Falkyr 0 - 3 Nephara
(4-4-2) 1 - Mercator; 2 - Stride, 5 - Thorn (c), 22 - Lockheed, 19 - Katarec; 7 - Kuepper (13 - Saroszi 77'), 15 - Kastriot, 8 - Chalk, 16 - Deventer; 17 - Avetisyan, 9 - Bastable (23 - Lovelace 65')
Goals: Kuepper 36', Katarec 51', Lovelace 74'
Mercurio Kastriot had come a long way.
More... more metaphorically than physically, it did have to be said. It was hard to talk about physically coming a long way when Voska Avetisyan was right there and had just made her debut, a hat-trick on that debut... and she wasn't even Nepharim, not really. She was, however, really tall, bristling with muscle, and had proven able to repeatedly out-jump Cameron and Lalonde. Lalonde had actually had a brief stint in Nephara, with Greygate, largely consisting of being horribly beasted by hulking Nepharim strikers. Perhaps that had been a nostalgic experience for him.
Kastriot had a claim to having come the second-longest way in most senses. And unlike some he could name, he'd never expected any kind of dream debut, short of a debut at all. That much was unexpected, he was thankful, he would have bit someone's hand off if they'd offered him a lone cap when he was fifteen or so. Before things started to really take off at the Bohemians. And things had undoubtedly taken off at the Bohemians, hence his no longer being at the Bohemians, and nothing had been a greater compliment to his ability than the Bohemians getting fucking relegated as soon as he stepped out the door. Even moreso than, you know, winning the title in his first season at Crisisbless at the same time.
Kastriot was slightly unusual for a footballer, in terms of background. He was fairly established middle-class, a single child whose parents had leapt at the chance to neglect him by just dumping him on an academy as much as they could. Some coaches had felt that might leave him lacking some hunger, some desire; apparently it was a factor when the Moths came to see if they wanted to poach him and turned him down, in part because he wasn't an urchin who subsisted on rats and bitterness. His home was broken in subtler ways.
He'd proven them all wrong. He liked kicking people. He liked scything people down. He liked wrestling people, ankle-tapping them, getting any advantage he could. There were a lot of thugs in Sabrefell who could do that, of course, but few were as good at timing. Kastriot had a natural knack for breaking attacks, and that wasn't the same as just breaking legs. When Kastriot gave away a foul, it wasn't a free kick the attackers would enjoy having.
That alone made him a decent First Division player in the making. But one also had to consider his work on the ball, where a manager eventually realised more could be coaxed. So began a year or two swapped in and out of attacking midfield, where he may not have really scored the goals or laid on the direct assists to truly have his destiny in that position, but he did get used to hurdling the challenges of, well, other Kastriots, and sweeping out accurate passes under duress.
He was thrown into the fire relatively young, quickly became a key player for the Bohemians in the midtable Premiership, then jumped ship to Crisisbless at the exact right moment. Each time, he'd had to draw something new from himself; from just a fierce competitive edge, to a knack for breaking charges, to an ability on the ball, and to the skill required to run the show from deep for a world-class side. And now here he was, for the national side. What would they require of him? The seasoned assistant manager, Monica Brightwater, took him to one side moments before he was set to line up in the tunnel.
"Merc?"
"Yeah?"
"Just put the everloving fear of God into them, yeah?"
Well. Okay. He could do that.