The Greatest of all Time

When Emily walked into the stands of Lerkendal Stadion that Wednesday evening, her brain stuttered for a moment, every part of her going on a pause. The momentum of the Rosenborg fans around her was astounding. They'd already gone crazy, chanting various Rosenborg songs as they waited for the match against Troms Idrettslag to commence. She was quite amazed by the passion on display.

"This match seems to be quite exciting already," Ryan Bellmore, her race car driver friend, yelled from beside her, trying to make himself heard over the noise. "Although the stadium is a bit small, the atmosphere can match that of White Hart Lane during some of the less popular match days."

"I told you," Emily replied, pushing past some of the fans and heading further into the stands. "Norwegian fans are very passionate. There's no way we'll fail to enjoy the match in this kind of atmosphere."

"That's unless Rosenborg loses." Ryan laughed as they started ascending the stairs and heading towards the seats in the middle.

"That won't happen," Emily said, her voice full of confidence. "You must have already seen the video of my client from the previous game. If he's starting, there's almost no chance for Rosenborg to lose."

"You have so much faith in him," Ryan said, beaming. "But I'm surprised that you allowed him to stay in the Norwegian league if he's that talented."

"It was his choice," Emily responded. "There wasn't a thing I could do about it without going against his wishes behind his back. That's against my working ethics as an agent. Where are the rest, by the way?" She asked, changing the topic.

"They should already be in the stadium," Ryan replied. "Let's find our seats first. We'll call them afterward."

****  ****

In the home team's dressing room of Lerkendal Stadion, Coach Johansen was going over the main points of the game plan for the umpteenth time that evening.

"By all means," he said, sweeping his gaze across the entire room. "Let's do our best to keep a clean sheet during this game. We have been conceding a lot of goals over the past few games. That is completely unacceptable for a team of our caliber. So, the defenders and the holding midfielders—please, try your best to close down all the spaces in our defensive third when we're not on the ball. Are we together?"

"Yes, coach."

"Jonas and Mike," the Coach continued, turning towards the two. "You two are our double pivots—the holding midfielders. Please do your best to shield our four defenders from their attacking midfielders, especially from the incoming high balls. Don't allow their attacking midfielders, especially that Thomas Bendiksen, any room near our box."

"We also need to dominate possession and hold on to the ball for as long as possible so that we can create more chances. When we're not on the ball, we'll be using high-pressing tactics to win it back quickly before Troms can manage to mount an attack on us. Are we together?"

"Yes, coach."

"Zachary," he said, turning his gaze on him. "In this game, their defensive midfielders are likely to target you both in the middle and attacking third of the playing field. Don't panic when that happens. Just continue playing at your own pace—even if you don't touch the ball for long spells. Remember that attracting the attention of their defensive midfielders is your goal. Leave the rest for your teammates. Are we clear?"

"Yes, coach," Zachary replied solemnly.

"Okay, then." Coach Johansen nodded, smiling. "The rest, you should all know what to do. Play with confidence, keep it simple, and don't make mistakes. If you follow the game plan, I'm sure we'll win this game without any hustle. Any questions?"

All the players, including Zachary, remained silent as everything the coach said was crystal clear. The coach had been going over the game plan for the previous three days. So, the players had long crammed every part of it and could probably recite it in their sleep. They didn't need to ask any questions and remained silent. Zachary, on his part, started tightening his laces and then pulled up his stockings to ready himself for his first home game in the Rosenborg's white and black colors. He was eager to start the game and wished the coach would conclude his address immediately.

****  ****

Meanwhile, Mr. Agnar Christensen, the head coach of Troms Idrettslag, was also concluding his pre-game pep talk in the visitor's dressing room.

"If my predictions are right," he said, smiling at his players. "Rosenborg will most likely use their new boy, Zachary, as their attacking midfielder, while Mike Jensen and Jonas will play in the defensive midfield."

"Using the three midfielders, they'll try to dominate us with quick passes in midfield while switching to wing play a few times during the game. They'll also try their best to disrupt our defensive shape by holding on to possession. That way, they could find a way to penetrate our defensive third if we lose our stability. Be that as it may, we don't have to play according to their tune." He paused, sweeping his gaze across his players.

"We don't have to dance to their tune," the coach continued, smirking. "That's why we'll be using our second game plan. Instead of man-marking, we'll utilize zonal marking against their players. When any Rosenborg player is on the ball, we'll use one of ours to close him down, whereas the rest will quickly close down the spaces around that given player. When shifting and pressing, we'll need to remain stable and prevent opening any holes in our midfield. That way, Rosenborg will find it hard to penetrate our defensive third. Are we together, my boys?"

"Yes, coach."

Coach Agnar Christensen beamed at his players. "We only have to sit back and close down the spaces in our defensive third. Whenever there's a chance, we'll hit Rosenborg either on the counter or with unexpected long and high balls to our forwards. That's how we win this game and return home with three points."

"And for Zachary Bemba, the new boy," the Troms coach continued.

"Since he performed very well in the previous game, my friend—Coach Johansen is most likely thinking that we'll target the boy in today's match. But who are we?"

"We're Troms, the boys of the North," all the players shouted in chorus, their chant reverberating across the dressing room like thunder.

Coach Agnar Christensen shrugged whimsically, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "Yes, we're Troms, the boys of the North," he said, his voice lowering. "We do what the opponents least expect us to do. So, we shall only use Ruben to keep the boy under check. No need to tight-mark him because I don't believe he is good at dribbling. However, when he is on the ball, we have to mark all the players, spaces, and passing routes into our defensive third."

"We must not allow any Rosenborg player to remain unmarked near our box when Zachary is on the ball. Otherwise, we shall get many troubles from his defense-splitting passes. Are we together, the defenders and holding midfielders?"

"Yes, coach."

The coach smiled and was about to continue—but suddenly, there was a knock on the door. One of the match officials slipped into the dressing room and said: "Coach, it's time. I hope you're ready."

Coach Christensen smiled at the match official, first casting a glance at his watch before replying. "Sorry, we'll be out in a few seconds. As you can see, we're already more than ready."

"Good, but please hurry up," the match official said, still maintaining a polite smile. "As you can see, it's already 12 minutes to seven. We're already running late." He added before exiting the dressing room.

"Okay, boys," Coach Christensen said, his voice turning solemn. "I believe I've already said everything there's to say about how we'll approach the game. The rest will be up to you as players. When out there, use your brains, mark the spaces, and we shall leave Trondheim with three points in the bag. Are we together?"

"Yes, coach."

"Okay, off you go," the coach intoned. "Off you go. We don't want to keep the match officials waiting. Do we?"

The players laughed at that and started exiting the dressing room.

****  ****

When Zachary stepped onto the pitch, the noise from the stands completely engulfed him, seizing his brain and rendering any logical thought or deduction impossible for a brief moment. He was at a loss for words as he observed the chaos in the stands of Lerkendal Stadion.

"Shalalalalalala... oh Rosenborg, Shalalalalalala... oh Rosenborg, Shalalalalalala... oh Rosenborg..."

As Zachary walked on to the pitch, he could clearly perceive the chorus of loud cheering that had long reverberated across the stands in the stadium. At times, it would transition into a wave of insane excitement that washed over the entire crowd as the fans sang at the top of their lungs while clapping their hands. Their energy levels were something else—like they were high on some freakish drugs. They seemed more eager for the game when compared to the players themselves.

"Nervous?" Mikael Dorsin inquired from beside him as they lined up in front of the tunnel, preparing to begin pre-match team handshake.

"Not at all," Zachary replied honestly. "I'm quite excited, instead."

"That's great," the veteran defender said, his eyes still on the crowd in the stands. "Don't worry about the fans and play your own game. I'm sure you'll do great once again."

"Okay, thank you for your advice," Zachary replied, nodding.

A while later, the players of the two clubs performed the team handshake and soon took up their respective positions on the pitch. The Tippeligaen match between Rosenborg Ballklub and Troms Idrettslag was about to start at the Lerkendal Stadion in Trondheim.

****  ****