Page 139 of The Thing About My Rival

“I need you guys here for a second,” I tell them.

Ramon rolls his eyes. I pat him on the back. “I mean, like, Ireallyneed you here with me. You’ll see. Please, just wait here one minute.”

I trot off toward our stadium sideline announcer and point at the microphone he’s holding. “Can I borrow this for a minute?”

“Sure,” he says. “We’re finished with the announcements. There’s nothing else to say.”

“That’s what you think.” I wink at him as I take it from his hand.

Now I need to get this damn thing turned back on. I jog to the middle of the pitch to try to get the attention of the guys up in the audio booth.

They have their backs to me. Of course they do. Why would they be looking down here when the game is over and we just lost?

I jump up and down and wave in the hope one of them might just catch me in their peripheral vision.

They don’t.

I’m just an idiot jumping up and down and waving my arms in the middle of an empty football field.

But it does attract the attention of the camera guys who’re still roving around, trying to get closeups of our guys’ sad faces and the winners’ celebrations.

And then, there I am, on the jumbotron.

Jesus.

Not exactly what I planned, but I need this goddamn microphone turned on. And if me jumping around like an idiot on a screen bigger than the back end of a bus gets the attention of someone with their fingers on the controls, so be it.

One of the audio techs finally turns to look over his shoulder. Yes, come on, mate. I’m virtually doing star jumps now, and that’ll do my bad knee no good at all.

Some of the supporters are mimicking me, and star jumps are breaking out in the stands as if it’s some sort of quirky new Commoners celebration.

Not that there’s anything here to celebrate—not yet, anyway.

The audio guy who’s seen me nudges the dude next to him, who also turns around.

I wave the mike in the air and point at it. Surely they’ll understand what that means.

The second guy reaches down, then gives me a thumbs-up.

I tap the top of the mike, and the noise emerges from the PA system.

Halle-fucking-lujah. Excellent.

Or, actually, is it?

This seemed like a good idea when I came up with it. But now I’m standing in the middle of the field with alive microphone in my hand in front of an emptying stadium, our players—who are all somewhere on the spectrum between sad and pissed off—our owners, my girlfriend, and three old-timers who are partial to a nightcap.

But all eyes are on me, so I guess there’s no real way to back out of this now with any degree of dignity.

I’ve spent all my adult life standing on a football pitch being watched by thousands of people—millions with the TV audiences for big games—and I thought they were all life or death moments. But not one of them was as important as this one.

Okay then.

Here I go.

“Hello, everyone.” When my voice bounces around the stadium, all movement in the stands stops as fans making their way out turn to see what’s going on.

“This hasn’t been the best day for the Commoners,” I tell them. “But we played a good game, and I could not be more proud of our guys.”

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