More Than a Game | Mason Mount

One

Niggling. 

That was what had been going through my mind for the days leading up to the event. I'd told the coaches, I'd told the physios – heck, I'd even sat down and had a rant to some of my teammates about it. I had done what they told me to do – stretching and rolling and rubbing and icing – but it was still there. Just niggling. 

The warm-up was okay. Nerves held me back, not only due to the nuisance coming from my left leg, but also because of the mammoth task we had ahead of us. Playing in the semi-finals of a Football World Cup wasn't exactly a small feat, after all. 

Gareth didn't have much to say to us before the game. We knew what we had to do, and he knew that. A few words of further encouragement were all it took for us to become as fired up as we'd been the whole tournament. After leaving just the players in the changing room, he departed with a final lingering gaze. 

Then George Carroll was staring us down, reminding us what we had to play for and, most importantly, whom we had to play for. I'd never felt exhilaration like that before, sitting and listening to my captain talk to us. He used that calm yet commanding voice of his, drawing us in with a simple clear of his throat. Of all the players I'd played with in my life, I don't think anyone had my respect in the way George did, and that moment reminded me why. 

My knees, injury or not, were shaking as I stood in the tunnel. I felt like fiddling, just doing something with my hands, but I held them steady in front of my body, focusing my energy on the pitch in front of me instead. 

My mind raced, a million scenarios of how the next two hours could play out spinning around in my thoughts. A deep sigh escaped my nostrils as I pictured that final; saw the faces of my French teammates taking their silver medals. We just needed to beat Croatia today, and I was sure we could crush the French. 

A heavy hand on my shoulder ripped my attention away from that devious place. I spun around quickly, the end of my ponytail whipping my cheek as I did. Mason stood behind me, an equally nervous expression on his face as I imagined was on mine. 

"You all right?" he asked, his fingers squeezing my shoulder. 

 Swallowing, I nodded. Mason's eyes flickered down to my leg as he slipped his hand off my shoulder. Raising an eyebrow, he repeated the question. 

"I'm fine, Mase," I assured him. 

Staring into his warm eyes, I momentarily felt all my apprehensions disappear. If Mason and I just played how we always did, if we performed like we had in the last couple of games, nothing could stop us. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as his expression softened. My knees had started shaking again, but I knew it had nothing to do with the game this time. 

The blaring World Cup anthem alerted me again, shifting my focus back to the pitch and the game ahead. Taking a deep breath in, I took my first steps towards the field, following behind Simon Hall. The thunder of the crowd fully hit me as I stepped onto the grass, the atmosphere immediately making my heart jump. I could feel my pulse everywhere: my hands, my feet, my bothersome knee. I refused to lift my head from the greenness beneath me just yet. I wanted to savour the moment when I finally looked around the Luzhniki Stadium. 

That moment came as I stopped in line, almost bumping straight into Simon. Mason bumped my shoulder but I ignored him. I planted my feet at shoulder width apart and, ever so slowly, raised my head. 

My breath hitched in my throat as I took everything in. You would have thought that after five games at the World Cup I'd have been used to it, but the semis were something special. They were on a completely different level to the games we'd played up until now.