Minute 8.
There is a specific kind of nightmare common among athletes. In this dream, you are trying to run, but the air has turned into molasses. You are pushing with everything you have, your muscles screaming, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you are not moving forward. You are stuck in place while the world speeds past you.
For the United States Men's National Team, this nightmare has manifested in the real world.
It is happening on the grass of the Mercedes-Benz Stadium.
The scoreboard reads zero to zero. But the scoreboard is a liar. It suggests equality. It suggests a contest.
The possession statistic flashes on the giant screen, mocking them. Possession: Brazil eighty-five percent, USA fifteen percent.
Fifteen percent.
That is not a football match. That is a hostage situation.
Robin Silver stands on the left touchline. He is already sweating through his jersey. The humidity is bad, yes, but it isn't the heat that is killing them. It is the chasing.
Brazil is playing Rondo.
It is the training drill every kid learns. A circle of players passing the ball, one or two unfortunates in the middle trying to intercept. Usually, it is a warm-up.
Brazil is doing it in a competitive match.
Casemiro passes to Bruno Guimaraes. Guimaraes one-touches it to Paqueta. Paqueta flicks it to Pato.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
The ball moves with a hypnotic, sickening rhythm. The USA players are the unfortunates in the middle.
Kessel chases the ball. He arrives a second too late. Russo chases the ball. He arrives two seconds too late. Andrew Smith tries to cut off the passing lane, but the lane shifts before he can get there.
They are chasing shadows. They are chasing ghosts in yellow shirts.
Robin watches from his isolated post on the wing. He feels a rising sense of panic. Not because they are losing they aren't losing yet but because they are being erased.
He looks at Ben Cutter.
The Dog is dying.
Cutter is matched up against Pani Costa. The Manchester City winger is technically a backup, but watching him play makes that label feel like a bad joke.
Pani Costa receives the ball on the touchline. Cutter sprints to close him down. He is giving everything. His face is a mask of sheer, red-faced effort. He is fulfilling his promise. "I will run until I die."
Pani doesn't sprint. He doesn't even look like he is trying.
He glides.
He touches the ball with the outside of his boot. He shifts his hips. Cutter bites on the feint, stumbling to the left. Pani simply walks past him to the right.
It is effortless. It is graceful.
Cutter scrambles to recover, his lungs burning, his legs heavy. He chases Pani down the line. Pani stops. Cutter flies past. Pani cuts inside.
It is humiliating. It is the difference between a man fighting for his life and a man taking a stroll in the park.
"Get close to him!" Jackson Voss screams from the center of defense. "Hit him, Ben! Put a body on him!"
Cutter wants to. God, he wants to. But you can't hit what you can't catch.
Minute 12.
The ball finally spills loose. A rare heavy touch from Casemiro.
Robin Silver reacts.
He is starving. He hasn't touched the ball in six minutes. He pounces on the loose ball near the halfway line.
He controls it.
Immediate adrenaline. This is it. The counter. The chaos.
He turns. He looks up.
He expects the gravity well. He expects the panic. He expects three Bolivian-style butchers to come sprinting at him, eyes wide with fear, desperate to hack him down.
He sees Soaries Martin.
The nineteen-year-old center-back is standing ten yards away. He is the last line of defense.
He isn't sprinting. He isn't backpedaling frantically.
He is just... waiting.
He stands with his knees slightly bent, his eyes locked on Robin's waist. He looks bored. He looks like he has seen this movie before and knows exactly how it ends.
Robin feels the anger spike. "Don't look at me like that."
Robin drives.
He accelerates. He pushes the ball forward, inviting the challenge. He wants Martin to dive in. He wants the contact. He wants to feel the impact against his titanium leg so he can bounce off and spin away.
"Come on. Try to break me."
Robin gets within five yards.
Martin doesn't move.
Robin drops his shoulder. He feints left. A violent, sharp movement that sent the Bolivian defense into a spiral three days ago.
Martin doesn't bite. He doesn't shift his weight. He just watches.
Robin feints right. He throws a step-over.
Martin takes one small, precise step backward. He maintains the gap. He maintains the angle.
It is infuriating. It is like fighting a mirror. Every move Robin makes is absorbed and neutralized instantly.
Robin realizes he is running out of space. He is getting too close.
He has to go.
He pushes the ball past Martin's right side. He activates the jets. He tries to win the footrace.
He expects the arm across the chest. He expects the hip check.
It never comes.
Soaries Martin pivots. It is a fluid, frictionless turn. He matches Robin's speed instantly.
But he doesn't run alongside Robin. He runs across him.
He cuts the line.
Because Martin didn't dive in, because he didn't commit his weight, he has the leverage. He steps between Robin and the ball.
He doesn't tackle. He just occupies the space where the ball is.
Robin runs into Martin's back. He bounces off.
Martin takes the ball. He controls it with his left foot, turns away from Robin, and plays a calm pass to his goalkeeper.
No foul. No contact. No drama.
Just theft.
Robin stands there, panting. He looks at the referee. The ref hasn't even raised the whistle. It was clean. It was surgical.
Martin jogs back to his position. He doesn't look at Robin. He doesn't talk trash. He doesn't say "Nice try, kid."
He ignores him completely.
Robin feels a flush of heat in his cheeks.
He didn't even have to try.
Minute 18.
The suffocation continues.
Brazil has the ball again. They are playing keep-away. The crowd is cheering every pass. Olé. Olé. Olé.
Robin is drifting. He is trying to find a pocket of space. He is trying to find a way to disrupt the rhythm.
The ball comes to Rodrigo Pato Mendes, the right-back.
Pato traps it on the sideline, right in front of Robin.
Robin sees red.
"You want to play games? Let's play."
Robin sprints at Pato. He isn't trying to win the ball. He is trying to foul him. He wants to disrupt the flow. He wants to force a stoppage. He wants to make them feel something other than comfort.
He closes the distance.
Pato sees him coming. Pato sees the aggression.
Usually, a defender turns his back. He protects the ball. He invites the foul to win the free kick.
Pato doesn't turn.
He smiles.
He waits until Robin is right on top of him. Until Robin is braking, preparing to body-check him.
Robin stops abruptly, trying to initiate contact, trying to bait Pato into a reaction.
Pato stops too.
They are standing toe-to-toe.
Robin lunges. He jabs a foot in, trying to poke the ball, or the ankle, or anything.
Pato moves his foot.
Zip.
He drags the ball back. Robin kicks the air.
Pato rolls the ball forward again. Then back. Then forward.
He is taunting him. He is playing with him like a cat plays with a dead mouse.
"Why won't you hit me?" Robin whispers, his voice tight with frustration.
He wants the collision. He wants the fight. He knows how to win a fight. He knows how to survive pain. Pain is his domain.
Pato laughs.
"Why hit?" Pato asks. "You are not dangerous."
With a casual flick of his ankle, Pato passes the ball through Robin's legs.
Another nutmeg.
Pato runs around him, collects the ball, and continues the attack.
Robin stands frozen on the touchline.
The words echo in his head. "You are not dangerous."
He looks at Pato running away. He looks at Soaries Martin organizing the defense. He looks at Pani Costa gliding past Cutter.
He realizes the awful truth.
Jamaica fouled him because they were scared. Bolivia fouled him because they were terrified. Deion Vale hated him because he was a threat.
But Brazil?
Brazil doesn't respect him enough to foul him.
You don't foul a nuisance. You don't foul a bug. You just step around it.
They aren't hitting him because they don't fear him. They don't see the Monster. They don't see the Ghost.
They just see a kid with a bad haircut and a heavy touch trying to play a game he doesn't understand.
It cuts deeper than any tackle. It hurts more than the metal rod vibrating in his shin.
Irrelevance.
Robin clenches his fists. His fingernails dig into his palms until the skin breaks.
He looks at Johnny on the sideline. The coach is standing with his arms crossed, watching the dismantling. Johnny's face is grim. He sees it too.
The gap in class isn't just physical. It is psychological.
Brazil is winning without getting their kits dirty.
"No," Robin thinks. The word is a growl in his throat.
"I will not be ignored."
He looks at Soaries Martin again. The nineteen-year-old prodigy is adjusting his socks, looking bored.
"You think you're above the violence?" Robin thinks. "You think you're too good to fight?"
"Fine."
"I'll force you to fight."
Robin starts to run. Not toward the ball. But toward the center of the defense.
He is done trying to play football. The Rondo ends now.
If they won't give him a game, he is going to start a war.