Cruel Summer

Chapter 7

Fifa World Cup 2018... 

Meunier's goal comes out of nowhere, and at four minutes in, it's enough to make Dele's heart sink into his stomach. The third-place playoff is underway and Dele has been resigned to the bench, squeezed in between Jesse and Marcus. He's forced to watch Chadli rocket down the pitch and cross to Meunier - who taps it in past Pickford for an easy goal - and there's absolutely nothing he can do to stop it from happening.

But England always fight back. Dele tells himself that Harry will score a hattrick and England will come away with a 3-1 victory. Nobody will remember Meunier's goal and everything will be fine. In the grand scheme of things, coming third at the World Cup is actually something they can be proud of.

The match drags on and still, Dele doesn't get subbed, even though he's staring daggers into the back of Gareth's head and internally screaming put me on!

He watches Danny Rose fuck up a pass to Harry, and then another. Two big chances lost. Kieran is on fire and he creates more chances than Dele can count, but it's still not enough. Harry and Sterling simply cannot break through the impeccable defense that Toby, Jan, and Vincent Kompany are putting up.

You know how they play, Dele thinks to himself when he watches Harry dribble the ball towards Jan and Toby. You know you need to separate them.

It's strange, watching Toby and Jan go up against Harry like they've never met him. It's difficult watching the tackles that bring Harry crashing to the ground. Dele takes it a little more personally than normal when Jan slides into Harry's ankle and Harry falls yet again, wincing in pain.

"The Belgian wall," Jesse comments, nudging Dele lightly in the ribs when Harry fails to break through Jan and Toby's impenetrable defence. "That's what they call them, right? Toby and Jan?"

Dele glances at Jesse and narrows his eyes, not sure if Jesse is being serious or not. "Yeah, I mean... they're all Belgian, this is the Belgium team."

Jesse looks confused for a second and then suddenly grins at himself.

Not only is Dele forced to watch England trail miserably behind Belgium all game, but he's also now being tortured by Jesse and Marcus, who keep leaning over him to harass each other or to mutter something about the game or to just generally be annoying. After ten minutes of them having a conversation around him, blocking his vision of the game and talking a little too loudly, Dele finally demands that he and Marcus just switch seats.

At half time, England still hasn't scored and Belgium lead by one goal. 

...

The dressing room fills up quickly, but before Harry is even in the room, Gareth is talking at them all about new tactics, a new formation, and a totally new approach. Harry rushes into the room and takes a seat next to Eric dier, smiling at him as he does so. Dele tries to listen, but he can't hear what they are saying,  and the room soon falls silent and Gareth tries to fill them all with a new sense of hope.

Gareth talks for the full fifteen minutes, and then the whistles go in the tunnel to signal they need to be ready to leave in one minute. Harry swigs water from his bottle and adjusts his shirt, while Dele hangs around looking awkward, engaging in half-arsed conversation with Eric about Jan and Toby's unfair tackle on Harry.

"Let's go!" Gareth calls from the doorway of the dressing room. 


... 


"Good luck, Haz!" Dele says as Harry passes him, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he sounds weird. He never calls Harry 'Haz', nobody does. Harry pauses for a moment, clearly as confused as Dele, and Dele is internally screaming at himself to say something else, something normal. "Thanks," is all Harry says before leaving for the second half. And Dele feels like a kicked puppy all over again!


Dele takes his position on the bench again, but not for long,
"Dele," Gareth calls up. "Go warm-up, you're going on."

Of course, Dele going on makes no difference at all. He tries with every fiber in his body to make useful passes to Harry, to create chances for Marcus, to help Eric out in the midfield. But it crumbles. Belgium was too strong, too dominant. Dele barely has possession and when he does, he loses it quickly. 

There's a moment in which Dele looks across the pitch and locks his gaze with Harry. Harry is breathless, exhausted. He shrugs a little, defeated, and then looks away. Dele feels his throat tighten as he forces himself to hold back the tears. They've failed, again. They've failed the fans, they've failed the country, and they've failed each other. Dele can't make a difference in this game anymore, he can't change the outcome.

It's over. The World Cup, their time in Russia, all of this. It's all over. 






Present-day 2019... 




Dele wipes the sweat off his head with the side of his shirt, he is exhausted, that may have been a "training" game, but it is pretty clear he does not belong at Liverpool! he has been pushed, shoved, fouled and kicked in the shin more times than he would like to count. As the Liverpool Squad file back into the changing rooms and hit the showers, Dele sits down and takes a breath, Roberto Firmino appears, "Don't worry Del, it'll get better! they haze everyone at first." Is all Firmino says, Dele makes eye contact brown eyes meeting black/brown. "Will it?" He asks, exhausted. Firmino puts a hand on Dele's shoulder but says nothing. Before walking away. 



Back at his Liverpool hotel that night, Dele flops down on the hotel bed, the scent of fresh linen fills his scenes, and then another feeling does also, sadness, Dele takes a moment to reflect, this time last year, he was riding high, at least for a time! and now here he is, begging scraps from a club he doesn't even really believe in, or like, and just like that he finds his thumb hovering over Harry's number. but he doesn't dial he just internally says a prayer for Harry to feel his pain and call, or text, or Twitter, or Instagram, or Facebook, or anything. Because little did Dele know, but a clock had just begun ticking above his head, and when it reached zero, everything was over, if the sands of time ran out.