Page 57 of The Session

“Odds are for gamblers. What matters is: Do you have what it takes? I haven’t spent as much time with you as your coaches, but I watched some of your games. And yes, you have what it takes physically, and you’re certainly capable of it mentally when you’re ready.”

The path ended where the beach began. A table was laid out under a canopy, attended by two servers standing by a cart with covered dishes.

“Is every meal like this for you?” Mark asked.

“This or indoors,” Ozzy admitted.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not at the moment.”

“All right, let’s skip lunch for now and keep talking,” Mark said, guiding Ozzy away from the luncheon.

He glanced back and saw the entourage was still following them. “Jesus Christ.”

He decided to ignore them as long as they kept their distance. He realized that at least two of them were probably security protecting Ozzy.

“What makes you choke out there on the field?” Mark asked abruptly.

“I don’t know,” Ozzy replied, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about what you’re thinking when it happens. Try to remember what you’re feeling,” Mark suggested.

“One moment I feel as light as the wind. Then suddenly I feel heavy—like when astronauts come back to Earth and they have to carry them out of the capsule because they’ve been in space for so long,” Ozzy explained.

“Is it because you realize you’re being watched?” Mark asked.

“I love the crowd. I don’t think it’s that.”

“I’m sure every sports psychologist you’ve spoken to has probably told you it’s your father,” Mark said.

“Yes, the weighty pressure of being a prominent man’s son.”

“Bullshit,” Mark countered. “Every kid that’s put on a football helmet, picked up a baseball glove, or chased after a soccer ball has felt that since they were five years old and their dad was in the stands. It ain’t that.”

Ozzy crossed his arms and tilted his chin toward Mark. “You’re the first one to say that. What is it, then?”

“I don’t know. But answer me this: When I say the word ‘soccer’—I’m sorry, ‘football’—what comes to mind?”

“My friend Caleb,” he said instantly.

“Was he the one who introduced you to soccer?” Mark asked.

“He was the first one that made it fun. This was before I went off to school in England. I was attending a rural primary school back in Senegal. I was nine, and the first thing you would do when the bell rang was go out to the field. And by ‘field,’ I mean it was a dirt lot with goats at one end we pretended were goalies.”

“And that’s where you fell in love with the game,” Mark said.

“Yep. The trash talk. The roughness of it. It made me feel free,” Ozzy recalled.

“What happened to Caleb?”

“He lost interest after he discovered girls. Now he runs a restaurant.” Ozzy laughed.

“Nobody can hear us right now, and I have two questions for you. First: Do you even want this?” Mark asked.

“With every part of my soul, being on the national team means everything to me. My father would prefer it if I chose another goal,” Ozzy admitted.

“Okay, that’s good. Now I’m just going to piss some people off instead of getting strangled. Second question,” Mark continued, pointing to the entourage behind them. “Do you think you need all this special coaching right now?”