INT. CHANGING ROOM - EVENING
Kit is the last one in, still in his kit, boots in one hand. He stands between the coach and the door.
I'll be quick, you've got the pitch to lock up. I'm not coming back in August. I wanted to say it to your face and not on the group thing, because you've been decent to me and I'm not going to do it with a thumbs up.
It's not the bench. I know that's what you think. Two seasons, four starts, all of them when Ollie had his wisdom teeth out. I've made my peace with being the one who warms him up. I got good at it. I can tell what mood he's in from how he catches.
It's Sam. My brother. He's eleven. He got picked for the under-twelves on Tuesday, and I was there when the letter came, and I watched Dad read it. He did the thing. The little nod. And then, 'Right. We'll get you some proper gloves.' That's the sentence. That's how it started with me. Proper gloves, then the drills in the garden, then the match on the telly on Sunday with the pause button, then the drive home when I'd let one in. Forty minutes. No radio.
Sam doesn't know any of that yet. He just thinks he's got a kit. Their matches are Saturdays at ten, same as ours, other side of the park. So I can't be in two places, and I'm choosing the touchline. I'm going to stand on the opposite side from Dad and clap when Sam picks the ball out of the net, so that there's one voice doing that. He should have one.
That's it. You don't have to say anything. Keep the gloves, they're the club's anyway. Ollie's going to need someone new who can read him. Tell them to watch his left hand.