Football singularity

Chapter 828: Chapter 828 You Guys Had A Good Game

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[28-06-2021 | Arena Națională, Bucharest | 20: 52 EET]

[Germany 0-2 Switzerland]

"You have played a hundred minutes of tournament football for me across four matches," Löw said, still low, still flat. "Portugal, thirty minutes, two goals contribution and a goal. Hungary, ninety minutes, two goals, one assist. Do you know what you did against Switzerland tonight in your forty-two minutes?"

I did not respond, still wondering what the fuck was going on. One minute I’m trying to recover for the second half; the next I’m receiving a dressing-down as if I were the biggest sinner. Part of me wanted to argue back that I was playing in a system that shackled me rather than helping, but that look on his face reminded me of someone a long while back.

That coach who blew a fuse for no good reason back when I first started playing football, ’What was his name again?’ Anyway, no matter what I said, it wouldn’t matter, since it looked like he needed a place to vent, but it’s annoying.

"Hey, are you listening?"

’Oh, you’re still talking.’ But why is this guy poking me? ’Does he have a death wish?’

"This isn’t club football if you can’t get yourself involved in the game; you can watch from the bench. You have 10 minutes to show me something different."

"That goes for everyone. I want to see some life at the start of the second half. If you can’t do it, tell me now," he announced before leaving the room, not waiting for a response.

The room stayed silent, no one speaking, and I let out a deep breath, my shaking hand that had been twitching finally stopping. "Fuck me," I muttered, but in the silent room it might as well have been shouted, and I didn’t care right now.

Bending down, I started untying my laces one by one, kicking off the wet Venom-strike, which was covered in grass. "Don’t take it to heart, Rakim; he’s just frustrated," Gnabry said from the side, scooting to the seat next to me to whisper. "Put your shoes back on; don’t sit out because of that."

"Huh, what are you talking about?" I asked him, genuinely confused as I pulled out a new pair of boots. "I wasn’t listening to whatever he said. I’m more focused on how to score, so if you feel stuck, float the ball my way; I’ll get to it somehow."

All thoughts vanished from my mind as I looked into his brown dark brown eyes, feeling the ends of my hair stand up. I had to hold my knee to stop it from bouncing and focus on lacing up my Purple Singularities.

"He’s not wrong, though we played like shit; all the possession in the world is useless if we are getting our asses handed to us. We are Die Manshaft; let’s at least beat our direct matchup." I said loud enough to interrupt my muttering teammates. "I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of people making assumptions the moment I put on this kit, and personally I just want to shut them up." Leaving those words, I headed for the door and untied my loose bun, letting my hair fall into a loose afro.

~~~

[28-06-2021 | Arena Națională, Bucharest | 21:00 EET]

"And welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to the second half here in Bucharest," Martin Tyler picked up the broadcast as the cameras swept across the pitch, panning up to catch the drizzle backlit against the floodlights. "Germany trail Switzerland by two, and if the body language coming out of that tunnel is any indication, the next forty-five minutes are going to be something worth watching."

"You can already see it, Martin," Alan Smith agreed. "Joachim Löw came out first, very unusual for him. He is normally the last man out of the tunnel, still exchanging words with his staff. Tonight, he is already in his technical area with his hands on his hips before a single player has crossed the touchline."

"Rakim was also one who came out early, almost a full minute before the rest of his teammates," Tyler continued as the Swiss squad emerged in a tight cluster, jogging out onto the pitch professionally on time. "Peculiarly, they did not share a word, let alone exchange glances."

"I guess all that needed to be said was said in the locker-room," Smith noted, the camera panning to the seventeen-year-old sitting on the balls of his heels on the left flank. "Different boots than the first half."

"Maybe that’s what he needs to put on a rakim-style show," Tyler said. "If you ever needed a player to turn a game, he is your guy. They don’t call him Mr Clutch for nothing."

"Löw will be hoping for that too, Martin," Smith added, "Not the footwear but the goals."

"Fair."

On the Swiss side, Petković had made no changes, and why would he? Everything about the first half had worked. Referee Fernando Rapallini waited at the centre circle, watching both benches, one hand on the whistle at his lips.

Widmer stood two yards from me, bouncing on his toes, saying something to Elvedi a couple of paces back in French. I couldn’t understand the words, as I’ve never bothered with French after learning Spanish, Portuguese, and Japanese. I tuned it out, internalising that familiar feeling, just waiting for Seferovic and Embolo, who stood over the ball at the centre spot.

The rain had softened into a mist now, feeling like an electric shock on my skin, making the pounding of my heart sound heavier. I flexed my toes once inside them, feeling the familiar tight leather hug my foot, and rolled my shoulders back. "Hey." Widmer had drifted closer, practically shoulder to shoulder, addressing me directly now in accented English.

"You gonna cross the halfway line this half, or you gonna keep me warm?" I glanced down at him, two inches separating our eye line, wondering why everyone felt the need to ignorantly ya today.

I flicked a loose curl of hair off my forehead, exhaled once through my nose, and held my hand out to him. "You guys had a good game." Shaking his hand, I let go and took a couple of steps back.

(FWEEEEET!)

[46’]

Embolo tapped the ball to Seferovic, who sent it back all the way to Akanji as the Germans swarmed forward. The Swiss centre-back didn’t panic, calmly playing it across to Elvedi. "Elvedi to Rodríguez, Rodríguez to Xhaka, Xhaka back to Elvedi, they are moving the ball, trying to kill the momentum of the Germans," Tyler noted as the Germans pressed harder than they had at any point in the first half, but the Swiss shape held.

Rakim jogged into position, joining the press on the left flank, and Widmer was already there, half a step off his shoulder, his eyes never leaving him. When Rakim drifted five yards infield, Widmer drifted in like a shadow. "Widmer has been given one job," Smith noted. "And he is doing it beautifully. Rex has not even touched the ball yet this half, and we are past three minutes."

"He is being denied the space to think," Tyler agreed. "That is the assignment, and Petković has given it to a man who ran a marathon last summer for fun. He will not tire."

Switzerland kept the ball for a full ninety seconds without a single German touch before Freuler over-hit a pass toward Zuber that skidded out for a throw. The Arena stirred restlessly, the German fans banging on the advertising boards, urging their side to do something, anything.

[52’]

Kimmich took the throw quickly, rolling it to Goretzka, and the Bayern midfielder took two touches before slipping it forward into Müller’s feet on the edge of the final third. Drifting into the pocket that Freuler had just vacated, he dragged Xhaka half a yard out of position and rolled it wide to Kimmich, who had already begun the overlap.

Kimmich carried it up the right, drew Zuber toward him, then knocked it inside to Gnabry, who returned it first-time. Rodríguez shuffled across to shut him down, but Kimmich had already darted past him. He cut it back to Gnabry, who was arriving at the corner of the box, and this time the Bayern winger did not release it.

Rodríguez set himself, feet planted, expecting the shot. Gnabry shaped for it, drawing back his right boot, then dragged the ball across his body with the sole of his foot and dropped his left shoulder in the same motion. Rodríguez bit hard, committing to the block, but Gnabry burst past him on the outside, two touches, three, then dinked a curling ball with the insole of his boot across the middle of the box.

"Beautiful footwork!" Tyler exclaimed. "And a lovely cross. Can anyone get on the end of it?!"

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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