1.3 - The Man

3.

"Sophia," I said, "Sub for Beth."

The substitute blinked. "Beth doesn't come off. She's the fittest."

"Do it now. I need to talk to her."

Sophia called Beth and did a complicated hand wave that Beth didn't understand. She came over to the side to ask what it meant. I took her by the wrist and coaxed her off the pitch. Sophia jogged on.

"What the fuck?" said Beth.

There was no time for social niceties. "Stop pressing the fucking keeper! You're killing us."

"The fuck?"

"They're waiting for you to storm up there like a headless chicken so they can hit us on the break."

"Us?"

"Do you want to win or not?" Me, Beth, us, our desires and fears, they slipped away. For the first time I was communicating with her honestly. She snapped into some kind of 'game state' and started paying proper attention. I repeated myself for clarity. "Don't press the goalie. Pick a defender and press her instead. Got it?"

"Right."

"Sub on."

At the next break, Beth replaced Nobby.

"What is going on?" she said.

"Nobby, are we cool?"

"What?"

"Are you mad at me for saying you're left-footed?"

"No. It was a shock. We're cool."

"Move to left midfield and track Greene. Number 5. If she tries to pass you on your left, block her. If she cuts back inside or passes back, let her."

"Uh, okay."

"I want to see what happens when we dam up their attacks."

"Dam?"

"Like on a river. To block the water. They've been practicing all these set moves but can they play creatively?"

"Yes, definitely. They're really good."

I shook my head. "Let them prove it."

The game started to take on a new shape. City's moves broke down and they'd go back to the keeper to restart. Once, Beth charged at her but I literally screamed with frustration and she backpedalled into a more useful position. Another time, she pressed a defender and nabbed the ball from her, but shot just over. Against last week's opponents she'd have backed herself to dribble closer to the goal, but against this lot she had so little of the ball she couldn't remain calm when she did have it.

Every time there was a substitution - the women seemed to have their own way of knowing when to change and who would replace whom - I gave an instruction to the player who came off. Weirdly, they all tried their best to do what I said.

I did have a moment of hesitation with Lula. Her face screwed up when I told her what I thought she should do. I thought she was going to tell me off for mansplaining or whatever, but I was way off the mark. She shook her head. "My coaches. They all say the same thing. I travel 8,000 kilometres and it's the same history."

"Same story," I said, vaguely. It was still 2-0 and approaching half-time. During the break there would be some kind of reckoning. Probably the best thing to do would be to get ahead of the recriminations. Apologise to the ladies and explain that I'd become sucked into the emotion of the game and I was just here to watch and not boss them around. But I glanced over at City's coaches and they looked worried. They were talking to each other with hands covering their mouth so I couldn't fucking lip read. They were worried - and I'd done that to them! I felt an inexplicable surge of violent pride.

Fuck mansplaining. I wanted to win.

Half-time was only five minutes long so we had a lot to get through. The ladies had put in a hell of a shift already (meanwhile the little brats on the other team had barely had to run and were fresh as daisies) and four collapsed to the floor while the others sat on the plastic seats and put their heads between their legs. I was about to start reorganising them when the referee came over.

She was wearing all-black and she looked about 16 years old. She had the team sheets in her hand. "Excuse me," she said. "Are you the coach on this team?"

"No," I said.

"It looks like you're coaching them."

"So?" said Beth, slightly too aggressively.

"So you didn't write his name on the team sheet. You have to write your coach's name up here." She tapped an empty spot.

"We said he's not our coach."

"Fine. Then he can't coach you."

I pointed across the great divide. "Did they complain?"

The referee didn't understand me at first. "City? No, they didn't complain. They don't have to. You didn't fill in the paperwork."

"I'm their personal chef and we're talking about nutrition."

The ref gave me a look. "I can hear what you're saying. It's obviously coaching."

"Look," I said, trying to be reasonable. "I'm just giving advice. If the City coaches don't like it, I'll stop. If they're okay with it, what's the harm?"

"The harm is that you didn't file the paperwork," sighed the ref. "But I'll talk to them, I suppose." She wandered away.

"Right ladies, I'm about to get kicked out. Here's what I think, take it or leave it." I looked around, pointing to the women in turn. "Jane, keeper. Don't need a coaching badge for that one. Beth and Nobby, you stay at the back. Don't go forward. Beth? No go. You're Millie Bright now. You're John Terry. You're..."

"Yeah, I got it. I'm in defence."

"Lula, you're up front. You guys," I indicated the other 4. "You're the midfield. You've got to press and harry."

"Hurry?"

"Harry. Snap at their heels. Rottweilers. Don't let them go forward. They're very happy to turn back. Give them the option to go back and they'll take it. There's 4 of you for 3 slots, so run hard and sub often. Yeah?"

There was some nodding at that. "We're losing, though," said Beth. "I mean, losing 2-0 isn't that bad. Much better than what we normally do. But... I mean if we just sit back and defend, how are we going to score?"

I didn't exactly have a masterplan for that. Seeing the attributes of the players and their preferred positions could help me set up the team - maybe! - but the other team were much better in every way AND the players were mostly where they were supposed to be. "If you're happy losing 2-0 that means they'll be unhappy winning 2-0. Yeah? If you keep it tight, they'll start taking more risks late in the game. Yeah? Or am I way off? Seriously, tell me if I'm way off."

Beth was nodding. "No, yeah, that sounds about right. So we keep things tight, frustrate them, and look for chances in the last 5 or 10 minutes. Ladies?"

The response was some mild whoops and handclaps that shouldn't have got my blood flowing, but holy fuck, they did.

I glanced up and saw the referee talking to City's head coach. The ref kept pointing to the empty line on the team sheet. The coach snapped at her and turned back to her team talk. The ref looked at her watch and wandered out into the middle. She dropped the match ball onto the centre spot, and blew her whistle.

Relief! The Man was letting me coach. Which was funny, because The Man wasn't a man and I wasn't a coach.