Page 2 of The Underdog

A hush falls over the stadium as thousands of eyes follow the ball in anticipation. I hold my breath as it soars toward the net, watching it graze past the keeper's outstretched arms and into the upper right corner. It takes less than a split second for the crowd to erupt into deafening roars, my teammates sprinting towards me in delight—but none of it happens fast enough. As I let out a shaky breath, I buckle to the ground as the weight of my right leg gives way, a sudden unbearable pain searing through my body.

“Fuck,” I groan, but I can barely hear myself speak. My voice is overshadowed by the popping of my knee that replays on a loop in my mind, drowning out the cheers of the crowd.

“Warren, you legend!” one of my teammates belts out as he finally reaches me. Yet, his wide grin fades as he pauses in his tracks and processes the visible pain I’m in. “Are you alright, mate?”

“It’s my knee,” I muster out, my chest tightening as waves of pain radiate throughout my leg. “It’s my fucking knee.”

He immediately drops down to my side along with some of the other players as the word “medic” is called out repeatedly. My vision blurs as each plea becomes more frantic than the last.

The crowd slows to a stop, an eerie silence flooding through a once-enthused stadium.

And that’s when it hits me. Reality—coming down on me like the bitch it is.

They say that in moments when you least expect it, life can flash before your eyes. A series of images, memories, and regrets that remind you that you’re only on this earth for a short period of time. And that one day, you’ll be nothing but a distant memory.

I’d like to think that on the real day I leave this earth, I will be remembered as nothing more than a simple man with simple wants, but big dreams. Dreams that have landed me in these life-flashing moments more times than I can count. Only this time, it feels too real. It feels like my life is actually over.

Before I know it, I’m stretchered off the pitch. As I close my eyes in absolution, I catch sight of the England scouts who’d been eyeing me all game, doing what I can only assume to be crossing my name off of their list.

“Warren?”A gentle voice breaks me out of my hazed thoughts. “Can you hear me, Warren?”

I briefly glance up at the nurse that’s been seeing to me for the past few hours—although I can’t say for sure how long I’ve been lying in this hospital bed. It’s been test after test, accompanied by the dreaded feeling that everyone’s avoiding telling me the truth.

Although, I don’t need them to. After I overheard my doctor say the harrowing words, “It looks like a torn ACL,” I refused to process anything else.

“Warren?” she says once more in an attempt to grab my attention. I make eye contact with her this time, imploring her to continue. “Someone’s here to see you.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “What?” I finally speak, my voice hoarse. How would my mum have been able to reach the hospital so quickly? We had an away game today, meaning we were up in Blackpool, more than four hours north of her home in London.

“Can I let him in?”

Him?I pause and stare at her for a moment. I have no idea who “he” could be—but at this point, I’ve been stuck in a hospital bed for hours, surrounded by unfamiliar faces who know nothing about me and what I’ve just lost. I could use some comfort. “Sure, let him in.”

“Will do.” She smiles at me and turns to leave the room. Within a few moments, the last face I expect is walking through the door.

“What have you managed to do to yourself now, my boy?”

My eyes widen in surprise, a grin spreading across my face as I take in the familiar figure entering the room. “Ira? What the hell are you doing here?”

He plants himself into the armchair across from my bed. “You didn’t think I’d miss the big game, did you?”

My heart sinks at not only the mention of tonight’s game but the fact that Ira had a front-row seat to everything that went down on the pitch in those final seconds.

I’ve known Ira Matthews for over a decade. I was first introduced to him as a cocky 16-year-old boy who had just been asked to join in on his first-ever professional practice with Crawfield Football Club.

At that age, I thought I was the shit, mostly because everyone around me had always told me I was. All except for Ira. Ira laid it on thick. After finishing that first practice, I paraded my way off the field, relishing in all of the praise I was receiving along the way.

“You’re good.” A voice called out as I made it to the changing room to take off my boots. “But if you really want to make it far, you’re going to need an attitude adjustment.”

Instantly, I was caught off guard by the American accent and the Southern twang that came with it. I glanced up to see a stocky man with thinning gray hair and a pot belly that hung over his belt. He was dressed in a washed-out pair of jeans anda plain button-down shirt that looked like it had been a little bit too loved.

“And you are, Grandpa?” I responded, like the smart-ass I was.

The old man chuckled to himself. “Yeah, definitely an attitude adjustment needed here.”

“Listen,” I began. “I don’t know who you are, but you should mind your own business. I don’t need advice from someone who calls this sport ‘soccer.’”

His eyes widened, “Oh, boy,” he groaned as he took a seat across from me. “Let’s just say when you get to be a ‘grandpa’ like me, you learn a thing or two about impressions.”

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