Page 122 of The Thing About My Rival

The referee reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a card, and holds it aloft in front of Mr. Innocent.

It’s yellow.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell along with everyone in the bar and every other Commoners fan everywhere in the world. Apparently I’m on my feet and can no longer give a shit who sees or hears me.

There’s a tug on my sleeve. It’s Mona, looking confused. “What’s happened? Why is everyone angry?”

“The guy who took out Bakari should have been sent off. He should have been given a red card. But the ref’s given him a yellow one, which is just a warning.”

Mona turns, points at the screen again and shouts, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Guess we’ll make a fan of her yet.

I dread to think what Hugo’s saying right now. Thankfully they haven’t shown him, because I’m sure they’d have to find a way to blur his lip movements.

With Bakari off the field and the yellow card given to the Orlando defender, the ref jogs away, signals a free kick to us, and blows his whistle.

Ramon stands with his foot on the ball, not moving.

The camera cuts to Hugo, who has his hands cupped around his mouth shouting, “Come on!”

Back to a wide shot. Schumann, our captain, and Hammond talking, almost whispering, their eyes darting around the field.

The ref blows his whistle again and gestures for Ramon to get a move on and take the free kick.

But our young, passionate striker folds his arms, back poker straight, foot on the ball, face impassive. I can already see, in decades to come, there’ll be a bronze statue of him in his hometown in exactly this pose.

Schumann and Hammond jog around the field, talking in the ears of the rest of our team.

One by one, they all stand still and fold their arms.

Oh, my God. They’re refusing to play.

Goose bumps ripple over my arms and legs when I realize what’s happening—they’re taking a stand for the injustice served against their teammate. They’re refusing to play until the Orlando defender is sent off.

Hugo’s whole body fills the screen. His toes are as close to the sideline as they’re allowed to be. His face is red, and he’s yelling “Come on!” again as he jabs at the air.

Schumann walks up to the ref and talks to him, a picture of calm reasonableness.

The ref, face like thunder, shakes his head at him. A dramatic, clear shake to be sure the TV cameras catch it.

A close-up of Hugo’s face, mouth forming, “Come the fuck on.”

I know exactly what he’s thinking. We’re twenty minutes from a possible place in the playoffs and the guys are jeopardizing it for a bad call.

Ramon is still in the same position.

As is every one of our men on the field, all standing arms folded.

Schumann plants one foot, then the other, firmly on the turf right in front of the ref. He stares him directly in the face and slowly folds his arms.

They’re all in—Ramon’s refusal to play sanctioned by the whole team and their captain.

The camera’s back on Hugo. It’s funny how I can see his English accent in his mouthing of the words, even when I can’t hear them.

This time he shouts what looks like “What the fuck are you doing? Play on. Play on.” Then something more garbled I can’t quite make out that ends with “…fucking win.”

Behind the bar, Garrett turns up the TV volume.

The sound of the Commoners fans in the stadium chanting “Ra-mon”clap clap clap,“Ra-mon”clap clap clapover and over with the drums of the Goal Getters keeping time fills my heart till it’s ready to burst.

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