Wednesday, April 21st. 11:00 AM The Canteen, West Bromwich Albion Training Ground.
The draw of the UEFA Champions League semi-finals.
The canteen on the training ground was completely silent; the noise made by the cutlery had ceased and all the players, coaches and physios were looking at the large television screen fitted on the wall.
In Nyon, in Switzerland, a UEFA official wearing a spotless suit was mixing the plastic balls in a glass bowl, there being only four teams remaining in Europe.
Barcelona, Juventus, Real Madrid and West Bromwich Albion.
Three historic and universally acknowledged giants of world football, together with a group of working-class boys from the Black Country who had kicked down the door and would not go away.
Ethan Matthews was sitting at a table alongside Lukas Keller and Liam Thorne, having in front of him a cup of black coffee which was cooling.
The UEFA official took the first ball and unscrewed it before holding up the slip of paper.
Real Madrid.
A murmur spread throughout the canteen. The Kings of Europe had been the team that West Brom had drawn into a street fight and defeated in the final in Berlin eleven months earlier.
The official took the second ball.
West Bromwich Albion.
A roar of groans, nervous laughter and sharp exhalations broke out in the canteen.
Thorne said, "The ghost of Berlin," as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his large jaw. "They've been looking forward to this for a whole year."
"Let them wait," Keller grunted, his German accent heavy with cold anticipation. "We broke them the first time; we'll break them again."
Ethan stayed quiet. He took his phone out of his tracksuit pocket. The group chat was already busy.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mason: REAL MADRID! This is the top-dog rematch! They're going to be desperate, General. They want to show that Berlin was just a one-off. They want their title back. Make them choke on it.
Callum: Since the final Madrid have completely reorganised their tactical system. They fired their manager and hired a pragmatist, and they no longer play just for possession. They now use a harsh, transition-based 4-2-3-1, depending on the frightening speed of their wingers to attack you on the counter. In the final third you should avoid overcommitting, Eth. If you lose the ball in a high-up area then you will be mathematically completely exposed.
Mia: The pub is already reserving tables for both matches! It's going to be absolutely crazy! What do the players think?
Ethan: Keller is all set to fight them at the moment. Thanks for letting me know, Cal. No unnecessary turnovers. We'll keep the back door secured and as for Mase... we won't take any risks.
Ethan locked the phone; Mason's tone was aggressive and sharp, and although the pain from the League One playoff loss had not yet subsided, the captain of Eastfield was handling it exactly as he should.
Julian Vance went into the canteen and switched off the television with a sharp click of the remote.
Vance said to the room that they had fourteen Champions League titles; his voice echoed in the sudden silence. He held that the trophy belongs to them by divine right and sees your win in Berlin not as a defeat but as a temporary clerical error which they are going to correct.
Vance moved slowly between the tables, fixing his eyes on his players.
You are regarded as a Cinderella story which has stayed too long. On Tuesday we are going to the Santiago Bernabéu; we are not going there in order to survive but to prove to them that the clock in the Black Country never strikes midnight.
Tuesday, April 27th. 7:45 PM The Away Dressing Room, Santiago Bernabéu, Madrid.
UEFA Champions League semi-final first leg.
Real Madrid vs. West Bromwich Albion.
The Santiago Bernabéu is white concrete in form and is filled with an overwhelming, suffocating sense of expectation. There's a feeling akin to stepping into the heart of a steep, vertical coliseum which has been built entirely with the intention of crushing the spirit of the opposition.
Eighty-five thousand Madridistas were already in the stadium, whistling and jeering with a terribly fierce and poisonous intensity. They recalled the tackles. They remembered the mud. They remembered the nineteen-year-old boy from England who had taken their crown.
Ethan Matthews was sitting in the dressing room, the clean white walls standing in sharp contrast to the flaking paint of the Foundry which he had been in a week before.
"In the first fifteen minutes they're going to put pressure on us just as rabid dogs do," Vance cautions, making a series of hurried arrows on the whiteboard. "They want an early goal so as to keep the crowd fed. We must absorb that pressure and let them tire themselves out. Ethan, keep the temperature under control. It must not boil."
8:00 PM. Kickoff.
The noise at the Bernabéu had the effect of a physical burden. As soon as the game started, Real Madrid launched themselves into attack with a fierce and dazzling intensity which made Paris Saint-Germain seem slow and lethargic.
What they wanted was not merely to win but to destroy.
8th Minute.
Callum's tactical warning was terrifyingly accurate since Madrid were not playing the slow, methodical game as they had the previous year but were instead playing direct, vertical and terrifying football.
When Jaden Kalu took a heavy touch, the West Bromwich attack failed in the vicinity of the Madrid penalty area.
The transition was instantaneous.
The defensive midfielder in Madrid didn't turn his head; instead he played a sweeping clearance blindly towards the left wing.
Their Brazilian winger, who is the fastest player in the world, was already carrying out a dead sprint.
At the halfway line he caught the ball, leaving the West Brom right-back far behind. He moved into the penalty area, forced Liam Thorne to move out of position, and then played a fierce, cross-field pass directly towards the goal.
The famous striker from Madrid went to the back of the net and tapped it in.
GOAL.
Real Madrid won 1–0 against West Bromwich Albion.
The Bernabéu blew apart, emitting a sound which was pure and vindictive catharsis. The stadium announcer screamed the name of the player who had scored, and eighty-five thousand voices repeated it in return.
Ethan was in the centre circle with his jaw tightly clenched. The counter-attack had happened in less than seven seconds and there was absolutely no margin for error in the semi-finals.
26th Minute.
Real Madrid were clearly determined to win the match. They advanced further, with their wide players pressing the West Brom defence back into their own penalty area. The white-shirtsed players were swarming around like locusts and were totally blocking the passing routes.
Each time Ethan touched the ball he was immediately fouled. It wasn't the clumsy, heavy tackling typical of League One; it was cynical, professional stuff, employing Spanish dark arts. That involved giving a small nip to the Achilles and a delicate pull on the shirt to unbalance him.
Because of the frightening atmosphere of the Bernabéu, the referee swallowed his whistle.
Ethan lifted himself off the grass for the fourth time in ten minutes. He recalled Mason sitting in the mud at The Foundry. You don't have the right to quit just because the concrete hit back.
Ethan looked directly into Lukas Keller's eyes.
"They want to play on the counter!" Ethan yelled above the noisy crowd. "Let them have the ball then!"
Ethan deliberately went ten yards deeper and on purpose brought the West Brom formation down into a stiff, impenetrable low block. By doing this he was giving the entire midfield to Madrid and refusing to fall for the tactic of sending players forward.
Halftime.
Real Madrid won 1–0 against West Bromwich Albion.
The dressing room at the other end was entirely silent, for the players were physically exhausted having chased the Madrid shadows.
"They are extremely fast," Vance said, clearing the whiteboard altogether. "Should we attempt to beat them in a race, we shall lose. Ethan, you collapsed the block exactly as it should have been done; you removed the space behind us. In the second half they are likely to become frustrated since they can't break us down and will then send forward their full-backs. At that moment the trap will close."
The Second Half.
62nd Minute.
The Bernabéu was becoming increasingly restless. Although Real Madrid had completely dominated possession by holding onto seventy percent of the ball, they had achieved nothing from it.
The low block employed by West Brom was a masterstroke in terms of working-class suffering. Liam Thorne was always moving off to deal with each cross. Lukas Keller collected every loose ball that came in front of the defence, and Ethan was in the central area, cutting off passes and then immediately kicking the ball into the stands in order to stop the clock and annoy the aristocrats.
75th Minute.
The psychological conflict came to a climax.
The manager in Madrid, wishing to secure a second goal in order to win the tie before going to England, urgently ordered his full-backs to move forward. He intended to crowd the penalty area and break through the defence.
That was precisely what Ethan had been looking forward to.
The West Brom goalkeeper easily caught the Madrid cross. Instead of letting it drop onto the grass, he threw it directly to Ethan who was on the edge of the box.
Ethan looked up and saw that the Bernabéu pitch was greatly extended, with both Madrid full-backs positioned deep in the West Brom half.
Ethan didn't attempt to show off. Instead, he made use of the biomechanics of absolute and devastating power, locked his ankle, leaned over the ball, and threw a stunning sixty-yard diagonal pass which sliced through the Madrid night.
Tyler Hayes was on his own against one Madrid centre-back at the halfway line.
The champion winger took the ball smoothly against his chest without breaking his pace, dropped his shoulder and thus froze the terrified defender, before unleashing his terrifying speed from the lower leagues.
He drove directly into the Madrid penalty area and the famous goalkeeper from Madrid ran out, attempting to appear larger.
Hayes didn't panic; he made a calm and precisely weighted pass into the six-yard box.
To make the back post, Armando had sprinted seventy yards and then launched himself into a fierce slide, where he caught the ball and beat it into the roof of the net.
GOAL.
The score was Real Madrid 1-1 West Bromwich Albion.
Complete and dreadful silence settled over the Santiago Bernabéu, the noise of the crowd being immediately replaced by the sound of three thousand travelling West Brom fans going absolutely hysterical in the top tier of the stadium.
Ethan didn't celebrate in a loud manner; he stood on the edge of his own penalty area, raised one fist towards the sky, and a cold, ruthless smirk appeared on his lips.
The Berlin ghost was extremely, extremely real.
88th Minute.
Real Madrid became anxious. The away goal changed the mathematical situation in the match. They pushed all their players forward as they launched a frantic and desperate attack.
The penalty area of West Bromwich turned into a battleground, but the players from the Black Country were at home in it. They charged in front of each shot, earned a number of cynical yellow cards by interfering with the play, and took the intense pressure with a smile.
90+4 Minutes.
Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
Full Time.
The score was Real Madrid 1–1 West Bromwich Albion.
A tremendous and extremely well-disciplined performance at the Bernabéu. They had withstood the first attack, carried out a perfect game of rope-a-dope, and left the cathedral with an important away goal.
Ethan exchanged shirts with the captain of Madrid, gave him a cold nod as a sign of respect, and then went over to clap the ecstatic visitors.
11:30 PM. The Team Hotel, Madrid.
Ethan was lying on the bed in his hotel room, the adrenaline slowly draining from his muscles and being taken over by a deep and heavy exhaustion.
He reached for his phone.
Group Chat: The Eastfield Boys
Mason: WHAT A RESULT! You completely hushed up that whole stadium, General! They had decided they were going to drive you off the pitch, and yet you just let them waste their energy. A masterclass in suffering.
Callum: It was a statistically excellent decision to break up the defensive block in the 26th minute, Eth. By giving up the midfield areas, you entirely eliminated their ability to pose a transitional threat and effectively created the kind of space needed for Hayes' counter-attack. That was a perfect use of negative space.
Mia: My voice has completely disappeared! We're just one game away from the final! The pub is still having a mad time. Go and get some rest, Eth!
Ethan: They were too quick for us to play chess with, Cal. All we could do was lock the door and wait until they became impatient. As for Mase, the concrete held firm.
Mason: Come back to The Hawthorns next week, alright? Let's find out how much they like the mud.
Ethan locked the phone and then rested his head on the pillows. The Kings of Europe had passed the most rigorous test of their crown.
The second match was located in the Black Country; although Bernabéu had been silenced, The Hawthorns was about to turn into a slaughterhouse.