The Touchline

Cold air under floodlights.
Parents standing with coffee cups
between folded camping chairs.
Somebody’s dog barking at nothing
from the far side of the pitch.

One of our players goes into a tackle hard.
Too hard.
She stays down for a second longer
than I’m comfortable with.

Immediately
I feel it starting.

The referee waves play on.
Their manager claps the challenge
like he’s proud of it.

And suddenly the words are arriving
faster than I can organise them.

Sharp words.
The sort that used to leave my mouth
before I’d even decided to say them.

I mutter something instead.
Quiet enough
that only our bench hears it.

One of the dads glances sideways at me.
Just checking.

People who know me now
know the signs.
The pacing.
The jaw tightening.
The version of me
trying to push his way forward again.

Underneath all the frustration
is one simple thing.

I want to protect them.
Not only from bad tackles.
From embarrassment.
Cruelty.
The kind of confidence
that teaches young people
the loudest person gets to decide what happened.

I want them to leave football
still liking themselves.

The girl gets back up eventually.
Wipes mud down her sock.
Gives me a thumbs up from the pitch
like she’s reassuring me instead.

And everybody laughs slightly.
The tension breaks.
Play carries on.

My heart takes longer to follow.

You do not become a different person.
Not completely.
The first version of you
doesn’t disappear.
He just stops speaking first.

Sometimes I still feel him
right behind my teeth.
Wanting to shout.
Wanting to confront somebody.
Wanting to get there before the damage does.

When you are younger,
you think leadership means
being the loudest voice.

Now I think it might mean
learning which things
should never be passed on.

So I stay where I am.
Hands in coat pockets.
Cold breath drifting upward
beneath the lights.

Quiet enough that nobody else can hear,
I tell myself to leave it alone.