Minute 81.
3-2.
The whistle blows for the restart. West Hall are still celebrating in their heads. They think it's over. They think they broke North Wall's spine.
Robin stands on the right wing. He watches Hugo kick off to Doyle.
Robin wants the ball. He wants to dribble past the whole team. He wants to scream at his defenders.
But he can't do it alone. He tried. He scored. And they still conceded.
Team effort, Martin had said. Trust the system.
Fine, Robin thinks, spitting on the turf. One last time.
He doesn't call for the ball. He runs.
Doyle has it. He looks for Robin, but Robin isn't checking to the ball. Robin is sprinting away from it, dragging the left-back deep.
Doyle pivots. He passes left. To Tobi.
"North Wall looking for an instant response! They aren't letting their heads drop! Tobi Ajayi on the left flank..."
Tobi is isolated. He holds it up. He waits.
Usually, Tobi tries to beat his man. Not this time. He sees Julian, the left-back, overlapping like a steam train.
A simple pass. Julian runs onto it. He's in crossing territory.
"Good overlap! Julian has space! He looks up..."
In the box, it's a war zone. Prince is there, patrolling the penalty spot like a bouncer at a club. He's looking for Hugo Mendes. He's grabbing Hugo's shirt, wrestling him.
Robin is arriving at the back post. He's tired. His legs burn. The defender marking him is tall, heavy.
Julian crosses.
It's not a low, drilled cross. It's a high, looping ball. A hang-time ball.
The worst kind of ball for Robin. He's 5'9" on a good day. He's a dribbler, not a target man.
But the ball is drifting. It's going over Hugo's head. Over Prince's head.
It's coming to the back post.
Robin looks at it. He looks at the defender next to him.
He knows he can't out-jump him physically. If he stands still, he loses.
So he doesn't stand still.
He attacks the ball.
"The cross comes in... it's deep! Toward the back stick!"
Robin launches himself. He isn't jumping for height; he's jumping for life. He throws his entire body weight into the air, twisting his neck, fighting through the exhaustion.
The defender jumps too. An elbow clips Robin's ear. A shoulder slams into his chest.
It hurts. It's a struggle. It's ugly.
But Robin wants it more.
He gets his forehead on the ball. Not a clean connection. A scrap. A glance.
He heads it down. Hard. Into the ground.
"Silver rises! Silver gets there!"
The ball bounces off the turf, skids past the keeper's desperate dive, and nestles into the side netting.
3-3.
"GOAL! NORTH WALL! UNBELIEVABLE SCENES! They have equalized within seconds! And it's Robin Silver with a header! A header! Can you believe it?"
Robin lands in a heap. He doesn't get up immediately. He feels the bruise forming on his chest. He feels the stinging in his ear.
He didn't dribble past anyone. He didn't use his pace. He didn't humiliate Prince.
He trusted Julian to cross. He trusted Tobi to pass. He threw his body into a meat grinder.
He looks up. The net is rippling.
He scrambles to his feet. No celebration. No dance.
He just screams. A raw, guttural roar of frustration and relief.
Hugo grabs him. Doyle grabs him. Even Tyron runs up, looking relieved that his mistake didn't cost them the game.
"We are not dead!" Doyle yells, shaking Robin by the shoulders. "We are not dead!"
Robin pushes him off, adrenaline spiking.
"Get back!" Robin shouts at them. "Get the ball! We go again!"
He runs back to the halfway line.
3-3. Minute 82.
The game isn't over.