They are the only ones who defend with me. I am the only one who attacks with them. Eleven determined players with grass-stained jerseys and menacing eyes, like predators. Eleven among twenty two on the pitch. Eleven unified men, there to win. From the midfield, I can surge with them, but the defenders yell at me to drop.
Our solidity is deceptive. We hold rigid formations in front of our goal. We shift right and we shift left and strangle the opponent with frightening ease and keep up our tempo. This is how we win.
If one strays out of position, we’d all point and yell like a wrongly accused sibling, each of us holding our shape. Man on, man on, man on, they say when I receive. They conduct.
When I am too weary and too exhausted to keep running, when I am a tired player against so many opponents, I watch my teammates. When there is only stoppage time left on the clock. Eleven who played despite the downpour. Eleven who defend, and do not forget to score. Eleven whose only reason is to win.