Page 42 of The Thing About My Rival

We’re lucky that among the Commoners’ extreme fans is a band of five guys who attend every game—home and away. Armed with two drums, a trumpet, a tuba, and a cow bell, they rouse the crowd into song. They’ve become known as the Goal Getters and have followed the team around for years.

Once, last season, their flight was delayed and they missed a game in Nashville. Apparently the atmosphere just wasn’t the same without them. And we lost five-one. So they’ve also become something of a talisman.

My theory is that being surrounded by the same sounds, despite playing hundreds of miles from Spirit Field, makes the team feel at home and provides a sense of comforting familiarity even at an opponent’s stadium.

Right now they have our fans singing the loudest version of “We Are the Champions” I’ve ever heard. Which is both optimistic and premature.

Hugo has been the one to call out to the players. His voice is so much bigger than mine and has way more chance of competing in this cauldron of sound.

Three minutes to go, and an Atlanta striker breaks free and has a run on our almost open goal.

“Shit,” I shout helpfully.

“Get back!” Hugo yells, making a scooping motion with his arms as if trying to physically drag our defenders back toward the goal.

My heart climbs to my throat as our guys try to keep up with the Atlanta player.

Hugo grabs his head with both hands as the striker takes his chance.

It’s a bit high, but not high enough to miss.

Nowak, our goalie, jumps like he has springs in his cleats and gets his fingers to the ball just enough to tip it over the crossbar.

I hop up and down and scream so loudly it hurts my throat, my pulse racing from abject fear followed so quickly by overwhelming relief.

“Fucking brilliant.” Hugo punches the air, and our supporters go wild. “Brilliant fucking save.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder and bounces with me.

Nowak sets the ball down for what is probably our final hope of the game, and Hugo pumps his fist.

“Come on, lads,” he hollers. “Come on.”

Nowak hoofs the ball beyond the halfway line.

Bakari leaps and chests the ball down to his feet.

But he’s surrounded by Atlanta players.

“To Ramon.Ramon,” Hugo and I shout together, pointing at Ramon, who’s run into a space out to the right.

Not that Bakari can possibly hear us, but I’d be yelling and pointing whether I was watching at home on TV or here on the sideline.

I grip the little log cabin charm dangling from my jacket zipper—it was given to me by a Portland fan, who built cabins for a living, in my first week on that team’s professional coaching staff. It’s been with me for every game since.

Bakari finds a gap and passes between the Atlanta players, straight to Ramon, who’s onside and belts toward the goal.

The pursuing Atlanta players block my view of the action, and the next thing I know, the crowd is a roaring sea of orange and sky blue flags and scarves, feet pounding the stands as our fans jump up and down, theGoal Getters bang their drums even harder, and Ramon has disappeared under a pile of teammates.

My heart rate soars.

Is this real?

Did Ramon really score?

Have we really won?

It certainly looks like it from the way the Atlanta guys are either hanging their heads or pointing accusingly at one another.

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