JAKE MILLER — CHAPTER 2: MATCH DAY

It’s Saturday, 3pm. The sun is shining — which is unusual for London — and the stadium is filling up fast. I am standing in the changing room, listening to the sound of the crowd building outside. My teammates are getting changed, putting on their shin pads, taping up their ankles. I love this moment. The calm before the storm.

Today is the last game of the season for Brixton FC. We need a win. If we win today, we go up to the next division. If we don’t, we stay where we are for another year. No pressure, right?

Our manager, Dave, gives his team talk. He always keeps it simple: «Play your game. Don’t foul them in the box. And press — always press.» I play on the left wing. My job is to run at the defender, take him on and deliver the cross. Simple in theory. Exhausting in practice.

The first half is tight. Nobody is scoring. The ball keeps moving from end to end. Then, in the 38th minute, I receive a pass on the left. The defender is coming at me fast. I cut inside, he slides in — and misses. I’m through. I look up, pick my spot and fire. Bottom corner. 1-0.

The second half is harder. They equalise on 67 minutes. The clock ticks. The crowd is getting nervous. I’m exhausted, my legs are heavy, but I can’t come off. Not now. In the 88th minute, our striker heads the ball from a corner. Top corner. 2-1. The stadium explodes.

The final whistle blows three minutes later. We’re going up. I collapse onto the pitch, face down in the grass. My heart is pounding. I can’t breathe. I’m grinning like an idiot. Best feeling in the world.