They are getting off the bus now. A silent world. Made complete by the earplugs. His have a hole, a rebellious prick with a pin. He wants to hear.
But there is nothing. The silence of the bus, and before that, of the hotel, and of the practice grounds all through.
He doesn't think of this then. Only later, when the pounding begins.
In the dressing room, he pulls on his shorts, snaps them round his waist, pulls at the shirt to loosen it.
Mechanically. He can hear a rustle-drone, a faint sound leaking through the cracks, and before the assistant coach has completed the signal to remove the plugs, his are out.
Like the Channel Tunnel, he thinks, a sea on the rampage. Some kind of deep, nasal horns, trumpets. They have been forewarned at multiple briefings.
Concentration must not waver. Not today.

The pitch is a light at the end of the tunnel.

When you breathe again, you snort it all in. The hormones, the excitement, lapping against their faces, the national anthem hovering just above, severely.
Then the other anthem begins.
A sheet of water ripples, then breaks into dancing waves in gaudy sounds and raucous colours.
Then kickoff.

The Best Team In The World [By History] assumes possession.
Moving forward jauntily, but with quick, precise passes that allow no penetration.
Exemplary. He can even almost hear Coach’s grudging commentary in the background.
Clothed in his own discipline, he responds to the pitch as he always does; his eyes see line diagrams, possibilities, snaking out across the field of vision.
They move, the lines change, he moves. Like chess, comes a flicker in his brain, but he doesn’t really know about that.
And now this strikes, upsets him. He is thinking. Being influenced by the conditions, the stadium, the play. Distracted, just as had been drilled into him many, many times, that he must not be.
The ball whisks to him, cuts him off. He drives forward, the blood begins to run, one-two, man by his side, he passes hard.
Watches the striker collect, turn- watches it soar- over the bar.
An old voice comes, as he watches the forward clutch his forehead in frustration-disbelief.
‘Even our blood is loyal to the cause, see ? See the colour. See the exact shade.’

Opposition takes possession; he retreats. Swift surging counterattack- a half-admiration rises- clenches his teeth- why is it there ?- The ball comes closer- a desperate jab- it’s out of play. A breath, and a corner kick.

In the pause, he breathes hard, looks round, jostles to stick to his player, tries to fix a thought of that rising, perfectly curling ball, and himself against it, to steel himself.
But an elation bubbles across, breaks out- Here, in the smell of sweat and the sound and rush that is adrenaline, against the best team in the world, he feels laughter pulsing through him, pounding in his head, racing madly, making him shiver- what could be wrong ?

Goal.