More Than a Game | Mason Mount

Thirty Seven

Derbies were always big, but our game against Spurs on Saturday had a different feeling to it. With their recent run of bad form and our recent confidence boost against Ajax, we knew the match would be an interesting one. Spurs tended to step up their game against us, understandably, but we were in no position to lose to a sub-par Spurs team at the moment, even if derbies had been known to take points off us in the past. 

It was obvious that even with our Champion's League result, we had something to prove after the Newcastle loss. Despite the excitement around Cobham about Frank's gala, there was an intense focus amongst the team, too. It hung around us like a persistent cloud, blocking out other distractions. 

We warmed up practically in silence. The usual banter and jokes that bounced around the team had died down on the bus. The only one who didn't seem in their own bubble was Frank. In the warm up, he wandered around with a confident grin on his face. During our final moments in the changing room, while we pulled on our match tops and boots and shin pads, Frank stood by the door humming Blue Is The Colour to himself. As we headed for the tunnel, lead by the cheering Emil, he clapped us each on the back. 

Instead of the clear-mindedness I'd felt midweek, nerves ate at my stomach standing in the tunnel. Restless, I retied my hair, refolded the tops of my socks, adjusted my shorts – anything to keep my hands busy. George Carroll and his team were taking ages to come out; it felt like hours that we'd standing in the damn tunnel. The longer we stayed here, the more time the butterflies in my stomach had to multiply. My legs itched to move, desperate to run out onto the pitch and start the game. 

"Hart, you okay?" 

Mason's hands came down on my shoulders. Their comforting touch released some the tension building in my neck, but did nothing to settle my anxieties. I nodded anyway, sneaking a glance back at him. He nodded, his eyes steady. 

It came as no surprise when Frank added Mason back to the starting team. The intensity with which he'd trained leading up to our Ajax game continued the rest of the week. Even with all the extra effort the rest of the team had shown, Mason still stood out in our sessions. 

Behind him, I spotted George emerge from the home dressing room. Mason's hands remained on me as our England captain passed, his gaze unwavering from the pitch in front of us. They did slip off when Zach Smith and Sophie North followed after George, though. The pair gave us high fives before shuffling into their own line. 

I attempted to slow my breathing walking out onto the pitch. The crowd was deafening, louder even than what we'd faced in Amsterdam. While we lined up and posed for a picture, my nerves began to lessen. I sprinted to my place and bounced on my feet as Emil did the toss. Staring down the players in white opposite us, I knew there was no way they were better than us. We would win; we had to. 

However, the unthinkable happened and we found ourselves one nil down after just four minutes. Rodri made a rare mistake and gave the ball away during an attack. With me up the pitch, Annika and Emil were left stranded, and even with Rodri and Fran sprinting back, Spurs had an overload and their striker beat David to score. 

From then on, it was like a war zone on the pitch. I was used to being hustled by players, but today Spurs were pushing their limits. Foul after foul kept us from building up much momentum. Maybe I was imagining things, but it felt like I had a target on my back. 

Twice in a couple of minutes, bad challenges came my way. George, despite being an excellent leader, was a dirty player at times, and the first one came from him blatantly hooking my ankles. Winded already, I passed my free kick to Mason. When the ball came back to me a few passes later, their Russian midfielder charged at my back and dug his studs into my calf.