Four games.

Sunday, 5th April, 2020.

Four games.

Four games. Three at home, and one long, cold trip to Alaska.

Four games to try and topple Tucson.

Four games to fulfill those preseason predictions.

Four games to become the Champions.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Only... I knew it was, at least for me. It was four games to win a new contract- four games, or I'd be out on my backside. Again. After moving down to Arkansas to take over Little Rock Naturals midway through last season, making the playoffs had been an achievement, hauling them up from their midtable position in the NSA Championship West to a respectable fifth. It sure softened the blow after I failed so miserably at Pittsburgh, even if we didn't manage to go up. But that was last season.

Josh Dixon, the club Chairman, was crystal clear at the start of the season- this year, we MUST get promoted. No excuses. The club has already spent eight years at this level, since the formation of the league, and every year, the press go wild, predicting Little Rock to run away with it all. It's easy to see why- at this level, the fourth tier of the new American League structure, Little Rock are a big fish in a small pond. We shouldn't need to be trekking to Anchorage, Alaska, I shouldn't need to be looking up Santa Ana on a map. And yet, every year, the team flatter to deceive. Sure, blame the structure of the league, with it's solitary automatic promotion spot, but really, that's no excuse.

Last season, I took over a team that were disappointing, and dragged them kicking and screaming to where they should be. But this year, this is my team, playing my way. There are no excuses. My contract is up at the end of the season- if I want a new one, I know what I have to do.

But... Tucson Deputies. Tucson are the ones standing in the way. Relegated last season, they were always going to be up there. But from day one, they took the upper hand, and have sat atop the pile ever since, under the guidance of Rune Leiramo, and with the goals of Miodrag Sandu. Eight points clear for most of the season... but not now. It was Valentine's Day 2020 when Leiramo walked out, taking the Cincinnati job. And now, with four games to go, it looks like the honeymoon period for successor Lee Butterworth is over.

Last week, they took a battering from Sacramento, 5-2, and that was only their second defeat of the season. The first, of course, was from our good selves, a 3-0 win back in December. But then, yesterday... Henderson Transit, of all teams, showed them up, and came away with a deserved 2-1 win. Two straight defeats for Tucson, as we picked up two wins. In a fortnight, their lead was cut from eight points to two. What seemed impossible now seems achievable. We need fate to be on our side, but we have to hold up our end of the deal.

Four games to go. Two points to make up. No room for error.

Let's do this.

Saturday, 18th April

"It won't be easy for any team, but clearly Little Rock are one of the favourites to go up." - Lee Butterworth, Tucson Deputies manager, interviewed before the Deputies' televised match with Portland.

Oh, Lee, Lee, Lee. Sounds like someone is covering their back, Lee. Someone is prepping their excuses for when their side fall short- so near, yet so far. It's not subtle, Lee- everyone can see what you're doing. When you took over Tucson, we were a dot on the horizon. It's too late in the season for you to start recognising the threat we pose, too late for you to start claiming it's been wide open all along. It hasn't been wide open, Lee. At one point, you were eleven points clear. Eleven. We closed that gap by winning games- game after game, win after win. Everyone knows you slipped up, Lee. Everyone knows that this title race should be over by now, that you should have that trophy in your cabinet already. And everyone knows you lost the last two. Talk all you like, Lee, but I don't have anything to say. You know you're slipping, Lee, you know they're out of steam. So do I. All I need to do now is focus on the task in hand.

The task in hand? Arlington Falcons, coming from Texas to visit us today. Like Tucson, relegated from the AFL last season. But unlike Tucson, they slumped. Now they're six without a win, sitting 11th in the table and going nowhere fast. Probably got one eye on the relegation spots, but they're probably OK by this point. Unremarkable first meeting, back in wet, windy November- a 2-1 win for us, Zabinski scuffing one home back when that lamppost knew where the goal was, and Frankie putting a penalty in. Notable only as the first of our thirteen unbeaten run. It seems a long time ago. A long, long time.

Y'know, sometimes I wonder where these journalists get their questions. "Are you concerned about the gap since the last game, the Waco cup tie three days ago?" Well, considering I put out a reserve team and we won, no, I'm not concerned. Idiot. None of those guys are going to get a sniff of first team football, at least not this season. There's too much at stake to be throwing kids like Steven Cooper and Byron Deakin out there just to get them some football. Sorry boys, but there's no room for passengers, and no room for error.

Danny Henderson's still not back- docs think there's another week or so before we can think about getting his goals back in the team, but otherwise, it's a case of as you were. I've gotta keep persevering with this Eze/Oscar partnership- between Eze's legs and Ossie's brain, there's the potential for a deadly combination. I just wish they'd sort it out. Sure, the goals are coming, matches are being won, but they're coming from pretty much anywhere- it'd be so nice to have a partnership to count on putting the ball in the net, rather than relying on wingers and set pieces.

Besides, Ossie's playing for a contract, and he knows it. At 34 years old, he needs to show me he's worth a renewal, or he'll be out the door this summer. He swears to me his legs haven't gone, he swears to me that he can still make an impact, and fair play to him, he's hit three in the last five league games. The question is whether that's gonna be enough... enough for him to stay, enough for me to stay, and enough for us to win the title. In two hours time, we'll be a game nearer to knowing.

Four games. First up, the Falcons. This is supposed to be a simple ask. This should be an easy one. Should.

The wisdom in this great game of ours goes that a good team wins when it's playing well, but a great team wins when it's playing badly. Right now, we're a great team.

Arlington did exactly what we expected them to do. They came, they dug in, they were stubborn, and they kicked anything that moved. They were here to take home a point, and it was our job to break them down to take all three.

And stubborn they certainly were. Eze kept beating his first man only to find another ready to pounce and put the ball out. Every single cross that Eke and Frankie could put into the box was finding an Arlington head. Throw-in, corner, clearance- it didn't matter where the ball went, they'd been given a brief to protect the goal, and they were doing. Before we knew it, half-time was creeping up on us, still deadlocked.

But then, a goal, and our fans were roaring. At least- news of a goal. With 33 minutes on the clock, Portland Stumps had taken an unexpected lead... in Tucson. The league leaders were behind, staring dead-eyed at a third straight defeat. Having made up six points over the last two games, Julian Andres Sinisterra's emphatic finish had now given us a chance to not only draw level on points, but to overtake the Texans. The situation was clear as day: a win, and we're top.

At half-time, we were still at 0-0. The news had trickled through to the team, and they knew what they needed to do- they needed to win. But Arlington had our number- on the few occasions they'd broken, they'd looked surprisingly dangerous. A defeat now would be such a waste, such a failure to capitalise on the golden opportunity Portland had presented us. But we needed to push- we needed a goal, and we needed it soon.

But after an hour, the story remained the same. Whatever we threw at Arlington, they soaked up- the bookings were scant consolation for thwarted attack after thwarted attack. Eke Sunday was twisting and turning, trying to find a ball into the box that someone could get on the end of, but the story kept repeating itself over and over.

It was time to change things. Riccardo D'Ambrosio is in his second loan stint with the club, an Italian left winger from Long Beach Vikings. He's an excellent player with bags of ability, but hasn't managed to find his form since rejoining us, meaning he's been reduced to joining the game from the bench. He was on for captain Frankie, who had taken a knock earlier and was finding no joy on the flank. Bazourou Karabenta also came off with an hour gone, the 34-year-old rarely lasting the full 90 minutes these days, replaced by versatile Brazilian Diogo. As someone who loves to move with the ball at his feet, perhaps his trickery could unlock the defence.

Or perhaps not. The clock ticked onwards, as Arlington shut up shop completely. Now with their own chances few and far between, the focus on defending saw shots blocked and deflected, leading to ever more audacious efforts. Portland continued to lead Tucson, but the game was winding down, and it was looking more and more likely that we'd end the day as we started it, sat in 2nd.

"Diogo... Diogo about thirty yards out... splits the defence to pick out Sunday! Sunday one-on-one, he must score... D'AMBROSIO! GOOOOOOOAL!"

I thought Eke Sunday had fluffed it. I was out of my seat as the ball came to him, screaming at him to stick it under the keeper as he got inside the box- me and some sixteen thousand Naturals fans, all waiting for him to pull the trigger. But he didn't- and he was right not to. He'd seen something we hadn't, something the defence hadn't, something the keeper hadn't- the far-post run of Riccardo D'Ambrosio. It was as unselfish a pass as I've ever seen played, and it was spot on. Nobody expected it, slid along the ground towards the far post, way past the goalkeeper's right hand, into the path of the Italian whose finish into the unguarded part of the net was as emphatic as it was easy.

The clock read 88 minutes- we'd left it late, but we'd done enough: with that win, for the first time this season, we sat top of the table. Portland held on to give Tucson their third straight loss. The chase was over... but now it was a whole other story.

Four games had seemed like nothing at all to make up the ground we needed to. Now, with three of them still remaining, it feels like this season's never going to end. Tonight we go to bed top of the table, in prime position to finally, finally achieve that which has eluded us for so long. Fate has done its part- now it's in our hands.

Three games. Three games to be crowned champions. We can't mess this up. We just can't.

Can we?

Little Rock Naturals 1 (D'Ambrosio 88)

Arlington Falcons 0

Saturday, 25th April 2020

I don't like this.

People are starting to get carried away.

At the beginning of the season, sure, I'll give the fans their relentless optimism, all those who flood the messageboards saying "this is the season". Back then, there's no harm in it- there are plenty of games to play, there's a story to be told, and there's time to make up for mistakes.

But now... now, with three games to go, all the enthusiasm does is add pressure. The season isn't over. We're there now, but now doesn't matter- what matters is where we are in three games time. The headlines today can still look foolish tomorrow.

For me, the driving sentiment pushing me on isn't one of elation. It isn't even one of pressure, at least not from other people. Right now, more than anything else, it's this overwhelming sense of deja vu. The feeling that I've been here before, that history is repeating itself. I feel like I'm in Quantum Leap- this is my chance to put right what once went wrong. It's hard to think it was only two seasons ago- it feels like there's been a lot more water under the bridge than that, what with the Pittsburgh disaster. But no- it was the 2017/18 season- my third year at the helm of Colorado Springs 59ers.

After joining a ship that had already sunk, rock bottom under Darren Mills' mismanagement, we stormed the NSA League One West in 2016/17- straight back up as Champions. But then came the real challenge- with my contract spiralling down, we were closing in on the NSA Championship West title, chasing Arlington Falcons. Oh, we chased and we chased, and we closed the gap with just two games remaining to a solitary point. Jake Sanders, who's now under me at Little Rock, was performing heroics in goal, while Arpad Keller and Salvador Guerrero were running riot in front of goal. Good times.

But... we didn't make it. We stayed one point short. Second. Runners-up. Not good enough. And the worst part? In the last game of the season, a win over San Jose Clash would've seen us crowned Champions. We led- Arpad sliding in a cross after 20 minutes. We sat, watching the clock count down, refreshing scores on our phones every ten seconds to ensure the Arlington-Lincoln game remained 0-0. It did remain 0-0. But we conceded- 72 minutes. A stupid, stupid goal- a simple header from a corner. Poor marking. No matter what we threw forward after that, the results were set. They drew. We drew. It wasn't enough.

It was a gutshot, both for the team, and for me personally. Looking back, it was probably at that point I decided it was time to move on- bigger teams had courted me, and I had no faith in the playoffs. Trying to lift the team for that game against Corpus Christi, after all we'd done in the season, was impossible- the result, inevitable. And now, with three games to go, I find myself wrapped up in my Little Rock tracksuit, scarf and hat, staring at a near-identical situation with a sense of dread. The only difference? This time, I'd be perfectly happy with everyone drawing. End the season now- call off the last three games, and say that's it. Please?

It's cold here in Anchorage- damned cold. They say that when you take on Alaska's biggest side, the Avalanche, it's not the team which plays the best football that wins, but the team which best deals with the Arctic conditions. Their impressive home form seems to back that up- expected to struggle, there's no question that they're punching above their weight, sitting in 8th.

"Would you agree that Guillermo Carmona poses the biggest threat in the forthcoming match?"

Fifteen goals in 27 league games for Carmona- oh, for a striker with that sort of rate. Put it this way, the biggest threat is either him or frostbite.

Three games remain. One point ahead. The side, unchanged except for the sniffly Brian Hernandez staying at home- in his place on the bench is Nick Zabinski. We can do this.

Goddammit, it's cold.

About half an hour north of Little Rock is a city called Conway. It's pleasant enough, about 60,000 people living there, home of the University of Central Arkansas, although apparently it's better known as the home of some American Idol winner. I dunno. It's about thirty miles up the I-40- the point I'm making, in the grand scheme of these United States, it's pretty damned close to Little Rock.

Calogero Di Franco is a 26-year-old goalkeeper who, despite his name, was born in Conway. Although he's proud of his Italian heritage, speak to him for two minutes and you'll know he's from round these parts- the accent is a dead giveaway. So, perhaps it's unsurprising that Calogero Di Franco came through the youth ranks here at Little Rock Naturals- before my time, of course, but he was a Natural for a good five or six years, apparently- a lot of the coaching staff seem to know him well. The story seems to go that he got his big break way in an end-of-the-season dead rubber match, way back in 2013... and promptly conceded five against struggling Toledo. He never played for the club again.

If the Little Rock fans had any animosity over his performance in a meaningless match back then, let me make this clear: he made it up to us today. For Calogero Di Franco is now plying his trade up in frosty Anchorage.

"Fifteen minutes gone, something of a bitty start here at the Alaska Airlines Soccer Center, but Little Rock now looking to make something happen. Godwin... nodded out wide to Victor Ibrahim, four in the box to aim for... pulled back to Eke Sunday, edge of the six yard box... shot's deflected- but Di Franco fumbles! GODWIN! He steals in for one-nil! Eze Godwin gives Little Rock the lead after a truly disastrous error from Calogero Di Franco! He looks like he wants the ground to open up!"

For a split second I felt sorry for the guy- how cruel that a tie could be decided on what was, on second viewing, an unfortunate deflection, but which made him look so foolish. But as the match wore on, it was looking to be more and more decisive- indeed, it was Anchorage who put us onto the back foot from that point. It was clear to see how Guillermo Carmona has so many goals to his name- any ball that came near him seemed to be drawn towards him like a magnet, and he was keeping it under his spell like some kind of genie.

Felix Martin has been a revelation at the back this season- after taking some time to bed into the team following his free transfer from Karlsruhe, he's started to show a consistently high level of defensive capability. Despite Carmona's trickery and magnetism, wherever the Chilean international took the ball, there was Felix. It may only have been a foot in to take the sting out of a shot, or getting his body in position to block the path, but Felix kept the magician quiet- no mean feat.

Half-time came and went, with good news- there was no score in Tucson's game with Santa Ana. If all stayed as it was, we'd find ourselves three points clear. But that was a big if, so as we lined up for the second half, I gave Victor, my assistant, a firm instruction: ignore this game ahead of us now, just focus on keeping up to date with Santa Ana vs. Tucson. I knew Anchorage had one threat and one threat only, and while we'd kept him shackled so far, it wouldn't take much for him to throw this wide open again.

Having said that, Anchorage's one threat was still one more than us. Although we had the score in our favour, we looked toothless. Whether it was the cold taking its toll or just a bad day at the office, the ball rarely progressed beyond our midfield. Frankie Edwards and Eke Sunday were isolated on the flanks, as Anchorage pressed through the centre, directing everything in the direction of Carmona, who didn't seem too dismayed by the attention he was receiving from Felix Martin.

Then Felix Martin kicked him. Inside the box.

Carmona went down like a sack of spuds- it may have been a little theatrical, but there was no way he could've got out of the way of Felix's lunge. I couldn't believe what I was seeing... then I believed my eyes even less, as the referee waved play on. It looked cast-iron. Carmona stayed down until he eventually limped off to get treated, but you could see my sigh of relief hanging in the afternoon air.

After that, Carmona was considerably less effective. Wound up? Maybe. Hobbling? Definitely. The frontman of a team who just got beaten 1-0 by us Little Rock Naturals? Oh yes.

A delay had led to the second half kicking off slightly later in Santa Ana, so the whole squad crowded round the dugout to watch the final minutes. Somehow, Tucson still hadn't found a way through- it was clear they were in complete control, but a combination of lousy finishing and somewhat fortuitous defending meant the game was balanced at 0-0 going into injury time. A minute passed... two minutes...

"This has gotta be a last throw of the dice for Tucson, they've knocked on the door all afternoon but can't find a way through ten-man Santa Ana... Jorgensen now... nice movement by Sandu- Sandu from 30 yards! Off the bar! Yao was beaten, but Santa Ana are saved by the woodwork- hacked clear... and that's the full-time whistle! No goals here, and Tucson are gonna be left wondering what might have been..."

Let them wonder.

Two games. Three points clear.

I won't get swept up in this. I won't get swept up in this. I won't.

Anchorage Avalanche 0

Little Rock Naturals 1 (Godwin 14)

Wednesday, 6th May 2020

Part of being a football manager is the battle between the heart and the brain- that fight between what the stats say, and that feeling, that instinct. The two rarely line up.

In a mediocre season, a cup run can be a fantastic journey, something to capture the imagination, to get caught up in and to build into something more than it is. When league form is stuttering, it's that magic rekindled, the sense that despite all of the form guides, despite any differences in reputation, in finance, or in stature, on the day, in any given game, it's eleven men against eleven, and the score starts 0-0. Football is never a foregone conclusion.

My head said to ignore the Sun Belt Trophy. A regional cup entered by both league and non-league teams, for a team of our size, it's not difficult to skip through the first few rounds knocking off lower league teams, and it's no massive heartbreak if a bigger team does the same to you. But this season... this season had been different. The draw had thrown up a derby with poor neighbours North Little Rock Leathernecks- the first time we'd ever met competitively, and the whole town had become one big party zone. A relatively easy 3-0 win didn't hurt our spirits.

In the next round, the scalp of National League side New Orleans Lancers, two divisions above us. Suddenly people started paying attention to the cup run- and when a Quarter Final match pitted us against little Waco, even I started to think we were onto something. Another win, and that found us into the semi-finals. Houston Rattlers. Premier League contenders, but more importantly, a side who were, in their very last game, crowned winners of the North American Champions League. They had just won a competition that said they were the best club side in all of North America. I was certain that this game, late last night, was to be a rather abrupt end to our road. They were just too good for us.

So my head said to focus on the league, to accept the match as lost, to not risk first-teamers on such a foolish affair. With two games remaining, it made sense to make sure I had the strongest possible team available to face Sacramento on Saturday- and playing Houston the Tuesday before was far from my idea of great preparation. My head said to rest the team, to bow out, maybe even take a thumping with the reserves, but to reap greater benefits in the long-term by cementing the league campaign.

My heart wouldn't let me do that. I woke up yesterday, and immediately wrote eleven names on a sheet of paper. Three of them hadn't started a game all season- none of them had started against Anchorage. By about three o'clock in the afternoon, that list of names was in thousands and thousands of pieces. I couldn't do it. I couldn't let a team go out wearing the proud red and white of Little Rock Naturals to face an inevitable slaughter. I couldn't let us go down without a fight, I couldn't let us go out there knowing there were better players waiting in the wings. I couldn't bring myself to play a weakened side, even up against hopeless odds, and against any concept of common sense.

Ten of the players starting against Houston had played Anchorage. The one change, the departure of Eze Godwin, at the worst possible time. His loan at an end when we needed his goals the most- and with a heavy heart, back to Colorado Springs he went. If I get my way, it won't be the last we see of him, but for now, he's out. In his place, Nick Zabinski, the 6'8 giant who looks as natural on the pitch as Bambi does on ice.

My head told me playing the first team was a stupid idea, that it would only result in terrible things, chasing a lost cause. Injuries, bookings, suspensions, morale hits- these were all traps waiting to ensnare me, to prove that my head was right.

But a 2-1 comeback win says my head was wrong. Deep defending in the first half left us going in 1-0 down, but with nothing to lose, we somehow turned it around. I'm still not sure how... maybe it really is true that on their day, any one team can beat another. Maybe it was the magic of the cup. Or maybe it's just that Nick Zabinski, long adrift from the first team, was so determined to prove he deserved another chance that he took the game by the scruff of the neck, no matter which world-class stars the opposing team boasted. One well-taken goal himself, followed by an assist for Coulibaly, and suddenly, unexpectedly, we're in the final.

I maintain the cup is an unwelcome distraction from the league. But it's hard not to be distracted when you're two league games and one cup final away from completing your own double. Even if, at the back of your mind, the ache gnawing at the back of your head reminds you that you're just two league games and one cup final away from finishing with nothing at all.

Little Rock Naturals 2 (Zabinski 54, Coulibaly 69)

Houston Rattlers 1 (Siddall 26)

Saturday, 9th May 2020

I didn't sleep last night.

I was sat up, in front of the screen, all over Wikipedia, YouTube, the Sacramento Riverkings Website. I know as much now about Sacramento Riverkings as their most diehard of ultras. I know about the controversy of their ugly purple and black kit, and how the fans initially refused to buy it before embracing it. I know about the protests when the club spent £35k to bring in a 35-year-old Moldovan, Vlad Ghencea. They thought it was the last act of a desperate man, as Sacramento sat mired deep in the relegation zone. And I know about the relief when the outlay proved worthwhile, Ghencea turning back the years to bring the team some much-needed discipline in the middle of the park and drag them to safety.

And I'd sat up, calculating, simulating. I thought about every permutation, every possible outcome, every potential set of results from today's fixtures. I'd thrown dice, I'd used complex formulas and I'd even simmed the matches on my Football Manager game, to see what the computer had to tell me. Sometimes we'd win, sometimes we'd lose.

I stared at the league table for minutes on end, running scenarios through my head over and over. Sometimes I'd look down as low as Colorado Springs, way down in third, six points behind us. The gulf was huge. I filled a jotter with possible line-ups, tactics, situations, substitutions. What was worth more- the element of surprise from changing things up, or the consistency, the continuity, from playing the same side in the same way?

At 4am, I drove down to the ground, turned the engine off, and just sat there, alone in the car park, lost in my thoughts. The Little Rock Municipal Stadium. "Home of the Naturals", picked out in red and white plastic, illuminated by the reflected light of our badge. Little Rock Naturals- a team who'd existed for eight years now, all spent in the NSA Championship. Eight seasons in existence, four playoff campaigns, all ending in tears. Eight years of watching teams come up and down. Eight years, and finally, the Naturals were on the cusp.

But for all the thinking and overthinking, ultimately, it was simple: we needed to do better than Tucson. If we win, and Tucson don't beat Colorado Springs, we're the Champions. If we draw, and Tucson lose, the title is ours.

Right now, for the first time, I can see it.

It's clear as day.

The trophy was delivered to the stadium earlier today, heavily guarded, but seeing it here in front of us brings into focus just how close we were to it. I made sure the whole team looked at it- it was a simple message, they can look, but they can't touch... yet.

Two games remain, but today could be the day.

Today, we could make history.

Here we go.

"Go Little Rock!", they chanted.

Sacramento is over 1,500 miles away, and for a team settled in mid-table obscurity, it was a trek very few of their away fans bothered with. But there were 21,214 people at the Municipal Stadium. They were behind us, and they were chanting.

"Go Little Rock!", they chanted from an hour before kick-off, right up to that first whistle.

We made it easy for them. We gave them reason to chant. We went out there, and we made our mark on the match. Within 45 seconds, we'd hit the post. I've spent all season telling Victor Ibrahim to try and get closer before letting fly, but he insists he shot from thirty yards to "try and catch the keeper out". And at least this time he came closer than he usually does, and it gave the fans their "ooooh" moment.

Within three minutes, those "ooooh"s turned to cheers. Within three minutes, we were ahead.

"Karabenta... finds Pontius in space, wide on the right. Pontius looks up, not much available, but fires it in ahead of Zabinski- ZABINSKI! LITTLE ROCK LEAD!"

That lovable lunk had done it. Nick Zabinski, possibly the most frustrating player I've ever tried to manage. It's mind-boggling how someone as tall as he is- somewhere around 6'8, 6'9- can be so terrible in the air. He's a giant who can't win a header, who has no control over power, direction, or any of that. That just isn't his game. But stick a cross a few yards ahead of him, and he'll always reach those long pegs of his just that bit further than the defender. And so it was- a toe poke, but a glorious one, into the corner past the keeper's outstretched hand. The game was only three minutes old, and I spent the rest of my half, checking my watch, praying for the full-time whistle. We were winning, Tucson were struggling to break down Colorado Springs. All was right with the world.

Finally, the whistle came- at least, the whistle for half-time. We should've been 2-0 up for all the pressure we'd put on, but to be honest, by that point, it was academic. If we were winning, that was all we needed to do. The lads didn't need to be told to kill off the match- Sacramento had clearly already tuned out for the summer. Instead, we were crowded around a television, watching the last few minutes of the first half of the Tucson game. It was possibly the strangest team talk I've ever given, if you could even call it that.

"Go on, Detlef, go on, son, Charlie's wide open!"

It was kind of funny, cheering on Colorado Springs 59ers- many of the faces on the screen were guys who I'd taken there, lads who I'd scouted, who I'd signed, and now, here I was, praying for them to do me a favour from the other side of the country. If they could hold their nerve, we were the Champions. I knew that, everyone in that locker room knew that. As the ref blew his whistle there and they went in at 0-0, it crossed my mind to phone up and offer words of encouragement for them. Whether they'd be taken in the spirit intended, I don't know- either way, the thought passed quickly, as we were called to begin our own second half.

"Go Little Rock!", they chanted, although by now those chants were joined by "CHAMPIOOOOOOONES! CHAMPIOOONES! O-A-O-A-O-A!", ringing through the stands.

Then, silence.

At least, silence here in Arkansas- I'm sure in Arizona, they were going absolutely nuts. Tucson scored- a nothing goal from a corner, some unmarked defender touching it into the net. Garcia, I think his name is- a goal more by fortune than design. But the ramifications of it were inescapable- no matter what we do, if Tucson win today, the title is still not mathematically ours. The champagne would have to go back on ice- on ice until the final week of the season.

The shellshock rattled around the stands. The fans had come for a party, for a crowning of Champions, and so far, we'd delivered exactly that. But suddenly everyone in that stadium was aware that any celebrations had to come with an asterisk, with a footnote. Everyone knew that the universe could still align against us, however unlikely, that the title still wasn't ours. Everyone was well aware that, with that goal, we could now still conceivably fall foul of the play-offs, that it could still all be in vain. Sure, the odds are in our favour, but if there's one thing known well here in Little Rock, it's the pain of coming close, but falling short.

Sacramento gave us two more goals, Pontius tucking one home on the hour mark to a muted reaction. Victor Ibrahim's effort from the edge of the box on 71 minutes would have lit up the support on any other day, but even as it screamed into the net, even his body language showed that he knew today still wasn't the day. Colorado Springs couldn't get back against Tucson- indeed, it seemed they were clinging onto a 1-0 defeat.

We won 3-0 today, but it didn't feel like it. We saw one of the side's finest strikes of the season, but it doesn't matter. We remain top of the table, but the season is still not over. Today was supposed to be the day- the day we finally laid to rest the ghosts of seasons past. Today we were supposed to secure our promotion, we were supposed to be crowned champions. Instead, tonight, we go to bed dreaming of what could've been. And tomorrow, we massage our tired muscles, pick ourselves up and desperately try to find a way to drag ourselves that little bit further, to dig down deep and finally get across the finish line ahead of the rest of the baying pack. Ahead of Tucson.

It's just one game more to achieve the impossible.

One game more, to finally escape this division.

But with one game, all I can think of is how this can still come crashing down.

One game.

Little Rock Naturals 3 (Zabinski 3, Pontius 62, Ibrahim 71)

Sacramento Riverkings 0

Saturday, 16th May 2020

So, this is it.

One league game left.

We need one point to be Champions.

One point, and the NSA Championship Western title is ours.

One point, and redemption is mine- one point, and the debacle at Pittsburgh becomes a distant memory.

The chairman, Josh Dixon, called me in this morning for a chat. And as I sat there, reassuring him that the team was ready, that I was ready, that tonight we'd be supping champagne and celebrating promotion, we both knew what the real stakes were. That underlying tension in our conversation, that unspoken shadow hanging over our fake enthusiasm.

At the end of the month, my contract is done. That gives me this afternoon to save it- as nice as being in the Sun Belt Cup Final is, it'll be scant consolation if we choke today. Slipping into the playoffs is unthinkable, unmentionable. I know Josh, I know he has no problem with making unpopular decisions. If it all goes wrong today, I could be gone by the morning. Neither of us say it, but both of us know that's the reality of the situation.

I must've looked like a ghost coming out of the meeting. Victor, my assistant, reminded me to take a step back, to look at the facts.

We are top.

We are three points clear.

We have a much better goal difference.

We have won the last six league games.

We are the form team, and we are in the driving seat.

But for every point he makes, I have my counter ready, that nagging pessimism, that nagging fear of the worst case scenario. That nagging nickname, associated with the team long before I had any involvement: The Little Rock Chokers.

We are playing a team who NEED points from the game, who themselves need to get something out of it. Tucson's opponents are already relegated.

We are playing a team who held us to a 0-0 draw before Christmas- a game we hacked and kicked our way through, and that we nearly lost. Tucson cruised to a 4-0 win.

We are playing Albuquerque Blues, play-off chasers who have spent the whole season punching above their weight and upsetting the formbooks. Tucson are facing Aurora Arrows- out of their depth, out of hope and already out of the division.

Albuquerque Blues. It just had to be Albuquerque Blues, didn't it? Oh, the headline-writers are enjoying that one right now. I must have seen a dozen variations already on that Bugs Bunny line. And, of course, they're called the Blues.

"WILL MARTIN TAKE THE WRONG TURN AT ALBUQUERQUE?"

"HOW TO BEAT LITTLE ROCK'S BLUES..."

Hilarious. Ahead of probably the biggest came of my career- certainly the careers of a lot of the local lads in the side- and the media are making puns about cartoons. I'm glad they can be so light-hearted about it all. I can't. I just can't.

We're sitting there in the locker room, and I have my serious face on. The players know this face- they know that today they're not going to get the standard talk. There's an eerie calm in the room, a strange silence- an anxiousness, puncturing every comment. Only at that moment, looking from face to face, did it strike me how young most of these lads are, and with 34-year-old Bazourou Karabenta suspended, it falls to Oscar Coulibaly to be the elder statesman in the room. It's not ideal- looking at him, he seems to be as nervous as some of the teenagers.

"Lads, I'm not gonna stand here and put any more pressure on you. All I can say to you is that everything you're feeling, every emotion turning in your head and in your stomach, I'm feeling a thousand times over. The good and the bad- I'm there with you. Look, in about two hours, we're all going to know whether we've done enough this season. If we have, we'll celebrate, if we haven't, well, we haven't. But right now, just forget about all of the rubbish people have said, forget about all of the talk in the media, forget about anything going on anywhere else. Put it out of your mind. Just relax, go out there, and play your football. That's what you do, and you do it bloody well. I'm proud to have each and every one of you do it for me, for those fans, and for Little Rock. Today, all I'm asking is that you play your football. For me, for them, for us. Come on guys, let's do this!"

Inspirational? I guess. Convincing? I dunno. In my head, that phrase is just repeating over: "Wrong turn at Albuquerque. Wrong turn at Albuquerque."

Surely we can scrape one point today, can't we? Please? Just one?

Part I

I must've sat in this dugout fifty, maybe a hundred times, but today, I can't get comfortable. I've been watching Albuquerque Blues warming up, watching them ping the ball about, watching them take turns dropping it into the unguarded net.

I can't help but notice, they're actually not all that dissimilar from us. They don't have that one person scoring goals, or that one lightning rod around whom the team is built- they've got half-a-dozen midfielders-cum-strikers who have chipped in eight or nine each this season. But there is a vital difference, a difference in mentality. Something about the way they bring the ball forward, about the way they encourage that last-minute ball, trying to catch the defence on its heels. A heavier reliance on the element of surprise, or at least on quick thinking. It makes for exciting, if not always successful, football. They stole sudden, sharp victories. If you're winning, it doesn't matter how you get them.

Today, the facts on our side of the fence are clear- one point is enough for us to win the league. But a draw won't do Albuquerque: to be sure of securing that final play-off spot, ahead of Portland Stumps, they need a win. Right now, they're two points ahead, but on goal difference, they'd lose out. Anything other than a win, and they'd be relying on Colorado Springs to do them a favour against Portland. Given their collapse last week, I wouldn't want to be relying on Colorado Springs for anything right now.

I fully expected Albuquerque to come out and come at us. They had to, and on this windy mid-May day, they're probably hoping a bit of fortune can see them right. It's a bitty opening, mistakes at both ends. I suppose the Albuquerque fans and players are just as nervous- for them, failure today means their season, their dream of promotion, is completely over.

But of all the players on the pitch to be overwhelmed by the occasion, I didn't expect it to be Frankie Edwards. He's our club captain for a reason- usually unflappable, a driving force on and off the pitch. Today, however... the game's barely two minutes old, and he's misplaced two passes. The second was straight to Ruddock Arango, the Blues striker, giving him a clear run at goal. Jake Sanders did his job between the sticks, but I don't need my captain doing silly things like that. This is the sort of game where mistakes are going to be seized on- where one error, one lapse in concentration like that could literally define our season.

We just couldn't get settled, and I think Albuquerque sensed it, as they pushed and pressured us all over the pitch. Carlos Pontius has been one of our most consistent performers at right-back, but to see him mugged deep in our own half after dilly-dallying too long was an ominous sign. The fact that it only took two passes for Arango to be through again- with Sanders again called into action- was just as concerning. The game was just seven minutes old, but it was already looking like there was no chance of a repeat of the goalless draw around Christmas. A 0-0 was not on the cards.

And so it proved.

"Coulibaly, looking for an opening- makes a move, but runs straight into Zabinski! They need to get on the same page here... ball's loose on the edge of the box... Coulibaly toe-pokes forward, he's got Ibrahim running on- GOAL! IBRAHIM MAKES IT 1-0! Victor Ibrahim slots home, no mess, no fuss, but that could be the goal that takes Little Rock to the promised land!"

And you want to know the absolute worst part, the part that could well haunt me for years to come? I confess: I missed it. I missed that goal because I was concentrating on what my assistant, Victor Rajkovic, was telling me in my ear. We've worked together for a good 18 months now, but I still have to focus to understand that Canadian accent of his, especially when he's at his most excitable.

"Boss, boss! Aurora are one up! Just come through on the radio- Tucson are losing!"

In the blink of an eye, everything was coming up Little Rock. Within the space of forty-nine seconds, Clemente Prado had given Aurora an unlikely lead, scrambling in a corner, while our own Victor Ibrahim was putting the ball out of Krzystof Gul's reach and into the net. We were winning, Tucson were losing- easily the best-case scenario. At that point, I should've been breathing easier, my seat should've been more comfortable, I should've been able to enjoy the moment, the way the fans were. But I just couldn't- I couldn't shake the fact that the clock only read 3:15. Seventy-five minutes has never felt so long.

Part II

I wish the supporters would stop chanting.

I wish they'd learn that until the final whistle, anything can happen. That's what football does- that's what football is. That's why we love it.

I wish they remembered the heartache from the previous years, every time they belt out "CHAMPIONS!" at the top of their voice- years and years of close but no cigar.

I wish they weren't getting caught up in the moment.

And I wish I wasn't, either.

But tell me, how do you do that? How do you stay focussed on the task at hand, when you're sitting there, just praying away the minutes, urging time to move that little bit faster- just for today, just for this next hour or so? Hearing the Little Rock choir sing their hymns at full volume, confidence building piece by piece with every tick of the clock, it's impossible not to feel those pangs of optimism. Even my most pessimistic of demeanours couldn't help but be rattled by the thought that "this is actually happening".

What was going on with the 22 men on the pitch was almost incidental. The game had broken into a pattern- Albuquerque were trying to turn it into a scrap, fighting for every ball, and more often than not missing it altogether. And, with every free kick we received, the ball was floated long towards the penalty spot, where Felix Martin's head was waiting. Wide. Wide. Straight at the keeper. Off the post. It was becoming a beautiful agony- sooner or later, he had to score, didn't he, to kill this game dead?

At about 40 minutes, I gave in. I finally, finally, cracked a smile. The chorus were at their most vocal, and we were moving the ball around well. Everything was under control. The wind had died down slightly, and the sun was shining on us.

Two minutes later, the smile was gone. It took a moment or two for the cacophony of noise to dull slightly, as word travelled through the stands, from one Natural to another, but the message was coming through loud and clear- down in Aurora, Tucson had drawn level. The fact that it was with a comical own goal only made things worse- I'm sure they were laughing it up. We weren't.

The safety net was gone. Suddenly our safe position was just that little bit less secure. One goal for Albuquerque, and it would be game on. We could not count on Aurora to hold off Tucson. They weren't going to- Tucson had spent all season winning games, Aurora had spent all season losing them. Suddenly, this "almost incidental" game needed to be won, and won clearly, to leave no room for slip-ups. And as the referee finally, finally blew for half-time, all I could think of was the string of missed headers. Any one of them would've given us that little cushion, that margin of error for the final 45 minutes of the season.

Albuquerque had to come at us in the second half- they'd been fighting already, and there was no way they were going to roll over. They hadn't been good enough, and they needed a win.

Why didn't Felix put one of them in? Why is this STILL in the balance? Why can't we do things the easy way, just this once?

Half-time Scores:

Little Rock Naturals 1 (Ibrahim 15)

Albuquerque Blues 0

Aurora Arrows 1 (Prado 15)

Tucson Deputies 1 (Torres og 43)

Cheers for the feedback guys, apologies to have kept you waiting for this- there won't be such a delay next time out. The central alignment is just force of habit, really- creative writing I do elsewhere on other forums tends to have it centred by default, so I'm just used to looking at it that way.

Part III

It was probably the worst half-time team talk in the history of football.

I was supposed to be the guy holding this team together, I was supposed to be the one motivating them for this second half. But the words just wouldn't come.

I looked at them, one by one, each of these young kids looking up at me, hanging on my every movement, waiting to hear what inspiration I had for them, what fire I could light in their bellies to help drag them those final few steps over the finish line in first place. The silence in the air was one of expectation, one of anticipation. We were half a game away from putting the Little Rock ghosts to rest, half a game away from finally escaping this division- half a game away from holding the Championship trophy aloft.

But as I looked at each of them, as I looked from Nate to Nick, to Frankie, the words wouldn't come. I raised my hand to try and start, but ended up shaking my head. What was I supposed to say? If it were full time now, it'd be easy- we'd be Champions. But Frank Torres' own goal, that moment of madness some thousand miles away in Colorado, had blown what few notes I had to smithereens. With Tucson level and Albuquerque sure to come at us thanks to their own ambitions, this was going to be the longest second half of football any of us had ever undertaken. They didn't need me reminding them of the task- they didn't need me complicating their minds with permutations or possibilities.

"Win. Forget everything else. Just... win."

That was it. What more was there to say? If we win, we win the title. We are winning. It's in our hands. But as they went back out for the second half, shirts muddied and knees grazed, the tension was clear. It could've all been so different- we could've given ourselves some breathing space, could've scored two or three by now. In my gut and my heart, 1-0 didn't feel enough. It didn't feel secure, or safe.

As the second half started, I thought about my own gamble. That was the time to change things, if necessary- to throw a marker down and lay out our signal of intent. Either we defend the lead with our lives, or we push for a second. I chose neither. I was hoping that more of the same might steal us a goal- I was hoping that more of the same wouldn't see Albuquerque steal one. But as Victor Ibrahim wasted another free kick- tamely straight into the keeper's hands- I couldn't help but feel my stomach start to turn.

On 54 minutes, Tucson took the lead down in Aurora. Sean Majola. As if the scorer's name even mattered.

"You OK, boss?"

I wasn't- I could feel myself choking back the vomit. This was getting too much, this knife's edge was getting too tough to balance on. We were winning- so were they. All it would take would be Albuquerque sneaking a couple of goals- five minutes of madness- and we'd be toast.

"The Deputies have come out with a fire in their belly this second half, they've turned this right around- it's now 3-1! More awful defending there from Aurora- you've gotta wonder what Prado was thinking, sliding it under his own keeper, the second own goal of the day... It doesn't matter how they go in, what matters is that Tucson have scored two in three minutes, they're in complete control, and are now leading here at Raytheon Park three goals to one! Tucson are really rolling down here, they're sniffing for more and more goals, but the bottom line is they still need a favour from the Blues to take the title- back to you in the studio."

And then, on the hour mark, Albuquerque got a break, Arango through one-on-one... only to hit the post. I swear my heart skipped a beat- Jake Sanders was nowhere near it. Nowhere at all.

I can't take this. I just can't.

Blow the whistle, referee.

End it.

Please.

Part IV

"Come on."

Sometimes, you can't help yourself. It's been ten minutes since Prado put Tucson 3-1 up. 70 minutes on the clock. 20 minutes to go, plus whatever agony the referee decides to add on. Eternity, no doubt.

"Come on."

Two words- the only two words to have come out of my mouth for the past ten minutes.

"Come on."

Sometimes it's willing, demanding that extra yard of pace, urging the man on the ball to do better with his next pass. Praying that the footballing gods smile on us, that we get the lucky break and get a second goal to kill the game, the season, off.

Sometimes it's in total desperation, watching Albuquerque stretch us wide and drill it into the box, only for Tonci to somehow, some way get his boot in the middle of the six-yard-box scramble, and hack it clear.

And sometimes, it's in celebration, the celebration of throwing the dice, of making the change, and of seeing it pay off.

Danny Henderson's only just come on for Nick Zabinski- the big lad's run himself into the ground and got nowhere fast, so it was time to switch it up. Danny knows what we need, he's sat with me on the bench all game, he knows just how much of a bag of nerves I am, and he knows that Aurora are showing no signs of a comeback against a dominant Tucson.

"COME ON!"

"Edwards picks out Henderson on the edge of the Blues box... Henderson's got two men on him, he looks up and tries to slip through the middle... OHHH! PENALTY! That could be absolutely criminal! Drahokoupil got it all wrong, and it's a stonewall penalty! Danny Henderson knocked the ball forward, the Czech international dangled his leg out, and Henderson said "Thankyou very much!" No hesitation from the referee, and with 72 minutes on the clock, Little Rock have a chance to go two up and take a massive step towards the title!"

Oscar Coulibaly has been the penalty man all season, although they've been few and far between, and I'm glad it's fallen on his mature shoulders. Three from three so far this season in the league, and one in the cup- nobody dares argue with him when he picks the ball up. I think a lot of them are just as relieved as I am. Ossie's an old-school penalty taker- no fannying around, no trying to pass it in, and certainly none of that panenka chipping bollocks. Power, into the corner.

He doesn't even look at me, he knows exactly what he's going to do as he lines himself up for it. The keeper, Gul, is doing all he can- waving arms, dancing left to right- trying to put Coulibaly off. The fans behind the goal are all ours, and they're eerily silent- everyone knows that this could be it- this could be the moment when the season, promotion, and the title are sealed.

After Drahokoupil takes his booking, the whistle blows. Oscar waits half a second before stepping up and drilling it, hard as he can, low, and to the keeper's right.

Gul doesn't get it.

The post does.

The thwack of leather on metal, the sight of the ball cannoning off of the outside of the upright and out of play... it's too much. Coulibaly is on his knees, looking up at the sky in earnest, as teammates half his age try and coax him up, try and tell him it doesn't matter. I can't help him. My own head's in my hands as I crash back down into the dugout, my breath short and sharp, my mouth streaming with obscenities, not in anger, but in frustration.

How?

How are we back to trying to run down the clock, when we were so close to putting this match to rest, once and for all?

"Twenty minutes to go, and they may not get a better chance than that to kill Albuquerque off..."

Shut up, commentator, just shut the hell up.

Part V

Maybe I should put another sub on. But who?

A defender- Jase, maybe? Shore up the defence, desperately try and cling onto the 1-0 lead? Try and run the clock down, knowing that Albuquerque are only going to get more and more desperate, knowing that they're only going to throw everything they've got forwards?

But... we can still afford to concede one. 1-1 would do us, it'd give us 67 points against Tucson's 66. Maybe there's still enough time to kill the game off- time to put on a fresh pair of legs, get some movement going, try and catch them and make things safe beyond all doubt. 2-0 would be the end of it, it'd be the end of worry, it'd let us finally start celebrating without that nagging fear, that nagging doubt.

"Get me on, boss. I'm feeling it".

"Shh, Brian. Shh."

Oh, it's easy for you to say that, Brian Hernandez. You're "feeling it". Sure, if we go up, you'll be celebrating with us. And if we don't, you'll feel down for a while. But we both know that deep down, win or lose, in two weeks time, your loan is up, and you're back off to Nashville. This doesn't really matter for you. This isn't your team- you're not invested in this, not really. You're a guest. A passenger. You don't appreciate what this means. You're not invested in this like I am, or like those fans out there in their overpriced replica shirts feel it. How dare you sit there and tell me you're feeling it, when for you, this result doesn't matter?

I think it, but I can't bring myself to say it. It's not Brian's fault.

I'm overthinking this. I know I am.

Breathe.

75 minutes on the clock. We're 1-0 up. In twenty minutes, we'll be Champi...

"OHHHHHHHHHHH!"

That should've been it- that should've been 2-0. On any other day, against other team, in any other circumstances, it'd be 2-0. Victor Ibrahim... I don't know how he found the space, I don't know how he made himself a yard to tee it up, but he meant that. 25 yards out, and it was going in, no question- bottom corner, no messing.

How did Gul get there? How did he hold it?

Aurora pull one back against Tucson, but by this point, that other game's faded right into the back of my mind. I don't want it to matter- I don't want us to have to rely on them making an unlikely comeback. Fifteen minutes, and the trophy is ours.

"Boss?"

"Sit down, Brian."

No, it's no time for changes. No time to upset the delicate balance of this game. Just play out time.

Keep the ball, watch the clock run down, and hold firm.

Keep the ball, and don't do anything stupid.

Please.

Part VI

It's got to that point- the point where I don't care how it's done any more.

I don't care if it means picking the ball up and booting it over the stand.

I don't care if it means walloping someone with a right hook.

I don't care if it means every single player rolling around on the floor in fake pain.

This is no longer a game of honour- it's no longer a match to be played within the rules. The only rule that matters is that after some 90 or so minutes, the referee calls a halt to it all. That's the only rule I care about.

The clock reads 88 minutes. Another long-range free kick for us- another pointless floated ball straight into the goalkeepers arms. What part of "hold it" don't they understand? What part of keeping possession, of running down the clock, don't they get?

"HOLD IT! JUST HOLD IT!"

I haven't got the voice left to scream any more, but I do.

I haven't got the nerves to carry on watching, but I can't tear my eyes away.

89 minutes. Albuquerque know they need a goal, and that just makes it so much worse. They're trying. They've got something to play for, to fight for. With the way things are, a draw will put them into the playoffs. A defeat will not. One goal for them wouldn't be the end of the world for us. But if they took the momentum, if they went on to get a second... it doesn't bear thinking about.

It flashes across my mind- in another time, in another league, say, in Italy, we could've sorted this all out long before now- long before kickoff. Picture it, me and their boss, Tony Scully, sitting down with a glass of scotch and a handshake agreement to both play for a draw. We take the title, they make the playoffs. Everyone goes home happy. But no. No such agreement exists- we're both playing to win. Without some kind of arrangement, we can't afford to slip, we can't afford to take the risk, we can't afford to gift them a...

"GOAL! IT'S 1-1!"

There are no words. There are no words at all.

"No... wait... the referee says no! Let's see the replay here... Salcedo turned and diverted the cross under Sanders, but the linesman's flag chalks it off! Tremendous drama here at the Municipal Stadium, but the replay shows it's the right call, Salcedo moved too early- but Ruddock Arango is having none of it, he's letting the referee know exactly what he thinks!"

Keep talking, Arango, the longer you argue, the more time you're wasting. That's fine with me. And now you've got a yellow card. Excellent.

"That's time referee, come on! That's time!"

The whistles are beginning to ring around the stadium, the fans jam packed into the stands as desperate for this to end as I am. All it's going to take is the referee deciding enough is enough, all it's going to take to end the torture- not just the torture of this one game, but the torture that has haunted Little Rock since the creation of the league. The torture of being trapped in the NSA Championship, of finishing in the play-offs year after year, and coming up short.

The referee's got his whistle in his mouth, the ball bobbling around their penalty box. I can see our lads are dead on their feet. Coulibaly, that model pro, the man who could've sewn this up so much early from the spot, is flagging. Sunday is struggling, and even Victor Ibrahim looks to be running on empty- out of ideas, out of energy, out of it. The ball comes down to him, edge of the box, and he doesn't even look up before whacking it goalwards with whatever energy he can muster. Straight at the keeper. Far too easy for him. What a waste.

And then the whistle blows. It's over.

Little Rock Naturals 1 (Ibrahim 15)

Albuquerque Blues 0