Page 2 of Spectacular Things
Competing for Hardware
Sometimes Cricket thinks of her adult life as driving as fast as she can while circling a full parking lot. You can’t force a spot to open up—you just have to put your head down, grind in your highest gear, and hope for fate to break your way.
Hidden from view in the mouth of the players’ tunnel, Cricket watches the Jumbotron as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.
The thousands of children chanting in the stands look like little warriors, manic from soda, bug-eyed with adrenaline.
The game hasn’t even started, but they’ve already smeared the flags painted on their cheeks and screamed their way to a second wind.
Get up, get up, it’s coming, it’s coming —the young fans shove their hands in the air as The Wave goes around the stadium again and again and again.
In just a minute and right on cue, Cricket will enter the arena with the other “game changers,” which is what the coaches call reserve players, or substitutes, which is just a nicer term for dispensable backup.
It’s what Cricket has always been on this team.
When she crosses the field and heads for the sideline, the fans will clap but keep their eyes trained on the players’ tunnel.
The starters, not the game changers, are why the fans are feral, waving their homemade posters for the TV cameras while gleefully straining their vocal cords.
“Game changers! Let’s go!”
Cricket jogs past the starters, who are lined up inside the tunnel and holding the hands of young kids in shiny red shorts that contrast nicely with the white U.S.
uniforms. Locally sourced from nearby club teams, the children have been plucked from obscurity to represent the future faces of the Beautiful Game.
Today is a day they will all remember, and several years from now, one of them will even cite this match as the reason why she chose to pursue a career in professional soccer.
Sloane Jackson stands at the front of the line. When Cricket runs by, she forces herself to say, “You got this.” Because the outcome of the game is more important than their mutual resentment. Because a win is a win and gold is gold. Even if they’re no longer friends.
The starting goalkeeper gives Cricket a solemn nod back, already deep into her own meditation and ignoring the small pigtailed girl holding her hand.
Adrenaline bounces off the tunnel walls as the U.S.
coaching staff claps and teammates yell, “LFG! Let’s fucking go!
” The starters stand shoulder to shoulder with their adversaries, the imposing Dutch, who bark their own encouragement, “Laten we gaan! Kom op!”
Taking the field with the other game changers, Cricket blinks in the bright lights and catches the sonic buzz of the fans.
She’s actually, finally here. She’s made it.
This is what her entire life has revolved around for as long as she can remember.
Even if she’s just cheering from the bench with the other reserves, her presence proves what her mom always said: She’s a Lowe, not a quitter.
And if she can make it this far, then it’s entirely possible that someday her time will come and her parking spot will openup.
Searching the stands, Cricket finds the designated Friends and Family section, full of familiar faces, even though none of them are her friends or family.
Mia was too close to her due date to fly across the country.
Like the team sports psychologist first encouraged her to do years ago, Cricket imagines she can see her sister up there. She waves, and Mia waves back.
A loud hissing surrounds the stadium and then a deafening KABOOM.
Fireworks dazzle overhead as the starting players emerge from the tunnel amid strobe lights, drones, and vuvuzelas.
There’s a deafening uptick in screams as the fans identify the eleven worthy of taking the field in this Gold Medal match.
As they have done for every game in this Olympics, thousands of fans start chanting the name that haunts Cricket in her dreams. To the same tune as they yell U-S-A, diehard National Team supporters profess their allegiance to SLOANE JACK-SON!
SLOANE JACK-SON! Faces disappear behind phones to capture their queen in pixels.
“Hands in!” team captain Gogo Garba commands.
They are gladiators immune to mercy inside this arena.
They are not the nice ladies from the Volkswagen commercials or the silly dancers on TikTok.
Instead, they are a pack of hungry wolves tracking their prey.
These women are here to win at any cost, under every circumstance.
“OOSA-OOSA-OOSA-AH!”
The starting eleven take the field.
A whistle blows.
The match begins.
Destiny bares its teeth.