No Surrender (Short Story‪)‬

That night, the thick blend of Bovril and pies wafted onto the pitch from the soaking stands, the dead smoke of cigarettes coating the air. I let the fumes settle in my throat and bent to center the ball on the spot, scooting away a tuff. There was hush. But silence is never perfect: silence makes a noise. Four thousand inhalations, as many hearts shoveling blood, a million nerves stripped like fuses, and one pinhole of green behind the net. It would be green, right enough. The ball nestling in the corner was to be captured for posterity then, this forever frozen moment of triumph, aftermath of keeper's despairing dive, fist pump of delight, leaping teammates, ecstatic, off in some distant corner of the frame the hands on hips slouch of the defeated, their floodlit disbelief. Click. The St. Serf's goalie was ants-in-pants nervy, long arms dangling low, this aroused chimpanzee, fingers flexing, big stupid Catholic face all teeth. "Invincibility is in yirsel, laddie," Wishart would say. "Vulnerability in yir opponent." I pushed the ball off the penalty spot with my cleats and took three paces back, knowing what I had to do. Just nine months before, Betley led me down labyrinthine passages of winding stairs to the inner sanctum. The gymnasium was buried deep in the basement of the Administration Building. I felt as if I were descending into the underworld, like some hero of mythology. Then I was bathed in green fluorescent light, nostrils filling with the stench of sweat, floor wax and locker room fear. The window of Wishart's office was a rectangular square of opaque glass overlooking the gym floor. For 20 years he had been the Principal of the Physical Education Department. Now Associate Rector, he kept his office in the gym and was still coach of the Academy's under- 16 soccer team. A wiry old fellow, steel-gray hair close cropped, I reckoned him about 60. The steel in his bearing chafed against the friction of the years. When he talked, you listened close, for those few moments the hub of the universe, feeling so incredibly grateful that he considered your poor worthless self worth talking to in the first place. I suppose this is what folks mean when they blab about charisma. Whatever it was, I wish I could have bottled the feeling he gave me then.