The sun hung just above the hills, spilling its golden light across the MIC stadium like some kind of stage spotlight. It was almost theatrical, the way the rays lit up the pitch, like the world itself knew something big was about to happen. But the players didn't seem to notice the drama of the sky. They had their own kind of spotlight. One made of pressure, expectation, adrenaline. Noise.
The air was filled with it. The dull thud of boots on turf. Quick, sharp commands yelled in all kinds of accents. Whistles blew in the distance from other games going on nearby, overlapping like competing instruments in some chaotic orchestra.
Manchester United U-16 were already in formation, standing like chess pieces about to spring to life. Jerry stood just behind the striker, his position familiar, automatic now, in the team's well-drilled 4-2-3-1 shape. His shirt stuck to his back from the short warm-up. It wasn't even that hot, but his nerves made it feel like summer.
