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[West Ham Dressing Room | London Stadium | 16:00 BST]

The away dressing room in London Stadium was thick with frustration. Players slumped on benches, some with heads down, others gulping water, a few receiving treatment from the physios. The scoreboard read 0-1, Everton ahead through a scrappy Richarlison goal in the 38th minute, and they all knew that they played like shit. They were professionals and did not need any sugar coating to know they needed to do better.

Tom Walker sat in the corner, back against the wall, his dark blue eyes watching the scenes in silence. His West Ham training kit clung to his frame, his 6’4", compact muscle wrapped in claret and blue. His messy medium-long blond hair was slightly damp from the pre-match warm-up and fell across his forehead.

He was 18, set to graduate from high school next month, fresh out of the West Ham academy, and had barely three months of training with the first team. He’d been tearing through the U23S all season—twenty-seven goals in 14 matches, a record that had the coaching staff scrambling to move him up. Still he had yet to make his debut under David Moyes who claimed he didn’t rush kids but to Tom it felt more like he didnt trust them to perform. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Tom had been on the bench twice before, once against Leicester and again against Chelsea, but hadn’t gotten a sniff of the pitch and just sat there, watching, waiting, wondering if his chance would ever come. Moyes stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, as he waited for everyone to settle down.

"Right," he began, his voice calm but sharp. "Let’s talk about what just happened out there."

"First thirty minutes, we were excellent," Moyes continued. "We controlled possession, pressed them high, created chances. Then what? We get sloppy. We let them back into it. Richarlison’s goal? That’s an avoidable mistake."

He pointed toward the tactical board, where Everton’s 4-3-3 formation was sketched. "They’re going to sit deep now, and the centre will get more Compact when we have possession. They want us to get frustrated, to rush, to make mistakes, so that they can strike on the counter. So what do we do?"

"Stay patient," Rice said immediately.

"Exactly," Moyes confirmed. "We stay patient. We move the ball quicker, we stretch them wide, and we exploit the space behind their fullbacks. Lingard, I want you dropping deeper in the second half, linking with Declan. Pull Doucouré out of position. Antonio, you’re isolated up top, but I need you to make things happen when you get the chance. You’re letting them deal with you too easily."

He continued giving instructions for five minutes, his voice never stopping, barely pausing to take a breath. Tom half-listened to the instructions; it wasn’t his strong suit to tactically break a team down or analyse his opponents to the tiniest detail. He just instinctively moved where his next goal would be and broke down his man based on their reaction to his approach.

"Good," Moyes clapped, straightening up. "Right, lads. We’re sixth in the table. Europa League is in our hands. If we win our last four matches, we’re in. Everton are seventh, one point behind us. They want this just as much as we do. So we go out there, we take control, and we get the three points. Together?"

"Together!" the room echoed, voices rising in unison.

"Let’s go," Moyes said, clapping his hands once. The players stood up with renewed energy and filed out of the dressing room. Tom stayed seated for a moment longer, letting the noise fade, yet not receiving another nod before following the rest of the bench warmers out. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let his mind wander as he jogged out to the pitch to do some warm-up to maintain his state.

~~~

[Flashback | 2011 | Red Oak Preparatory, Orlando, Florida]

"Pass it, Rakim! I’m open!" Eleven-year-old Tom Walker sprinted down the right flank, his long legs eating up the turf as the Eagels of Red Oak Preparatory under-15s pressed forward against the Tigers in sky blue jerseys. Rakim Rex, five years younger and smaller than everyone on the pitch, was quick, especially with the ball at his feet, and danced past two defenders on the left wing, his close control mesmerising even then.

"Tom," Rakim shouted back, his voice cutting through the pitch as he glanced at the right flank behind him. Tom checked his stride, holding his position just outside the box before abruptly turning to the back post, leaving his marker. Rakim cut inside, drawing another defender, then chipped the ball towards the back post, lifting it over James, the right winger, who had charged into the middle and all the defenders.

Everyone turned to where the ball was landing as the goalkeeper scrambled across, but it was too late. Took it on the volley, smashing the ball with power into the near top right corner beyond the keeper’s reach. "Even then," Tom muttered, shaking his head as he jogged on the side of the pitch with a ball at his feet,

’Just like me, you were greedy only for goals and victory,’ he thought to himself at the bittersweet memories when they were world beaters. Together, they’d torn through any teams in Orlando to the point they were bored, and Rakim left to join ACE fully, and he moved back to Scotland.

They’d kept in touch, loosely, a text here and there, a message after a big match or a tournament win. Tom had watched Rakim’s rise, especially after he was shot, and it looked like it was over for him. When his friend joined Celtic, he was scouted by West Ham after dominating a tournament in Blackpool and moved to London after signing his youth contract.

He blinked his eyes, and his friend, who was a year younger, had become a certified wunderkid from his comeback senior debut in Celtic, to Leverkusen, showing his talents in the Bundesliga and Champions League. Now, Rakim, at seventeen, was playing in a Champions League final in two weeks, and Tom, at nearly nineteen, had yet to make his debut after 3 years in the West Ham youth system. Sighing, he glanced at the 10,000 fans allowed into the stadium, roaring to their hearts’ content. He looked at the pitch with yearning eyes at the players lining up for the second half before jogging back to the bench.

~~~

[2021-05-09 | London Stadium, London, England | 17:30 BST]

[Premier League MW 35: West Ham United 0-1 Everton]

*(FWEEET)*

[46]

"...and we’re back underway here at the London Stadium," Martin Tyler’s voice carried across the broadcast. "West Ham is trailing one-nil to Everton, desperately needing a result to keep their Europa League hopes alive. David Moyes will be hoping for a response in this second half."

"They’ve got to be more clinical, Martin," Alan Smith added. "They created enough in the first half but couldn’t convert. Against a side like Everton, who are happy to sit deep and counter, you can’t afford to waste opportunities."

Everton kicked off, with Calvert-Lewin tapping it back to Sigurdsson. The Icelandic midfielder immediately played it back to Doucouré, who knocked it across to Coleman on the right. The Irish fullback took one touch, then launched a long ball down the line toward Richarlison.

The Brazilian winger attacked it, but Cresswell got there first, heading it clear. The ball fell to Rice in midfield, who controlled it on his chest, then turned sharply away from Allan’s challenge. Rice drove forward five yards, his head up, scanning for options.

He spotted Lingard making a run between the lines, dropping deep as Moyes had instructed. Rice threaded a pass into his feet, and Lingard controlled it with his first touch on the turn. He was twenty-five yards out, with Doucouré closing him down. Lingard touched it right, creating a yard of space, then struck it with his right foot, aiming for the bottom left corner.

The shot was well-struck, rising slightly, but Pickford read it, diving to his left and pushing it wide. "Lingard!" Tyler exclaimed. "Pickford denies him! That’s a better start from West Ham!"

"Much better," Smith agreed. "That’s the intensity they need. Get at Everton early, don’t let them settle."

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TO BE CONTINUED...