Epilogue

They drew one-all.

In the final minute, with the pitch a ruin and both sides emptied by effort, Marcus had a chance to win it — a ball falling at his feet six yards out, the goalkeeper scrambling, the net open and waiting. He hit it. It struck the post.

Afterward, in the dressing room, he sat for a long time with his boots on.

The manager came over and sat beside him. He did not say: unlucky. He did not say: that's football. He said nothing for a full minute, and then: You ran harder in the second half than I have ever seen you run.

Marcus said: We didn't win.

The manager said: No. He picked up a water bottle from the floor that wasn't his. Turned it in his hands. But you ran. That's not nothing.

A post is not a net.

A draw is not a victory.

An afternoon of rain and effort and near-misses, of plans dissolving and improvisations crystallising, of one goal and one post and one manager who said the right thing in the right way — this is not nothing.

It is, in fact, the game.

And the game is, in fact, enough.