The Fallen Idol [short story]

This is another of a number of short stories I’ve written. This is a follow up to Green field, white lines. Please read that before reading this one

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Jim Duffy sat alone in a corner booth in Mac’s Diner, a dimly lit place on the edge of a downtown street in San Jose. He’d been frequenting this diner over the last few years and Mac, the owner, made sure he was left undisturbed while there. Jim was nursing a coffee that had long since turned cold. The rain was drumming against the tin roof of the small eatery, mirroring the pounding in his skull. He leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh heavy enough to fog the glass. The words still echoed in his mind from a week ago;- Frankie Rizzi. Dead. Overdose. Gone.

Frankie was gone and with him San Jose’s small chance of an upset in the MLS Cup final, the final Frankie had dragged them to almost single handedly.

Rizzi had been more than just a striker, he was the beating heart of the San Jose Earthquakes. Fourtysix goals this year, at least one goal in each of the five play off games he was the sole reason San Jose had half a chance in the MLS Cup. He was a magician in the box, pulling defenders apart like a street hustler with a deck of cards. When Frankie was on the pitch San Jose had more than a chance of winning the game, without him? Well, Jim knew, as did the rest of the league that the writing was on the wall for San Jose. The MLS Final could’ve been their crowning moment, the culmination of a season being the underdogs, the little boat that could, the outsiders lifting the trophy. Instead it turned in a funeral match. 

Toronto didn’t just beat them, they didn’t even get out of second gear. San Jose wanted the game postponed but the league said no. There were international fixtures coming up which couldn’t, or wouldn’t be rearranged.

Toronto scored three first half and two second half goals, showing absolutely no mercy. They all wore black armbands showing respect for their fallen opponent, but everyone knew two things after the game. One, Toronto were happy Rizzi wasn’t playing, their defence had already conceded five goals to him that season. And two, San Jose shouldn’t have played the game a mere three days after Rizzi’s death was confirmed. His funeral date hasn’t even been set yet.

The silence in the locker room at full time was so thick you could choke on it. For the first time in all his years as a coach, Jim Duffy was lost for words. Was there any point stating the obvious, we lost because we didn’t have Frankie? Or the other obvious was we shouldn’t have played at all, but the result wouldn’t have been different whether the game was postponed or not. No Frankie, no chance.

He’d sat and stared at the floor in the locker room once everyone had left, the linoleum tiles spinning like a roulette wheel. He’d been able to recruit players and get the team built around getting the ball to Frankie, built the whole mindset of the team around Frankie and making sure Frnakie was in a position to win them the game. But now Frankie was gone, leaving a gaping hole they couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to fill.

The new season was looming, but instead of anticipation, instead of thinking they could go all the way again this season, it felt like a storm cloud was creeping closer. The media buzzed with speculation, could Jim Duffy, without Frankie Rizzi pull San Jose out of the wreckage? Could the Earthquakes survive without Frankie?

Inside Duffy wasn’t so sure. The board had handed him the budgets already, it might cover a promising forward, maybe even two, a couple of players on loan, maybe a washed up veteran looking for one last hurrah, but nothing close to another Frankie Rizzi. No team in the MLS could do that. Every scouting report he was given as well as the report for the upcoming Draft all seemed to mock him, all full of players with potential and promise, but none with presence.

Pre season training began under a veil of unease. The returning players all carried the weight of the previous season like bricks in their boots. The usual banter was muted, the laughter felt forced and the energy was half hearted at best. Jim watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and eyes scanning for a spark. Someone to step up and fill even just a quarter of the void left by Frankies untimely death. He knew the odds were stacked against them, the Western Conference teams would see San Jose now as three easy points.

But what haunted Jim the most was the fear that the Earthquakes were more than just underdogs now, they were a team with a shadow hanging over them. Frankies overdose had shaken the foundation, put a strain and a black mark on the club, and the whispers wouldn’t stop. Opponents would smell the weakness and fragility and the feeling was the Earthquakes would crumble before they even took to the field.

Still, he was a professional and he would go to work,. He clenched his jaw and ordered another coffee as Mac walked over. One thing was certain, no one was coming to save them. If San Jose were going to rise from the ashes, it would be on his shoulders and his alone. He didn’t have Frankie’s magic anymore, but maybe, just maybe he could summon enough grit to keep them afloat.

Chapter 2 - New Season, Old Shadows

The calendar told them pre season was well underway, and with it came the uneasy stirrings of the upcoming new season. Jim Duffy sat in his office at the stadium, his chair creaking under the weight of his restless shifting. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and had an anxious air about it. His desk was cluttered with scouting reports and free agent notes. His laptop screen filled with agent offers and unattached players reaching out. His mind was a battlefield of hope and cynicism.

Outside on the pitch the players jogged through early drills. It was an open training session at the stadium, free for fans to come and watch, with there being a ceremony after the session for the club to officially retire Frankie Rizzi’s number twentythree jersey and honor him by renaming the south stand as the Rizzi end. 

The player's breath was fogging in the crisp morning air, cold sweat running down their faces. To anyone watching it looked like progress, a team united, but to Jim he saw the cracks. The passes lacked crispness and urgency, the shouts of encouragement sounded hollow. Frankie’s absence hung over them like a rain cloud in the sky, thick, suffocating and impossible to ignore.

The past month had been a relentless carousel of second guessing. The media, fans, players, agents and the board, all of them wanted answers. Who would replace Frankie? Would San Jose recover? Is this a season of tanking to guarantee them a high first round draft pick next season? Jim didn’t have any answers, only more questions. But fate it seemed, wasn’t entirely cruel.

In a stroke of good fortune the Earthquakes had the third overall pick in the MLS draft. The pick originally belonged to Minnesota but was traded for left full back Jason Hodges, and from the trade mid season Minnesota went on a torrid run and finished third bottom of the supporters shield and regretting the decision to trade away the pick. They also held the nineteenth overall pick. The third pick gave them a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.

Jim and the rest of the coaching staff had decided on two players with the third pick. If both were still available they had agreed who would take priority. Houston had already picked Danny Willson with their second overall pick, which meant San Jose would be getting their first choice with the third pick. They decided that Karl Austin, 22 goals in 29 games for Niagara Falls was worth the chance.

Nobody was expecting him to replace Frankie, and Austin wasn’t the player Frankie was, no one was. But the kid had something, pace that left defenders chasing shadows and a knack for finishing chances. Jim had seen the highlight reels and the post game reviews, but he wanted to believe it wasn’t just another compilation of goals with no substance.

The gamble didn’t end there. With the nineteenth pick they chose full back Kevin Maillard out of Washington. Capable on both sides, pace to burn, solid in the tackle but suffering a torn ACL mid season meant this pick would need to be managed properly. As with the picks there were a couple of free agent names that popped up, with resumes filled with promise and baggage to match.

Jensen Stones, the canadian playmaker with a chip on his shoulder had been released by New York Red Bulls after a very public falling out. He’d been forced to sit out the final five months of the season, not even allowed to play for the reserves. But he was the Canada national team captain and still worth a punt. Then there was Robbie Delvin, a towering centre half with a rough injury history but the reputation for commanding the backline like a general. Inside forward Lee Burns had been mentioned. Full of flair, can dribble by the best of them but greedy on the ball, too greedy and the league's most fouled player last season had seen Chicago get fed up with his inability to use his team mates and waive him.

The negotiations with the three weren’t easy. San Jose’s budget didn’t allow for bold moves or many bonuses, only calculated risks. Jim was playing his cards close to his chest, selling the dream of redemption and of comebacks to these men who had seen their share of disappointment. He knew they weren’t perfect, Burns being far from it, but they were an upgrade on the squad, and right now, that was enough.

Despite the winning feeling of signing five players to the team for this season, Jim couldn’t shake the unease that clung to him like a bad suit. He stood and watched the players train, Stones dictating the tempo of play, Burns running around the kind of energy only rookies have. Even Maillard was putting in a shift despite having a tight groin. But Jim was keeping an eye on Karl Austin, watching him struggle to adjust to the physicality of the professional players. He had talent, sure, but talent wasn’t enough. Not in the MLS, not anywhere.

He stepped forward to watch closer, as Austin and Burns linked up on an attack. Could Austin shoulder the burden? Could Burns reignite his career without reigniting his temper? And Stones, the only fully international in the team, could he be relied upon to not spit his dummy out when things aren’t going right? Could Maillard hold his body long enough to matter?

And then of course were the whispers. Frankies overdose wasn’t just a tragedy, it was a stain on the club, the city of San Jose. Sponsors were skittish, fans questioned the player culture at the club under Jims watch. Opposing managers smirked in press conferences calling San Jose a team ‘in transition’, which was just a polite and professional way of saying they’re the whipping boys of the league this season.

The season wouldn’t be waiting for Jim and the players to figure it out, the season was a few weeks away. When they finally take to the field for the first time this season, at home to Houston Dynamo, no one would care about Jim's fears or the ghost of Frankie Rizzi. The scoreboard and stats don’t tally grief or doubt.

San Joe Earthquakes would either find a way to rise without Frankie, or they’d crumble under the weight of their own shadows. For Jim Duffy, the line between the two had never felt thinner.

Chapter 3 - A Spark in the Dark
 

The season opener had San Jose buzzing, but Jim Duffy felt no excitement, only the gnawing weight of expectation. The MLS Cup final still fresh in the minds, as was the death of Frankie Rizzi. The fans chanted his name and they were hungry for redemption, the noise echoing off the steel beams around the ground like a defiant heartbeat. The banner waved Frankies name and number twenty three loud and proud as kick off neared.

The San Jose team of last season were a one man team in every sense, but this season the Earthquakes were a patchwork team stitched together with hope and desperation. Today they faced the Houston Dynamo, a team not much better but still dangerous.

Jim leaned against the dugout, arms crossed as the players lined up ready for kick off. The new faces stood out like fresh ink on a well worn page. Karl Austin, the teams pick in the Superdraft, a stocky forward with a boyish grin, bouncing nervously on his heels. Kevin Maillard, a competent full back, if he stays fit. His injury at college last season still putting doubts in the minds of the San Jose coaching staff. Jensen Stones, the new playmaker, the creator, he’d have thrived in this time with Frankie last season, he surveyed the pitch with the calm of a man who’d seen it all, but was as volatile as they come. Robbie Delvin, the tallest player in the team at center half flexed his neck as if preparing for war. And then there was Lee Burns, the left footed right winger. With pace to burn, a trick up his sleeve but very often refusing to pass, was barking orders to teammates like he owned the place.

The game began in a blur of orange and blue, both teams trading tackles and possession like gamblers without a care in the world. Houston pressed hard from the back, winning the ball deep in their own half and letting the midfield cut through San Jose’s back line like a switchblade through silk. Delvin was calm and composed under pressure, directing things and leading by example, throwing his towering six foot six frame at everything and everyone. Maillard, with a point to prove was raw but fearless, chased down the winger every time he dared challenging him, crunching tackles like thunderclaps.

Despite the effort on defence San Jose were never in any sort of rhythm. Stones tried to dictate the tempo from the middle but he was closed down quickly and when he did find time on the ball his passes lacked the bite and his creativity was dulled by his overly cautious team mates. When he did pick a long range pass to Burns, true to form the winger tried doing everything himself, drawing a second defender out wide but never once looking up to Austin, Stones, Howe or Barton who were all free in and around the box screaming for the ball. Jim could feel the blood pressure rising with every touch Burns took.

Much like any time Frankie got on the ball last season and scored, in the sixty third minute a breakthrough came. Stones dropped deep, won the ball back with a challenge from the side which another referee might’ve called for a foul, turned and darted up the middle. Burns on the right, Martinez on the left with Maillard on the overlap for support, Jensen waited for the press and when it came threaded the ball to Burns on the right.

Jim shook his head, Martinez was the better option, but Burns, for once, lifted his head and curled the ball, inswinging and rising into the box. It wasn’t the best diagonal ball the league would see this season, but it didn’t need to be. Karl Austin, wide eyed and full of energy threw himself at the ball and connected with a scissor that sliced off his high right foot and spooned into the net. The Houston keeper motionless.

The stadium erupted. Austin sprinted to the corner flag, arms outstretched his face a mix of joy and disbelief. Team mates swarmed him as he raised a hand and pointed to the number twenty three etched on the wall of the newly named Rizzi end. Jim Duffy allowed himself a tight lipped smile but didn’t celebrate. The goal came against the run of play, he knew that. And there was still a long way to go yet. Twenty seven minutes to go and Houston won’t just roll over.

The final stretch was a defensive grind and a lesson in staying rigid and compact. Houston threw everything they had at San Jose, and it wasn't’ enough. Delvin was a human wall, Maillard covered more ground than any other player on the pitch, even Burns was tracking back and helping on defence, sacrificing flair for grit. McClean, Howe and Barton all making perfect tackles to stop an attack showing composure and steadying the team.

The final whistle eventually came after six long and excruciating minutes of added time. The scoreline read one nil to San Jose. A win on paper but Jim knew better. They got lucky. If Austin had connected properly with the scissor kick it’s an easy save for the keeper. They had been ugly going forward, but scrappy at staying back. The Earthquakes had survived, but not triumphed.

In the locker room the mood was cautiously optimistic. Austin the goal scorer sat in the corner, still grinning like a kid that’s found Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. Of the new players, Delvin and Maillard had struck up a friendship and worked well as the left center half and left full back. Stones and Burns were talking about the build up to the goal and would work on that kind of thing in training. Barton and Howe had worked their socks off as the other two in the midfield three and were out on their feet.

Jim leaned back against the doorframe observing. For the first time in over a year they’d won a game without Frankie, but he knew this win was only a bandage, not a cure. They’d scraped by today and the cracks were still there plain as day to anyone who looked closely enough. Without a true star to anchor them, they were walking a tightrope over a canyon, every game a gamble.

He pushed off the door frame, the murmur of the team behind him. Outside the early evening San Jose air was cool and the floodlights were on lighting up the empty pitch. He stared out at the field, muttering to himself that it’s going to be a long season, longer than he wanted to admit, also not sure he had it in him to ast the full season.

Chapter 4 - Burns and Bruises

Jim Duffy stalked the touchline like a man looking for a fight, or at the least someone to throttle. The San Jose stadium was a cauldron of muted frustration, a half full house that roared at the wrong moments and sighed at all the right ones. Twenty games into the season and the San Jose Earthquakes were sitting in a limbo of mediocrity. Five wins, six draws and the eight soon to be nine straight losses piling up like IOU’s on a gambling junkies desk. They weren’t awful, they were always in every game, just, but they weren’t good enough either.

The whistle blow signalling the end of the game and with it another defeat, this time two nil to FC Dallas. Jim shook hands with the opposition coach and stormed into the locker room, a human storm cloud brimming with acid and rain.

Karl Austin, the first round draft pick had been taken off in the second half, failing to produce anything from the few chances the team created for him, sweat dripping off his face and his eyes locked on the floor. This kid has got talent, it was there, raw, undefined and undeniable. He’d managed six goals so far but couldn’t shake the comparisons to Frankie Rizzi, who himself had scored seven goals against FC Dallas alone last season. It didn’t help that Austin was given the number twenty four shirt, as if he was one better than Rizzi and his now retired number twenty three shirt.

The other draft pick, full back Kevin Maillard leaned against his locker, his shirt clinging to his back, his expression of frustration, but his rookie status kept him from shouting or venting his feelings. He’d grown into the role of starting left full back better than anyone was expecting, his work rate unmatched. Jensen Stones, still the Canada national team captain, was playing as well as he could, his teammates more cautious than this pass first midfielder. Robbie Delvin was joined by Johnson Barton, Reg Howe and Carlos Fernandez getting ice for their knees as the rest of the team piled in.

Then there was Lee Burns.

Laid across a physio’s table like a spoiled prince in exile. Boots still on but laces undone as he had done during the game, and the smirk on his ever growing punch me face was as sharp as broken glass. His numbers weren’t anything to write home about, five goals and zero assists, but these didn’t tell the whole story. He hogged the ball, ignored the overlaps from O’Niell, teammates being wide open ignoring the easy pass and acted like every game was his own personal audition reel. He was the kind of player that wanted all the glory without the grind.

Jim Duffy was pissed, and he snapped.

‘You think this is your own fucking highight reel Burnsy?’ he growled his voice low and sharp enough to cut ‘Every damn time you get the ball it’s like watching a kid on a school field, you don’t pass, you don’t look up you run with your head down, you’re not even hoping for the best it’s annoying as hell!’

Burns just shrugged with a smirk saying ‘I’m scoring though aren’t I?’

‘Aye you’re scoring, but just think how many more you’d score if you used the other ten players on the pitch with you’ Duffy said as his voice was rising ‘but we’re not winning! You don’t win games playing like a one man circus. You’d rather lose six one and get the goal, or lose one nil than set up an equaliser. This isn’t about you, it’s about the team’

Burns just rolled his eyes like he’d heard it all before, which of course he had at Chicago. Jims fist clenched, he could feel the tension in the room, the silent glances between players. They could all feel the simmering resentment.

The truth gnawed at Jim like a rat in the wall. Frankie Rizzi wasn’t just a star, he was the full compass. He made players like Burns fall in line because he was a galaxy unto himself, and everyone on the team revolved around him. Burns wouldn’t even get in the team had Frankie still been there. Without Frankie the Earthquakes were a ship without a rudder, a band without a leader and so on.

Austin and Maillard were rookies playing with the fearlessness of youth, but they couldn’t carry the team on their own. Stones was a good playmaker sure, but he played like a man chasing ghosts. He’d have thrived with Frankie in front of him, but this season he has the  young rookies and greedy players like Burns to rely on. Delvin was solid, but he was let down by his teammates in defence. His knees were creaking and he knew the years were catching up to him. Burns thought he was Frankie resurrected. A star in his own mind, but really just a firework that fizzled as often as it exploded.

‘We’re not a damn team anymore’ Jim said with an air of frustration. ‘We’re just bunch of people wearing the same shirts. Until that changes we’re going absolutely nowhere, fast.

The players all left, the silence heavy in their wake. Jim as usual stayed behind sitting on a bench and staring at the empty lockers. Frankies death still loomed over them, it probably will for quite some time, a shadow that refused to live. He’d tried to fill the void with the rookie Austin but that was just duct tape over the problem.

The team wasn't bad, not really, but they weren’t good. The Earthquakes were still searching for an identity, still chasing the memory of a man who wasn’t coming back and no player that came along would be anywhere near Frankies level.

The season was slipping away and so was his patience. Something had to change, or the Earthquakes were going to sink into the mud, taking him with them.

Chapter 5 - The longest night

Jim Duffy sat on the edge of the dugout at Heart Health Park, dying for a drink and staring into the abyss. Sacramento Republic, a USL Championship team, weren't supposed to be a problem, but here they were, eighty minutes into the game, giving Jim's San Jose team a scare that was turning his threadbare nerves into shredded fabric.

The Earthquakes had scraped their way into the round of 16 by the skin of their teeth, stealing a win against FC Dallas. Then they just got by Union Omaha on penalties to reach the quarter finals against Sacramento Republic.

But this wasn’t Dallas, or an average Omaha side. This was a lower division team with nothing to lose and everything to prove. Sacramento played with the ferocity of junkyard dogs, snapping at every loose ball, driving forward with reckless abandon, and seeing a career game for Ben Wallace who had done everything but score for the lower team

Jim threw a water bottle against the dugout wall and not for the first time today. He stood up and yelled at his players in general, at no one in particular ‘get you’re fucking heads out of each others arses!! They’re making you look like kids dammit!

The pitch was a war zone. Sacramento controlled the game right form the opening whistle, pressing high, crowding out San Jose’s midfield, keeping Austin quiet by doubling up on him any time San Jose threatened to find him and all the while forcing mistakes from the MLS Western Conference side. Jensen Stones, the playmaker was hounded relentlessly when trying to make something happen for his team. His usual composure cracking under the weight of the physicality of Sacramento. Delvin at the back showing himself to be a shrewd signing was fighting tooth and nail at the back single handedly keeping his team in the game cutting out the balls into the box, his towering frame a wall against the constant onslaught from Sacramento, but he was starting to looked rattled and fatigued.

And of course there was Lee Burns. He was being his usual self, dribbling to the byline and then losing it, cutting inside when the easy pass was on, shooting from impossible angles even Messi or Ronaldo would struggle to score from and refusing to pass to anyone wearing a San Jose shirt. Twice in the first half Karl Austin made runs into the penalty area that opened up perfect passing lanes for the ball to reach him, and twice Burns ignored him, opting firstly for a shot on his weaker right foot that didn’t make it passed the first defender. And then secondly opting to drive inside on his stronger left foot, only to take too many touches and getting closed down before releasing a shot.

Jims frustration boiled over. He turned to his assistant and with venom in his voice said ‘if Burnsy doesn't get his act together I’m pulling. I don’t care if we’re down a body’

The second half wasn’t much better. Sacramento smelled blood and the Earthquakes were hanging on by their fingernails. Jim paced the technical area like a caged animal, barking orders, rearranging players and trying to unlock this stubborn Sacramento team. The San Jose players looked out of synch, a patchwork blanket coming away at the seams.

Then in the eighty third minute, as quick as a flash from a disposable camera (kids, ask your parents) there was a breakthrough in the game which had Jims heart in his throat. Sacramento had bombed forward, releasing their left winger who drilled another low cross into the box. Maillard tried recovering but was beaten by the Sacramento winger as the ball came in. Delvin, usually composed, lunged his right leg out to hook the ball away but instead his body twisted unnaturally and the ball deflected off his right foot towards the net. As the ball mercifully hit the upright it ricocheted into Stones covering on the underlap. He spun on his left foot, steadied himself and punted the ball out of the box far upfield. It wasn’t pretty but it sure was effective.

Austin chased the loose ball down just inside the Sacramento half, bringing the full back and center half with him, took control of the ball and held it up waiting for support.

Burns rushed forward screaming for the ball but Austin, showing his immaturity refused to release it to Burns, who showed his frustration. What Austin did do however was release the ball perfectly across the field as the cavalry arrived. Stones, legs heavy from the clearance in his own box had burst upfield and surged into the final third with one arm raised. The ball was coming before Stones raised his arm and as it did Barton helped it on its way with a neat flick of his foot, as Stones adjusted his body to receive it in his stride, curling the low shot around the keeper.

One nil San Jose, and as against the run of play any game of football ever has been.

The final seven minutes felt like seven years. Sacramento weren’t dismayed by the goal and kept plugging away, as they had all game so far. Everything was thrown at San Jose, five corners in those seven minutes came to nothing, shots from distance blazed by the goal luckily for San Jose. Stones was spent but his experience shining through, cutting off the passing lanes, doing a lot off the ball.

When the final whistle blew Jim didn’t celebrate. He shook hands with the opposition manager and coaches and made his way to the away locker room. There the mood was subdued. The players looked more relieved than victorious, their exhaustion on full show. Stones, the match winner, sat in the corner sipping water and avoiding eye contact. Burns as usual sprawled out on the physio bench with the smug look on his face despite selfish play and doing next to nothing in the game. Jiim, much like most of the team wanted to throttle him

Jim did speak and said ‘hell of a goal on the counter Austin that showed good strength and awareness, I’m impressed’

‘Yeah but he didn’t release me down…’ Burns shot up to protest before Jensen Stones silenced him ‘shut it you. You nearly cost us the game’ and that started the heated bickering between the two

Jim yelled for calm and said ‘look we need to stop playing like that, it’s going to cost us before long’ and everyone knew he was right. San Jose had survived, just. They were through to the semi finals of the Open Cup but it felt more like a stay of execution than a triumph. They’d won tonight but the cracks were still there, widening with every game. Rizzi was still gone and San Jose were still chasing ghosts.

Chapter 6 - Touching distance

Jim Duffy looked at his watch as his face was a weathered mask of tension. The watch had stopped earlier in the day at 13:22, not that it mattered. He looked up and the ref was still talking to both of the captains at the centre circle. He looked around and saw no empty seats in the stadium. He saw the big LA Galaxy badge adorning the main stand which hung like a specter from last season, a reminder of what they’d been, and that was finalists in the Western Conference. Not only finalists but San Jose had won the Western Conference at the expense of todays opponents. That final victory was a constant reminder of what Jim had wanted his team to be again.

Frankie’s ghost hung heavy over this match. It was against LA Galaxy less than a year ago that Rizzi had dominated the game and tore the Galaxy defence apart, putting them to the sword with a hat trick that propelled San Jose to the MLS Cup final. Now however, Jims patched together a team of cast offs and rookies stood opposite the same opponent with another final at stake. Although this team had none of the confidence of that team of less than a year ago. That team only needed half a chance with Frankie in the game. This team had winged their way into the semi final against the heavy favourites.

This wasn’t the Western Conference final, this was the Open Cup semi final. With a win they’d have a shot at unlikely silverware. Lose, as has been predicted by just about everyone including those in San Jose, and the seasons only bright spot would flicker out like a dying lightbulb.

The first whistle blew to signal the start of the semi final, and chaos ensued. Galaxy came out swinging, wanting to end the game early. Crisp passes between the midfield and attack and their movement fluid, San Jose couldn’t keep up. The Galaxy defence was rigid and strong, nothing from San Jose made it into the final third. San Jose tried to counter attack but everything they tried seemed desperate and ended with a loose ball or Galaxy closing down with efficiency. It was end to end in the season that San Jose were hanging on, attacking but getting caught and defending for their lives. The kind of game that leaves managers tearing their hair out; Galaxy’s manager not happy with the amount of chances they’re missing, Jim Duffy tearing his hair out wondering how his team are still in the game.

The young forward Karl Austin had been slowly but surely growing into his role as the leading striker in the San Jose team. He wasn’t Rizzi, nobody was, but Austin was learning. Twenty five minutes into the Galaxy onslaught, somehow Austin had got the ball in the Galaxy half, had no support save for Burns on the right but he was covered quickly, so Austin dribbled on and created space for himself to take a shot. The shot was low and hard, the Galaxy keeper making a diving save to put it out for a corner. Stones swung in the corner, Delvin at the far post heading narrowly over the bar. San Jose had woken up, finally.

Stones was also coming into the role of grizzled veteran of the team, the glue holding the midfield together. As the half wore on it was the San Jose midfield that was controlling the game, the passing between Stones, Howe and Rose opening up the lanes for Burns and Gonzalez to run into. Stones finding Burns cutting inside, he shot was saved easily.  Howe then had space for himself to dribble into, laid it back off to Stones who found Rose at the near post. Rose shot but it was wide, but Stones was controlling the game and playing like a man that knew this might be his last shot at winning something.

Lee Burns was in the game as well. With pace to burn and the arrogance that could, and should be winning games, but more often than not this season it was that arrogance that had lost his team games. In the fortieth minute, after a spell of dominance for San Jose, Burns received another perfect ball from Stones out on the right. He drove forward, the full back stepping back and giving Burns the space to run out wide. He did so and cut in on his left foot. Austin made a run toward goal taking the defender with him. Austin stopped his run, spun around and held his position at the far post. He was unmarked, wide open and onside, all Burns had to do was lay it across the box and it was an easy tap in. But Bruns, now covered by the defender that left Autin wide open and the full back, decided the best option would be to try and curl the ball outside them both. He did, and the keeper didn’t even move to hold on to it.

Austin was screaming at Burns, Stones, captain for the day, ran over and yelled in Burns face, to which Burns just pushed Stones away and waved off Austin's protests. Jim Duffy exploded on the sideline as Burns jogged back ‘pass the fucking ball, any more of this greedy sh*t and you’re done Lee, I mean it’ Burns just shrugged. Jim clenched his fists and looked to his assistant, who shook his head.

At half time Jim didn’t need to tell Burns his thoughts, as Stones, Delvin, Maillard and Austin all laid into the winger. By the time it calmed down it was time for the restart. The game restarted with Galaxy on the front foot again, but the back four of San Jose held firm.

The breakthrough came in the fifty first minute. Delvin, the rock at the heart of the defence intercepted a ball in from the Galaxy right, took a touch and found Stones free in the middle of the pitch. Stones turned and drove forward, looking for the pass. Nothing was on, but he wasn’t closed down, the Galaxy defence more concerned with the outside runs of Burns on the right and Rose on the left, Stones kept moving forward.

He made it to the edge of the box before Dos Santos recovered for Galaxy, but he was a step too late. Stones saw Austin make the exact same move he did  in the first half, run into the box, stop, turn and retreat back to the far post. Stones chipped it over the defender before he recovered, the ball falling into the path of Austin, the rookie keeping his composure despite the Galaxy full back clocking the run and closing him down. The touch from Austin was exquisite, the finish a simple tap in under the on rushing keeper. One nil to San Jose.

Austin sprinted to the corner flag pointing to Stones as he did, arms wide with a mixture of relief and joy on his face. The rest of the team mobbed him apart from Burns who jogged back to his half. Jim clocked this but didn‘t say anything. There was too much of the game to go.

LA Galaxy responded like a wounded animal. There was more bite from the midfield, more aggression from Javier Hernandes the lone striker who had to be warned by the referee. They threw everything they had at San Jose, but it wasn't’ enough.

Delvin was a machine, cutting out crosses and through balls. McCLean his center half partner not once but twice denying the equaliser with goal line clearances. Stones, Maillard, Howe, Austin and Barton all dropping deep, the defence like a battlefield.

Into the last ten minutes of the game and Burns nearly cost San Jose the game. Stones and Austin combining in the middle of the pitch on the counter  to release Austin through the Galaxy midfield and into the final third. Austin held it up and laid it back to Stones. Using his experience he saw Burns running into space on his right. Stones played it into the path of the onrushing winger, as Austin on his left also ran into space.

Burns took a touch, shimmied, causing the defender to lose his balance. Austin, as he has done all game long, found himself wide open at the far post again, but Burns didn't use him. Instead he tried taking it around the other center half, Zack Carver, who had already taken up a good position anticipating Burns' greediness. As Burns drove forward the keeper covered the space behind the defender, ignoring Burns, Carver pounced and drove forward himself. All Burns had to do was tap the ball with either foot forward and Austin would have had time and space to seal the game. Instead Burns committed to the drive forward, Carver already a step ahead of him, nicked the ball and launched it forward. Austin again screaming his displeasure at yet another selfish act from Burns.

Galaxy had space where Burns hadn’t tracked back, and Jones and Dos Santos combined on the left to advance forward. McClean had no choice but to close down Hernandes who was wide open himself, leaving a massive hole in the San Jose defence. Spencer, the sub found himself in that space as Dos Santo drilled it along the floor. Spencer braced himself for the ball, full of confidence and ready to bury it into the net. 

He hit the ball as Miller in the San Jose goal tried in vain to stop him. Time stood still as Spencer lifted the ball high and just out of reach of Millers arm. The ball was lopping down into the open net as every person in the stadium had their eyes all fixated on the ball. That didn’t include the reliable Delvin as he was the only player watching the pitch as he dove not toward the ball but to the goal line where the ball was heading. He threw his six foot six frame at the floor hooking his right leg up at the same time. As the ball came down it hit Delvins leg and flew out for a corner. The San Jose fans erupted as if they scored a goal, the enormity of the clearance evident

Jim screamed at Bruns ‘you selfish bastard, off now, get off this fucking pitch’ as his assistant told the fourth official they wanted to make a change. Nunez on for Burns who stormed down the tunnel

The corner came to nothing as every San Jose player swarmed the box, but the final few minutes were a blur of desperation. Every player but the Galaxy keeper, who stood pretty munich on the half way line, was in the San Jose half. But the space was so tight LA failed to get a shot off in the final few minutes as San Jose held firm with eleven men behind the ball. 

As the whistle went Jim Duffy showed some unusual emotion as he fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was helped up by the fourth official and shook hands with the Galaxy staff, restoring his usual professionalism.

One nil to San Jose, and they’d done it. They were in the Open Cup Final.

The atmosphere in the locker room was electric. Austin was bouncing about with the biggest smile on his face, his confidence growing by the day. Stones and Delvin were in heated conversation in the corner, but the joy was evident. Burns was his usual arrogant self basking in his own glory like a sore spot that wouldn’t go away.

Jim stood in the doorway, his face a hard mask. He didn’t speak, he let the players enjoy the moment in their own way. He was already thinking about the final, about the next mountain they had to climb

They’d won tonight, barely scraping through as they had all of the cup and the league so far this season. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough, Frankie was still gone and the Earthquakes were still haunted. But for now they had a chance, a shot at winning something. And a shot at something, even a long shot, was all they could ask for.

Chapter 7 - The gamble

Jim sat in his office alone, a bottle of cheap whiskey sweating on the desk. The blinds were drawn and the room was lit only by a feint glow of the desk lamp. The walls were plastered with photos ranging from Frankie Rizzi, other San Jose players and pictures of local celebrities. The Open Cup final was a few days away, and Jim wondered would there be a picture of him holding the cup put in the office afterwards

His mind was a storm of doubt, regret and anger. Orlando City waited on the horizon, their opponents in the cup final. A well oiled machine, favourites on every betting sheet and from every pundit, and the kind of team that should tear San Jose apart without getting out of second gear. San Jose are the underdogs, and have been all season but the not he good kind of underdogs. They’d scraped by all season. Won games by the skin of their teeth, lost more games than they won. This is a team held together by duct tape, aging veterans and rookies with the odd fleeting moment of inspiration.

The semi final against LA Galaxy would forever be etched in his memory. They’d stolen the win, with a late goal line clearance all but sealing the game. Karl Austin had grown with each game and his confidence steadying like a flame sheltered from the wind. Stones was solidifying his role as the steady veteran that anchored the sinking ship. Delvin the defensive wall and Maillard coming out of his rookie shell.

Then they had the enigma, the problem that was Lee Burns.

His name alone made Jim fists clench. He had talent, that wasn’t in doubt. He had more talent thant a lot of players in the league, but he played the game like a man trying to outshine ghosts that only he could see. Greedy, unreliable and reckless were the words used to describe on a daily basis. He was a wildcard in every sense, but a wildcard in a team that couldn’t afford wildcards.

He’d nearly sunk them in the semi final with his selfishness. Austin was wide open and in form, he’d already scored in the game. The easiest pass Burns would ever have made was on, clear as day and no defender to block it. But Burns had gone for glory. If not for Delvins heroics seconds later they’d have conceded and probably gone on to lose the game.

Jim kept staring at the bottle, the liquid taunting him. Burns was a liability but was also a threat. He was a match winner on his day, the goals he had scored winning them games already. But the question on his mind was could he trust Burns in the final?

He thought of Frnakie Rizzi, the golden boy, the generational talent, the teams leader and talisman. Rizzi would’ve won the final on his own. He’d have dragged San Jose kicking and screaming to the finish line. But Frankie was gone, and Jim was left with a team of scrappers, rookies and a lot of question marks. Burns being the biggest question mark of all.

The next day Jim called a staff meeting, no players, this was strictly coaching staff only. He needed their input, though he knew what most of them would be saying anyway

‘We can’t bench him’ his assistant said. ‘He’s annoying as hell but he’s got moments of brilliance, and in the final he might just surprise us’

‘Moments’ Jim growled back, low and sharp ‘and what about the moment he nearly cost us the game? What about those moments where he thinks he’s the only player on the pitch?

They all fell silent. They knew the truth. Burns could win them the final, or cost them the game.

At training Jim watched Burns closely. He dazzled with his footwork as always. Stepovers, flicks, first touches with the outside of his boot, the twisting, shimmying and turning all done to perfection. But when it came to the movement drills, the same flaws surfaced. He hogged the ball, refusing to use Stones and Austin for support, trying to beat Delvin and McClean on his own when all he had to do was release the ball inside. 

Jims mind raced. He could bench Burns, send a message to the team that selfishness would no longer be tolerated. But he would be cutting his nose off to spite hs face.

That night, Duffy sat in the stands of PayPal Park, the empty stadium echoing with memories. Frankie Rizzi’s number twenty three on display in the rafters bringing more memories to him. The hat-trick against LA Galaxy. The sending off at Saint Louis. The look on his face when they got back to the locker room.  The roar of the crowd when they won the Western Conference. The crushing silence after Frankie’s overdose.

The weight of the final pressed down on him. San Jose had no business being there, not with the way they’d played all season. They were scrappy, inconsistent and more than just lucky. But they were there, not on merit but there by way of somehow winning the games to get them there. And now it was Jims job to figure out how to make the most of it.

Burns. The name circled in his mind like a vulture and he just shook his head everytime the name popped in his mind. Was it brilliance or disaster waiting to strike?

Duffy took a swig of the whiskey he had poured into a flask earlier.He’d sleep on it, if he could. But deep down, he knew he’d already made his decision. He just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

The final loomed large, and so did the decision.

Chapter 8 - The ghosts we carry

Jim Duffy was sat in the away dressing room at Exploria Stadium, head in his hands and the smell of sweat and worry hanging in the air. The Open Cup final. Against all odds San Jose had made it here. Every game had been a grind, every win had been a theft. They were the worst team in the tournament and still standing, one hand on the trophy. A miracle or a joke, Jim wasn’t sure anymore.

The players were quiet around him, waiting for his words. Karl Austin, the teams first round draft pick laced his boots up with the nervous energy of a rookie on the edge of something monumental. Jensen Stones who had had a career resurgence, leaned back in the chair he wass at in, stoic as ever, emanating an air of confidence. Robbie Delvin towered in the corner, his face a mask of focus. Howe, Barton and Maillared were still getting ready, as was Lee Burns.

He was laid across the bench with that cocky smirk across his face while juggling a ball with his feet like this was just a kick about in a park somewhere. The rooms tension seemed to hover around, his team mates eyeing him with a mix of resentment and unease. Jim could feel it too. Lee Burns was a gamble. He was always a gamble.

== == ==

Jim had stayed awake most of the night running through every scenario in his head again and again. Bench Burns. Start him. Maybe on the bench the team would rally around a more selfless game plan, and when Burns comes on he could change the game. Play him and the players might win comfortably, or they might as easily implode. He thought about Frankie Rizzi, the player that made everything work. Even on his worse days Frankie had better games than a lot of players in the league. Frankie had a selfish streak in him, but the difference was Frankie backed it up, always. And Frankies selfish streak was always in the best way, he’d drag the team up and to wins. But Burns? Burns was selfish in the worst way possible. But like Frankie, Burns was dangerous on his day, and Jim was out of options.

== == ==

Jim decided Burns was starting. He had to start. Burns was told in no uncertain terms about the magnitude of the game. From the first whistle Orlando as expected dominated. Pressing with intensity they suffocated the San Jose midfield. Stones struggled to find space and barely touched the ball. Austin was isolated up top on his own with no support. Maillard, usually bombing up and down the wing was penned in helping McCLean and Delvin in defence, the whole San Jose team under siege throwing themselves in front of shots and crosses like men drowning in a sea of purple shirts.

Jim barked orders from the sideline but it felt like shouting into the wind. Orlando had already hit the post twice in the first ten minutes, Miller beaten both times and grateful for the post coming to his rescue. It probably looked like San Jose were content to sit in their own half and not venture forward, but that is being disrespectful to Orlando. They kept the San Jose players locked down expertly well, the ball being cleared to Austin on the half way line but was closed down quickly. The lack of space was a blessing to San Jose as they managed to get to half time still somehow in the game.

Jim didn’t have the words, so he went in on Burns instead ‘You need to pass the ball. Use the one two, get into space, Jensen will find you’

Burns just shrugged, unbothered and said ‘I’ll get the win, just get me the ball’

The other players were too spent to argue. Jim said nothing, he couldn’t afford the infighting now.

Orlando came out firing again but San Jose held firm. Delvin was his usual rock at the back, Maillard seeing more space now, closing down with the ferocity of a terrier. And Stones was digging deep by breaking up plays through the middle but couldn’t release the ball or find any team mates forward enough to advance.

Burns as usual was the enigma, he’d lost the ball in his own half after retrieving the loose ball from an Orlando attack and waved his arms like it was someone else's fault he lost it. He did get the ball out of the San Jose half but dribbled into the box and was hounded out by the defence.

After another set of saves from Miller, more blocks from Delvin, more tracking back by Maillard, the breakthrough came in the seventy second minute. Stones intercepted the cross field ball, chesting it down and hitting it first time into the run of Austin who had made his way in between the center halves. 

Austin took it down, saw Burns on the overlap and played it right into his feet. Burns took it well, he always did, and drove inside on to his left. Austin had made the outside run like had so many times against LA, and Burns carried on driving inside. As he was closed down by the covering defender he didn’t look up, but in one swift move he just side stepped to his left and threaded the ball with the outside of his right boot into the unmarked Austin.

Time stood still. Nobody in a San Jose shirt could believe it. Burns had sacrificed the glory for himself and played the most perfect through ball of his life. Even Austin who had wanted the ball and wasn’t expecting took a moment to react. He locked eyes with Burns who had tumbled down under the pressure, Austin then realised the keeper was onto him. Austin dropped a shoulder and moved to his right as the keeper advanced. With a neat touch with his right foot he lifted the ball just out of reach of the keeper and into the net.

One nil to San Jose. Against the run of play as always.

The bench erupted as the subs and coaching staff jumped up cheering. Jim stayed rooted to the spot, his heart pounding. This had been the case every game so far, take the lead, get put under immense pressure and worry they might crack.

Orlando pressed as hard as they had all game. With twenty players in the San Jose half the best chance Orlando had of an equaliser was long shots or set pieces. They rained the ball down as soon as they were near the box, Miller equal to every one.

Every time the ball went out for a throw Orlando went long. Delvin clearing it up only for it to be swung back in. Maillard, Stones, Howe, Barton, Austin and even Burns were tracking back to stop the Orlando attack.

When the ref finally blew the whistle for full time Jim stood up, arms raised in the arm and a rare smile across his face. They’d won, somehow, against all the odds they won the cup final. The players were a mix of exhaustion and raucous joy. Austin was mobbed first, his goal the difference. Stones and Delvin were next as everyone celebrated an unlikely victory. Burns strutted around with the players, arms wide basking in the glory, thinking it was him and him alone that won the cup.

In the locker room after the team were presented with the trophy and done a lap of honour, the trophy sat on the table in the middle, covered in sweat and champagne. The players had finally calmed down, sat still and taking it all in. They were drained from the celebrations, but their joy was tempered by the knowledge that they’d been lucky. Burns was in fine form, opening another bottle of champagne and spouting about ‘carrying the team’. Stones shot a look at Austin, part approval, part defiance.

Jim told Burns to quiet down, took the bottle of champagne and addressed the team’ You fought, you scraped, you bled and you won. Not wanting to be negative but we didn’t earn this. Not the way I wanted to anyway. But it’s ours, and no one can take that away’

He glanced at Burns, who just smirked back, oblivious to the message behind Jims words.

== == ==

On the way out Jim stood and gazed at the now empty seats in the stadium. The win felt hollow, like a counterfeit note passed off as real. Frankie’s ghost was still with him and with the team.

They’d won a trophy, done it without Frankie no less, but they were still broken. And Jim wasn’t sure he or the team would ever be whole again