The Greatest of all Time

With a quick gesture, Coach Johansen motioned for the fourth official to make the substitutions quickly before Molde could take the corner kick. Dejection, Depression, Distress, and several other capital Ds had long whispered through his thoughts, translating into a scary frown that'd already hardened his facial features.

Even though his team had just survived conceding a goal from a penalty, he still regretted not having made a substitution much earlier—before the red card. Had he done precisely that, just maybe, his team would never have had to go through the remaining twenty minutes when with a numerical disadvantage.

Be that as it may, he refused to resign himself to losing, even when playing with the numerical disadvantage born of the red card. That was the reason he'd decided to introduce both Ole Seln?s and Verner R?nning that were all defense-minded players at the core of their playing style. He wanted them to help the team defend against the relentless attacks from Molde during the remaining eighteen minutes, plus added time. He was hopeful that his team would walk away with a draw if the two of them followed his instructions to the letter and played their defensive roles perfectly.

"Can you just make the substitutions," he yelled at the top of his lungs on seeing the fourth official taking his time to put up the substitutions board. "Why are you delaying when the ball is clearly out of play? Your dilly-dallying may cost our team dearly. So, can you please act like a professional and do your job properly?"

On hearing the coach, the fourth official just smiled wryly before putting up the board to signal for the substitutions. And to Coach Johansen's relief, the referee immediately halted the proceedings on the pitch right before the Molde players could take their corner kick.

"Remember my instructions," Coach Johansen yelled at his two substitutes just before they were about to enter the field. "And don't forget to pass on my instructions to the rest."

"Yes, coach," Both Ole and Verner replied in unison, clearly delighted by the prospect of getting a chance to play an official Tippeligaen game.

Coach Johansen could see that they were brimming with energy and excitement to perform, even though Rosenborg was a man down. He felt a slight wave of relief flood through his system on noticing their zeal and eagerness for playing time. So, for the first time, like in fifteen minutes, he smiled as he watched the two of them replace Tobias Mikkelsen and Tarik Elyounoussi, the two wingers. Maybe, with that energy they were projecting, they could do some wonders when they got on the pitch. That was what he hoped.

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As soon as the two substitutes stepped into their positions, the referee blew the whistle immediately and motioned for Martin Linnes, the Molde left-back, to take the corner kick.

Zachary reacted instantly, shutting out everything else and concentrating solely on marking his man. His mind was already working in overdrive, trying to deduce what kind of corner the Molde left-back would deliver into the box. He was determined to do his part on the team—by giving it his all to prevent Molde from scoring their third goal and taking the lead. So, he even started yelling at his teammates to close down the unmarked players within the box in preparation for the corner.

But Martin Linnes, the Molde number-14, didn't give Rosenborg any more time to prepare. He quickly delivered a teasing ball into the horde of players waiting inside the penalty area from the corner.

Zachary sprung into action on noticing that the ball was on course towards his position. He pushed off the ground like a basketballer, outmuscled Jo Inge in a battle for aerial superiority by relying on his incredible physique—and then headed the ball out of play. The referee blew the whistle and pointed to the corner flag once again.

Martin Linnes quickly delivered another corner into the box with all the haste he could muster, probably not wanting to waste any time. But that time around, Nicki Nielsen, the Rosenborg center-forward, outjumped the rest of the players within the penalty area and cleared the ball with a well-timed header, guiding it to the outside of the box.

Zachary immediately took a step, intending to chase after the ball after noticing that it was about to land outside the box. He hoped to get to it quickly before anyone else—and then mount a counter-attack on Molde.

But just as he was taking the second step, he felt a tug on his shirt for the umpteenth time during the match, and his forward momentum instantly reduced. Without looking back, he knew right away that it was his old bodyguard, Jo Inge, who'd pulled at his shirt to prevent him from getting to the ball. Since he was determined to do everything necessary to help his team get a positive result against Molde, he decided to go with Coach Trond Henriksen's strategy. He threw himself to the ground in a dramatic fashion—and cried out loud in order to convince the referee that an opponent had fouled him.

"Ref, ref," he shouted at the top of his lungs while rolling on the ground to catch the referee's attention.

*FWEEEEEEE*

The referee immediately blew the whistle before jogging towards his position. "Are you okay?" The referee asked, raising his arm and motioning for the medical team to come onto the pitch.

"Jo Inge yanked me back by pulling at my shirt," Zachary replied, his face contorting into an expression that was the true definition of a person in pain. "I think I sprained a ligament when I tumbled to the ground," he added, holding on to his ankle. On the inside, he was happy to stay on the ground since the more time he could waste, the better his team's chances would become.

"Are you okay, man?" The team physician asked as soon as he'd knelt beside him. "Where does your leg hurt? Can you still move it?"

"We need to waste a bit of time since the team is in a tight spot," he whispered to the physician after noticing that the referee had moved out of earshot—towards the linesman. "So, please play along, and let's win ourselves some time to organize ourselves."

"No need to worry, I know what to do," the team physician replied, without a flicker in his expression. He then continued to check out Zachary's ankle with all the seriousness befitting the seasoned doctor that he was.

Zachary could tell that he'd been in similar situations probably countless times. His acting when diagnosing Zachary's ankle could win an Oscar. Together with Zachary, the two of them acted out a scene that was so convincing. It was to the point that even some of his teammates came over to check on his situation. But Zachary only winked at them before continuing to nurse his supposed injury.

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A wave of panic surged through Emily when she saw Zachary go to the ground, clearly in pain. She'd never seen Zachary stay down for more than a couple of seconds, even after facing the hardest of challenges. Emily was sure that Zachary was in pain just from seeing his expression.

But a minute or two later, she finally relaxed on seeing Zachary get to his feet before being helped out of the pitch by the medical personnel. She'd realized that he wasn't seriously injured since he could walk. So, with a light heart, she returned her entire focus to the field of play to continue following the game.

But then again, she was taken aback after a moment. She noticed that Zachary seemed to have returned to full fitness right after stepping out of the field and receiving a pain-relieving spray on his ankle. Without any dilly-dallying, he then chugged down some water before returning to the pitch even before Rosenborg could take the free kick. Emily gave a bitter laugh on realizing that Zachary had just played everyone, including her, for fools. He wasn't seriously injured—but had only been wasting a bit of time.

"BOO! BOOO!! BOOOO!!!..."

Emily's ears picked up a gradually increasing wave of booing rising from the stands occupied by the Molde fans as soon as Zachary stepped back on the pitch. The Molde fans seemed quite ticked off with his antics and were making it known through their voices.

But the Rosenborg fans around the stadium replied in kind with their own cheering to counter the booing. Emily's bewildered ears drank in one long, thundering "Zach! Zach! Zach-33!" and then her hearing seemed drowned, incapable of making sense of any of the sounds. The whole mass of the Rosenborg fans in the stands rose as one, stamping their feet and clapping their hands to match the roar of their voices. They sustained a regular and rhythmic wave of cheering that shook the whole Lerkendal—the collective sound seeming like the one made by an approach of a frightening army.

Emily sighed in wonder after experiencing the energy and intensity of the Rosenborg fans. All around her, it was a wild burst of yelling and cheering—prolonged fiercely to the limit to drown out any booing that might emerge from the Molde supporters. With just their enthusiasm and passionate support, they had battled the Molde fans and emerged as the victors. Their level of dedication to their team was something she had only experienced a few times.

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