Page 15 of Sweeper
Personality-wise, they couldn’t be more different. Knight is the brooding, sensitive type who lets his emotions get the best of him. I remember playing against him when he got red-carded for chest-bumping the ref. It was a bullshit call, but fun to watch him blow up on the sports highlights.
Link, on the other hand, is the typical loud-mouthed offensive player who makes friends with everyone. A charmer with the refs and the opposing team. He totally would have been the asshole flicking towels in the locker room in high school and hyenic laughing the entire time he did it.
Nevertheless, I will say it’s nice to have fellow Americans to commiserate this unusual situation with. Hopefully, I can get my shit together so I can keep playing with them and not be booted back to America and prove my mother right.
Link elbows me and points at a player in the corner we all know as Roan DeWalt. He’s the South African striker who’s been crushing it for Bethnal Green for several years now. He’s a bit older than the three of us, and Link informed me that Roan’s married with a kid, but his age doesn’t show at all. He easily keeps up with the other striker, Billy Campbell, who’s only twenty-three years old.
At twenty-two, I was one of the youngest on the Seattle soccer club, but in the UK, they’re ready for pro at a much younger age. UK football is an institution. A beast in and of itself. Players who grow up here don’t need college to hone their skills. They start training when they’re still in fucking diapers. It’s why my dad pushed so hard for me to do that youth soccer camp over here when I was younger. He said I needed to see what soccer is like when a country treats it like America treats American football.
He wasn’t wrong.
I got my ass kicked at that UK camp, and I came back to Boston and trained harder and longer than ever before. I won’t let my ass get kicked at Bethnal Green. I refuse.
“Okay, gentlemen, listen up!” Coach Zion says as he steps out of the coach’s office. “Before I let our manager Vaughn Harris inspire the lot of you for our first FA Cup game, I thought I’d let you know we have a few new faces in the changing room today. They aren’t on the roster yet but will start training with us next week. I’m hoping today you can all give them a glimpse of what they can expect when they play for a proper Premier League club.” The players make noises of agreement as Coach continues, “All three from America, we have Knight Timmons, a midfielder, Link Conlin, offense, and Zander Williams, center-back. And please, for the love of Christ, don’t fuck with these three like you fucked with Billy. We don’t need another media photograph of a footballer in women’s knickers.”
Billy’s face turns as red as his hair, and everyone laughs as Knight, Link, and I shoot nervous eyes to each other, trying to look tough but failing miserably.
All humor vanishes from the space, and I look around to see all eyes zeroed in on Vaughn Harris, who’s just entered the room. “Are they ready, Coach?”
“As they’ll ever be.” Coach props his fists on his hips as Vaughn claps his hands for our attention.
“Alright, this is our first FA Cup game, and we have a lot to prove after going out so early last year. I’m not going to sit here and give you a big speech to inspire. That was clearly bollocks last year. I’m just going to remind you that this is your job. To play football. To put it all out there. To be the best you can be. So, get your arses out on that pitch and show our fans that Bethnal Green is where the FA Cup belongs!”
The team jumps to their feet and rushes to the middle of the locker room, cheering loudly and chanting Bethnal Green over and over. Roan DeWalt sees the three of us lingering in the back, so he head nods us over to the pack as they put their hands in the middle. A player I can’t see yells out, “I am thine!”
And the team roars back with, “Thou art mine!”
As everyone breaks apart and begins filing out, Roan turns and offers out his hand. “Welcome, guys. I’m Roan DeWalt, team captain.”
“Yes, you fucking are.” Link steps forward and grips his hand first. He looks like he wants to kiss the striker as he shakes a bit too aggressively. “An honor, man. For real.”
Roan smiles, his teeth bright white against his light brown skin. “Ag no, it’s all good, man. I just popped over to tell you about that saying we just chanted,” he says in his South African accent. He turns and points at an area above the locker room door that features a part of the wall never covered with drywall like the rest of the room. An exposed oak plank board has the words the team just yelled burned into it, and every player slaps his hand on it as they depart the locker room. Roan hits us with a serious look. “I am thine, thou art mine is our team mantra…it means we belong to football and football belongs to us. It might seem corny, but if you’re looking for inspiration, you touch that shit every time you leave this locker room. Got it?”
We nod seriously because it wasn’t a request. It was a command. We follow him out, grateful for the opportunity to press our hands on the holy grail of Bethnal Green F.C.
As I stand in the long concrete tunnel, the crowd noise becomes deafening as they chant their team’s song loud and proud, waiting for the players to make their entrance. I inch myself up to the front to take in the view as the other team makes their appearance. The stadium is packed, the bright Saturday sun glistening off the electric green grass. The entire vibe is a fucking rush.
Soccer in America isn’t like this. This right here feels like a religious experience. Daphney’s words from a couple of days ago about Bethnal Green being the people’s team feels truer than ever before. A once lower-level soccer club who fought their way to the Premier League and recent FA Cup champions coming out to grab that title back:I am thine, thou art minein-fucking-deed.
“Gets you right in the trouser snake, doesn’t it?” a husky voice says from behind me, blowing wet, hot air into my ear and causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
I whirl around to find a blonde, manbun, bearded guy decked out in tan slacks and a white Bethnal Green polo and standing much closer to me than I expected.
He reaches his hand out to me. “Tanner Harris, assistant coach…didn’t mean to scare you, bruv.”
I take his hand and nod, recalling from that Harris Ho website that Tanner is the Harris Brother who retired not too long ago and is now the assistant coach for his dad’s club. I try not to look at his fingernails to see if they’re like mine. Instead, I wipe my damp ear and elbow him playfully. “Got my ear a little wet with that close talking you did there.”
“No wetter than your dreams will be tonight after experiencing this from sniffer’s row,” he deadpans and then wraps his arm around my shoulders to turn us toward the field. “It’s a beautiful fucking view, mate, and I appreciate the fact that you took a moment to drink it in. It’s better than sex, some would say…then again, they haven’t had sex with my wife. She’s a doctor, by the way. You’ll see her in the front row behind our team. It’s where our family all sit.”
I nod and force a smile, hating the fact that I knew his wife was a doctor already because I’m a fucking creepy stalker who subscribed to the Harris Ho and Proud newsletter months ago. Tanner’s wife is Dr. Belle Ryan, and she is best friend’s with the team doctor, Indie, because they went to med school together. Twin brothers marrying best friends…how fucking weird is that?
“Belle’s got beauty and brains. She saves little babies before they’re even born. Way out of my fucking league but we have two kids together, so I’ve properly trapped her, and she’s doomed to stay with me forever now. I feel bad about that sometimes, but our kids are the fucking best. They—”
“Tanner, stop oversharing with the new recruits,” another voice echoes from the other side of me. I turn and lock eyes with a player I instantly recognize. He reaches out his gloved hand to me, and I shake it, feeling a strange zing shoot up my arm at the contact.
“You’re Booker Harris,” I state knowingly as images from that website flash through my mind of him, his wife, and their twin boys.
“And you’re Zander Williams,” he says with a kind smile as he stands nearly two inches taller than me.
