Michael Sterling was numb. He was standing up, but he didn't remember standing.

His hands were on his head, but he didn't remember putting them there. His mouth was wide open, but no sound was coming out.

In front of him, 90,000 people were in a state of pure, collective shock.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans... had just exploded. The noise was a physical, joyous, unbelievable roar that shook the very foundations of the "Cathedral of Football."

The 45,000 Man City fans... were dead silent. A vast, light-blue graveyard of disbelief.

Down on the pitch, Raphael Santos, the "Magician," was already buried.

He was at the bottom of a massive, red-and-white pile of joyous, screaming, "kids."

Finn Riley had somehow gotten on top, his 'Wild Fox' face a mask of pure, hysterical laughter.

"YOU DID IT! YOU MEANT TO DO IT! I KNEW IT!"

Jamie Weston was trying to pull him out, just so he could shake him.

"TELL ME YOU MEANT TO DO THAT! TELL ME!"

Raph, his voice a squeak from the bottom of the pile, just shrieked, "OF COURSE I DID! I MISSED THE FREE KICK ON PURPOSE! IT'S... IT'S TACTICS!"

This just made them laugh harder.

In Michael's ear, the commentator was no longer a professional. He was just a man, having a breakdown, live, to the entire world.

"I... I... I'M... I'M DONE!" the man was just screaming, his voice cracking. "I QUIT! I'M FINISHED! A 17-YEAR-OLD KID... HAS JUST CHIPPED THE BEST GOALKEEPER IN THE WORLD... FROM 45 YARDS OUT... AT WEMBLEY! IT'S 1-0 TO THE 'KINDERGARTEN'!"

Michael finally... breathed.

A single, shaky, hysterical laugh just... popped out of him.

His sister's words... his father's ghost... the "horror movie"... it all just... vanished.

Is it better than us?

He looked at the pile of his "kids," weeping with joy, on the most famous patch of grass in the world.

Yes, he thought, a sudden, fierce, savage joy filling his heart. It... it just... it just might be.

The game... restarted.

And the 31st minute...

The "fun" was over. The "joke" was finished. They were embarrassed.

"GET... THEM!" the Man City manager, a genius in a suit, was just screaming on the sideline, his face purple.

The Man City players... were no longer "bored." They were furious.

The ball was a blue blur.

BAM! A 40-yard, inch-perfect pass from De Bruyne.

It was at his feet. Jérémy Doku. The "45-goal monster."

"Uh oh," the commentator's voice was suddenly full of dread. "Here he is... Doku has the ball... he's one-on-one with Finn Riley, who's been..."

Finn wasn't just marking him. He was... hunting him.

Doku, his [CA 90+] "amazing dribble" whirring, did a blur of step-overs. It was... magic.

He was so fast.

He was past! He was...

TUG.

Finn Riley, his [PA 92] brain working just as fast, hadn't gone for the ball. He'd just... grabbed a tiny, tiny, insulting little handful of Doku's shirt.

Doku was so fast, his balance so delicate, that the tiny, tiny tug... sent him stumbling.

He didn't fall. But... the ball... just... rolled, harmlessly, out for a Barnsley throw-in.

Wembley... roared. The Barnsley fans cheered like it was another goal.

Doku... snapped.

He turned, his face a mask of pure, childish rage.

"REF! REF! HE PULLED MY SHIRT! HE PULLED... MY... SHIRT!"

Finn just... held his hands up. His face was a perfect, beautiful, innocent, "Wild Fox" mask.

"What, mate?" Finn chirped, loud enough for the microphone to catch.

"It's just a game! You're... you're really fast, aren't you? Wow! Good for you!"

The referee just... shrugged. "Play on!"

"HE'S IN HIS HEAD!" the commentator cackled. "FINN RILEY, THE 'WILD FOX,' HAS JUST... BROKEN... THE 45-GOAL MONSTER! HE'S SO ANNOYING! HE'S A GENIUS! A PEST! A... A HERO!"

Michael just... hid his face in his hands. He was laughing so hard, he was crying.

"It's the 'war,' Finn," he whispered. "You're winning the 'war'..."

But the "Gods" were... still Gods.

The 40th minute.

De Bruyne. Again.

He didn't pass. He... floated... a cross.

It was... perfect. A beautiful, curling, impossible ball, right onto the "penalty spot" of a giant's head.

Erling Haaland.

He was... flying.

He wasn't just "jumping." He was... levitating. He was a foot... two feet... above Danny Fletcher, who was grabbing, clawing, trying to be the "shadow" Arthur wanted.

Haaland just... hung there.

And then...

THWACK!

A "header." It wasn't a header. It was a cannon. Downwards. Vicious.

A "certain goal."

"GOAL! HAALAND!" the commentator screamed, his voice already accepting the inevitable.

But... he hadn't seen...

Sam Jones.

The "OP Keeper."

He... exploded. He didn't dive. He launched. He threw his entire, 6'3" frame, sideways, downwards.

His hand... his strong, [PA 80] hand...

SMACK!

He didn't "save" it. He attacked it. He punched the ball... off the line.

The ball... spun... wickedly... back into the box.

"WHAT A SAVE! WHAT... A... SAVE!" the commentator was just shrieking.

"I... I DON'T... I DON'T BELIEVE... IT! HE'S SAVED IT! HE'S SAVED THE 'UNSAVEABLE'!"

But it wasn't over.

The ball... was loose.

A City midfielder... smashed it! A low, hard, rocket.

It was going in! It was past...

NO!

Sam Jones... who was still on the ground... just... flung... a foot... out.

A blind, desperate, beautiful, "no-you-don't" kick-save.

The ball hit his ankle... and flew, whistling, just... over... the bar.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans... weren't just cheering. They were bowing.

"SAMMY! SAMMY! SAMMY!"

PHWEEEEEEEEET!

The halftime whistle.

Michael just... fell into his seat. He was shaking. He was drenched in sweat.

1-0.

Halftime.

At Wembley.

They were... they were... winning.

The teams... came out for the second half.

Michael's heart... was a painful, solid, rock.

The Man City players... they weren't "angry" anymore. They weren't "panicked."

They... just looked... cold. This... this... was the "horror movie" part.

The 46th minute. PHWEEET!

The ball... was a blur.

Bop. Bop. Bop.

One-touch, perfect, triangles. Barnsley... couldn't get near it.

"And City have come out... different," the commentator's voice was low, and scared. "The 'fun' is over. They are... they are serious."

The 49th minute.

Doku. He had the ball. He wasn't trying to dribble. He just... passed. A one-touch, perfect, impossible pass, right through the legs of two Barnsley defenders.

It was... at his feet.

De Bruyne. 25 yards out.

He didn't even look.

He just... hit it.

A low, hard, vicious, curling, drilling... shot.

It was... going... to the bottom... corner. A "certain goal."

Michael's heart... stopped.

Sam Jones... flew.

His fingertips...

...were just...

...inches...

...away...

End...

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