bench, giving Vardy a firm shove between the shoulder blades with a wide grin: Go on, get yourself another.

Vardy delivered in the seventy-ninth.

Mateo spotted him from deep, cutting a crisp diagonal across the pitch. Vardy took one sharp touch into space and unleashed a low, outside-of-the-boot shot before the Cologne keeper could even set his feet. The ball tucked neatly into the bottom corner, leaving the keeper rooted to the spot.

Vardy did not rip off his jersey this time. He turned toward the home supporters, raised a single fist to the roaring stands, and jogged back toward the center circle with the posture of a man who was finally realizing he belonged on this stage.

Three-nil at the final whistle.

Later that evening, Bayern Munich stumbled.

Borussia Mönchengladbach pulled off a shock 2-0 victory at the Allianz Arena. Mateo watched the post-match highlights on the living room screen while Vardy sat next to him on the sofa, spooning cereal from a bowl at nine at night.

The updated table flashed onto the screen: Schalke had officially climbed into second place.

Only Borussia Dortmund stood above them now, holding a five-point cushion with fourteen matches left to play.

"Well... that definitely wasn't in the script, was it?" Vardy muttered, his spoon hovering midway between the bowl and his mouth as the final score flashed across the screen.

Mateo leaned back into the sofa cushions. "Bayern drop points like any other team. They aren't invincible."

"Mate, come off it, it's Bayern Munich," Vardy said, turning his head to look at him like he had lost his mind. "They're supposed to just steamroll everyone at home, aren't they?"

"Well, clearly not tonight," Mateo replied with a quiet smirk. "Gladbach came with a plan and caught them sleeping. That is just how this league works. Anyone can take points if you lose focus for ninety minutes."

Vardy chewed slowly, staring at the updated league table as the graphics cycled through the top four. He pointed the tip of his spoon toward the screen.

"So, look... be honest with me," Vardy asked, his tone dropping a little lower, almost hesitant. "Do you reckon we've actually got a proper shot at winning the whole thing?"

Mateo let out a slow breath, considering it for a second. "Honestly? It will be brutal. Dortmund have barely put a foot wrong all winter, and Klopp's got them running like machines. We can't afford a single slip-up."

"Right, yeah, fair enough," Vardy said, nodding slightly, but a stubborn little spark stayed in his eyes. "Still, though... it's not impossible, is it? We could actually do it."

Mateo looked at him and offered a small, genuine nod. "Yeah. If we keep playing like this, we definitely could."

Vardy went back to his bowl, but Mateo could see the gears turning in his head. He had arrived in Gelsenkirchen expecting a quiet spot on the bench for a mid-table side. Three weeks in, he was suddenly right in the thick of a real title fight.

Three days later, the squad traveled to Mainz for a midweek clash.

Magath rotated heavily. With the Champions League trip to Valencia just six days away, he wanted his main starting eleven fully rested for the Mestalla. Ozan started at right-back, Rakitić held down the midfield anchor, and Bujerab was given another run at number ten.

Mainz came out flying. They pressed aggressively, snapped into tackles, and took advantage of the rotated lineup to snatch a first-half lead through a messy set-piece scramble that Neuer could not quite keep out.

Magath did not wait, bringing Mateo, Raúl, and Huntelaar on at halftime.

The dynamic shifted immediately.

Mateo controlled the tempo in the middle, drawing foul after foul from Mainz's overextended midfielders. By the fifty-fifth minute, three of Mainz's central players were sitting on yellow cards and terrified of making a challenge, opening up the exact pockets Mateo needed.

In the fifty-seventh minute, Mateo dropped his shoulder past his booked marker and curled a sweeping cross to the near post. Huntelaar timed his run to perfection, volleying the ball home on the fly to make it 1-1.

Then came the sixty-ninth minute.

Mateo worked a quick one-two with Huntelaar down the left flank before cutting a sharp, low pass back across the box toward Raúl at the penalty spot.

Raúl wound up to shoot.

The Mainz center-back lunged recklessly from behind, crashing straight through Raúl's standing ankle.

A sharp whistle cut through the stadium. The referee sprinted over, brandishing a straight red card and pointing to the penalty spot. But none of the Schalke players were looking at the referee.

Raúl was flat on the turf, clutching his right ankle with both hands, his face contorted in sheer agony. A heavy, sickening chill swept through the entire team.

Huntelaar stepped up and converted the penalty, but nobody cheered or ran to celebrate.

The medical staff rushed the stretcher onto the pitch within seconds. Raúl was carried off with his eyes clamped shut against the pain, while Farfán walked alongside him all the way to the tunnel before jogging back to the center circle, quietly wiping his face with the collar of his jersey.

The match ended in a somber 2-1 victory.

Inside the visiting dressing room, complete silence hung in the air. Bags sat packed, boots were untied, and nobody said a single word.

Magath pushed the door open, his face pale and tight.

"Grab your bags," Magath said, his voice quiet and tight as he stepped back into the doorway. "We're going straight to the hospital. The bus is waiting outside."

Nobody asked questions. They grabbed their gear and followed him out into the cold night.

You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!

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