"FINCH! NOW!"
The roar from the manager, Steve, was pure thunder. It shook Alex awake.
He grabbed his training bib. He fumbled. He was trying to pull it off over his head. His hands were shaking so hard he could not find the hole.
"Give me that," a coach said, ripping it off him.
Alex stood there. He was in his full kit. Number 58.
"Coach, I... what... what do I do?" Alex stammered.
The manager grabbed the front of Alexs shirt. He pulled him close. His eyes were on fire.
"You are not Antoine," he growled. "You do not try to be. You are here for one reason. You are smart. You do not lose the ball."
He pointed to the pitch. "You get the ball. You pass the ball. To a red shirt. You make them run. You do not try to dribble. You do not try to shoot. You just... keep... the ball. For fifteen minutes. Can you do that?"
"I... I think so," Alex whispered.
"Good. Now get on."
Alex turned. The fourth official was holding up the electronic board.
