The tunnel is no longer a throat. It is a portal to a different dimension.
Against Jamaica, the tunnel was a place of focus. Against Bolivia, it was a place of tension. But tonight, standing in the concrete bowels of the Mercedes-Benz Stadium, waiting to walk out against Brazil, the tunnel feels like the nave of a cathedral before a high mass.
The noise is not human. It is geologic.
It rumbles through the floorboards, vibrating the studs of the players' boots. It shakes the water bottles in their hands. It is a rhythmic, pulsating beat that bypasses the ears and resonates directly in the chest cavity.
Seventy-two thousand people. And sixty-five thousand of them are wearing yellow.
Robin Silver stands in the line. He adjusts his mindset. He tries to find the "Dead Spot," the cold place in his brain where he processes the game as geometry and physics.
But the heat is melting the ice.
The humidity is oppressive. Even down here, out of the sun, the air is thick with the smell of popcorn, anticipation, and the specific, metallic scent of seventy thousand people sweating in unison.
Robin looks to his left.
The Brazil B-Team.
They don't look like backups. They look like royalty who have graciously decided to visit the provinces.
Pani Costa, the Manchester City winger, stands next to Ben Cutter.
The contrast is cruel.
Cutter is staring straight ahead, his jaw locked so tight the muscles in his neck are spasming. He is breathing in shallow, jagged gasps. His skin is pale, slick with a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the temperature. He looks like a man waiting for the electric chair.
Pani Costa is chewing gum.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
He is leaning against the wall, one foot propped up behind him. He is looking up at the stands visible through the tunnel mouth, waving at someone he recognizes. He smiles. He points. He looks completely, utterly at home.
For Pani, this isn't a war. It is a Tuesday.
"You okay, man?" Pani asks, glancing at Cutter. His English is perfect, tinged with a slight Mancunian accent. "You look green."
Cutter doesn't answer. He can't. If he opens his mouth, he might vomit. He just nods rigidly.
Pani shrugs. He pops a bubble. Pop.
Robin watches them. He sees the dynamic shifting before a ball has even been kicked. Cutter is already defeated. He is already accepting his role as the victim.
Robin looks further down the line.
Soaries Martin.
The nineteen-year-old center-back is standing with his arms crossed. He isn't smiling like Pani. He isn't waving. He is staring at the back of Rayden Park's head with a look of profound boredom.
He looks like he is waiting for a bus.
"Gentlemen," the referee says. "Let's go."
The line moves.
They walk out.
If the tunnel was loud, the stadium is deafening. The transition from the shadow to the light is blinding. The floodlights are on, mixing with the twilight sun to create a surreal, golden haze.
And the yellow.
It is everywhere. It covers the stands like a living carpet. Flags the size of houses are waving in the supporters' section. Drums are banging big, heavy samba drums that sound like thunder.
Usually, when the USA plays at home, there is a USA chant. It is loud. It is patriotic.
Tonight, it is a whisper. A plea. It is drowned out completely by the rhythmic, joyful, terrifying sound of the Samba.
The national anthems play. The Star-Spangled Banner feels rushed, apologetic. The Brazilian anthem is sung by every single person in the building, players included, a roaring hymn of belief.
Robin stands there. He feels small.
He looks at the VIP box. He can't see Zampa Silva from here, but he knows the Prince is there. Watching. Holding court.
"They think this is their house," Robin thinks. "They think we are just the staff hired to clean up after the party."
He looks at his teammates.
Jackson Voss is shouting instructions, but his eyes are darting around nervously. Andrew Smith is stretching his quads, looking at the Brazilian formation, trying to compute the variables. Rayden Park is hopping up and down, trying to shake off the nerves.
They are intimidated. They are bought into the mythology. They are looking at the yellow jerseys and seeing five World Cups. They aren't seeing eleven men; they are seeing history.
Robin spits on the grass.
"History is dust," he tells himself. "Output is King."
The referee blows the whistle.
The game begins.
And immediately, the illusion of competition is tested.
Rayden Park taps the ball to Dominic Russo. Russo passes back to Jackson Voss.
The USA tries to do what they always do. Keep possession. Settle the nerves. Build a rhythm.
Pass. Pass. Pass.
It looks fine. It looks professional. For sixty seconds, the USA looks like a football team.
Then, Brazil gets bored.
Minute 2.
Voss has the ball at the back. He looks up. He sees Rayden Park making a check-run toward the midfield. Park is open.
Voss hits the pass. It is a decent ball. A clipped pass, chest-high, meant to allow Park to control it and lay it off.
It never reaches him.
Soaries Martin steps up.
The Real Madrid center-back doesn't sprint. He doesn't look like he is exerting any effort at all. He just glides out of the defensive line.
He reads the flight of the ball before it has even left Voss's foot.
Park sees him coming. Park braces for the impact. He prepares for the physical battle, the jostling for position.
Martin doesn't jostle.
He arrives in front of Park. He intercepts the ball.
But he doesn't head it clear. He doesn't chest it down to the ground.
He chests it up.
He pops the ball into the air with his sternum.
Park, confused, tries to jump for it.
Martin lifts his knee. He juggles the ball over Park's head. A sombrero flick. In the middle of a competitive match. In the second minute.
The crowd gasps. Then they roar.
"OLÉ!"
Martin spins around the bewildered American striker. He catches the ball on his thigh, drops it to his foot, and plays a calm, slide-rule pass to Casemiro in the midfield.
He didn't just win the ball. He turned Rayden Park into a prop. He turned the USA's starting striker into a traffic cone.
And he did it with the casual indifference of a man throwing a crumpled piece of paper into a trash can.
Park stands there, face burning. He looks at the referee, as if asking "Is that legal?"
It is legal. It is just cruel.
Robin watches from the left wing.
He feels a cold knot in his stomach.
He has seen arrogance before. He has seen skill.
But this?
Soaries Martin didn't do that to show off. He did it because it was the most efficient way to bypass the pressure. He processes the game at a speed that makes Park look like he is lagging.
It isn't just arrogance. The kid is that good.
Robin realizes the scale of the problem.
Against Bolivia, the USA had to out-fight them. Against Jamaica, they had to out-last them.
Against Brazil, they have to out-think a team that is playing chess while the USA is learning checkers.
"This isn't a fight," Robin thinks, watching Casemiro spread the play to Danilo Costa. "In a fight, you trade blows. You struggle."
"This is a robbery."
Brazil isn't going to give them anything. They aren't going to make mistakes. They aren't going to panic.
If the USA wants a goal, they have to steal it. They have to break into the vault, dodge the lasers, crack the safe, and run before the guards wake up.
It is Mission Impossible. And Robin is the only one who brought the lockpick.
Minute 4.
The ball finally comes to Robin.
Kessel wins a scrappy tackle in the midfield and pokes it wide.
Robin traps the ball near the halfway line. The touch is good. The ball sticks to his boot.
He looks up.
He expects space. He expects the gravity well effect defenders backing off, terrified of the dribble.
He doesn't get space.
He gets a grin.
Rodrigo Pato Mendes. The Brazilian Right Back. The man who attacks like a winger.
Pato is already there. He has closed the distance instantly. He isn't backing off. He is sprinting straight at Robin.
He is smiling. A wide, toothy, predatory smile.
He isn't scared of the Ghost. He wants to see if the Ghost is real.
Robin feels the adrenaline spike.
Pato is fast. Faster than Sterling. Faster than Roca. He is coming in hot, low to the ground, ready to either win the ball or send Robin into the third row.
Robin tightens his core. He feels the metal in his leg hum.
The stadium noise swells. They want to see the American boy get crushed. They want to see the hierarchy re-established.
Robin doesn't flinch.
He looks at Pato's grin.
"You think this is funny?" Robin thinks. "You think this is a game?"
He shifts his weight.
Game on.