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[2021-05-09 | London Stadium, London, England | 17:50 BST]

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

[65’]

The match had become a scrappy affair, much more physical as the sky began to weep with a drizzle. Everton sat deep in their defensive shape, content to absorb pressure and hit on the counter. West Ham probed, passed sideways, recycled possession, but couldn’t find the cutting edge to break through.

Bad things come in threes, and in the 65th minute, disaster struck again as Antonio chased a long ball down the right channel, his pace taking him clear of Godfrey. The Everton defender recovered quickly, shoulder-to-shoulder with the West Ham striker as they approached the edge of the box. Antonio tried to shield the ball, his back to goal, but as he turned, his right foot planted awkwardly on the slick turf.

His ankle rolled, and his Nike Mercurial Vapour football boots tore open as he went down immediately, clutching his foot and contorting his face in pain. The referee’s whistle blew, and the medical staff sprinted onto the pitch. "Oh no," Tyler said, his voice dropping. "That doesn’t look good for Michail Antonio."

"That’s a real concern for West Ham," Smith added. "He’s been their main outlet all match. If he can’t continue, Moyes has a decision to make."

On the touchline, David Moyes stood with his arms crossed, watching intently as the physios examined Antonio’s ankle. His assistant coach, Stuart Pearce, leaned in close and spoke quietly. "Can’t put weight on it," Pearce said, shaking his head. "He’s done."

Moyes exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched. "Right. We need a striker. Yarmolenko?"

"He’s nursing that knock from training," Pearce replied. "Could put him on, but he’s not sharp."

Moyes glanced down the bench. His eyes landed on Tom Walker, who sat at the end, elbows on his knees, staring at the pitch in boredom. "The kid?" Pearce asked, following Moyes’ gaze.

"He’s eager, but his tactical adaptation has been quite slow over the past few months," Pearce continued quietly. "But his number speaks for itself, twenty-seven goals in fourteen matches for the U23S, and he constantly performs well in training. Six-four, strong, good in the air. Can finish with both feet."

"He might need a Baptism of fire, though, to force him to adjust", Moyes muttered, looking genuinely considering whether to put him on. Tom’s move up wasn’t his selection but the academy’s decision in the team’s political struggle. "Everton’s defence isn’t soft. They’ll show him that what he did in the youth system won’t work here."

Pearce nodded slowly. "Your call, boss, either way we can’t keep him on the bench without using him."

Moyes made his decision after massaging the nose of his bridge. "Tom! Get ready. You’re going on."

Tom’s head snapped up, his blue eyes widening slightly as they locked in on the managers, and for a split second, he didn’t move. Then his body kicked into gear, mechanically standing up, stripping off his training jacket to reveal the claret-and-blue number 38 shirt underneath.

"Make sure you’re warm," Moyes said as Tom approached. "You’re replacing Antonio. Play on the shoulder, use your size, and try to produce something when the chance comes. Don’t overthink it. Do what you’ve been taught in training."

Tom nodded, his throat tight. "Yes, boss."

"And Tom," Moyes added, grabbing his shoulder. "Enjoy it. You’ve earned this."

The fourth official raised the substitution board. The London Stadium announcer’s voice echoed: "Substitution for West Ham United. Coming on, number thirty-eight, Tom Walker."

---

OFF: Michail Antonio (#9)

ON: Tom Walker (#38)

---

A ripple of applause mixed with murmurs of confusion. Most fans didn’t recognise the name. Tom jogged onto the pitch, his heart pounding in his chest as he exchanged a quick handshake with Antonio, who was being helped off on a stretcher. "Go get ’em, kid," Antonio muttered through gritted teeth. Tom took his position up front, slotting into the striker role, muttering something inaudible to those around him.

His legs felt light, adrenaline coursing through him, and his thoughts were all over the place, feeling slightly sluggish as he tried to focus. The stadium’s noise faded into a dull hum as the Everton defenders sized him up.

[68’]

West Ham won a throw-in on the right flank. Coufal took it quickly, finding Bowen near the touchline. The winger controlled it, then drove inside, drawing Coleman toward him. Bowen played it into the channel for Tom, who had dropped deeper to receive. Tom controlled it with his chest, Keane pressing against his back immediately.

The Everton centre-back was strong, using his body to lean into Tom and forcing him wide. Tom tried to hold his ground, shielding the ball, as he looked for a nearby teammate, but before he could lay it back to Rice, he was on the ground. At some point, Keane had moved beside him and whacked him off the ball, and he lost his footing, crashing to the wet ground.

"Tom Walker with his first touch, and he is down!" Tyler exclaimed. "The referee says it’s legal and play continues!"

"Welcome to the Premier League, kid," Smith added. "he needs to wake up and move the ball faster, or this will be a long debut for him."

[72’]

Everton cleared another West Ham attack, Pickford launching it long toward Calvert-Lewin. The Everton striker won the header, nodding it down to Richarlison on the left. The Brazilian took one touch, then drove forward at Coufal. He cut inside onto his right foot, shaping to shoot from twenty yards, but Rice slid in, blocking the shot.

The ball deflected out to Doucouré at the edge of the box, who struck it on the volley. Fabianski dove, barely pushing it wide at full stretch. The corner was delivered by Sigurdsson, curling toward the near post, where Keane attacked it, but Cresswell headed it clear. The ball fell to Tom at the edge of the centre circle, who controlled it with his thigh, turning in one go.

Spotting Bowen making a run down the right, Tom played it into space, sending it skipping on the wet turf at pace. Bowen spurred his legs to accelerate, trying to reach the ball as he lunged forward, but there was too much power behind that ball, and it went out for a throw. "Wasted opportunity for a counter!" Tyler commented mid-wave off boos from the home fans as Tom held his head in annoyance. "Tom Walker can’t seem to settle."

"Unlucky there," Smith said. "He’s trying to rush it, knowing he needs to perform, but it’s just not clicking." Tom croched down, tightening his Apex boots as he took a deep breath, feeling the intensifying rain washing over him. The doubt crept in for a split second as he heard the angry shout of his manager. ’Am I ready for this?’ but he quickly shook his head, punching the slightly muddy ground ’If he can do it, so can I.’

[75’]

West Ham won a free kick on the left flank, thirty yards from goal. Cresswell stood over it, scanning the box where Tom had positioned himself between Keane and Godfrey, his blond hair now plastered to his forehead from the rain. The sky seemed to have fully opened up, sympathising with his terrible performance as the fans pulled out their umbrellas or rain coats.

Cresswell delivered it with pace, whipping it toward the back post. Tom timed his run, getting ahead of Godfrey and rising above everyone, his 6’4 frame seemingly defying gravity. His header was powerful, struck cleanly with his forehead, aimed at the bottom right corner. The ball flew toward the goal, but struck the underside of the crossbar with a metallic *CLANG*, bouncing down and out. Pickford scrambled to gather it before anyone could pounce on the rebound.

"OFF THE BAR!" Tyler roared. "Tom Walker is so close to his first goal!"

"That’s desperately unlucky," Smith added. "Everything is right about that header—the run, the connection, the placement. Just inches away."

Tom stood there, hands on his head, staring at the crossbar in disbelief as he kicked the turf in frustration. The home fans groaned collectively, but this time no one seemed to blame him. Keane jogged past him, shoulder-checking him deliberately. "Not your day, is it, son?" 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

Tom’s jaw clenched, ’I like playing against players who look down on me, it’s a lot of fun crushing that ego. ".’ For some reason, those words flashed into his mind as Rakim’s leisurely smiling face popped into his mind. He’d been pushed around, fouled, missed chances, hit the bar and even eaten dirt; it couldn’t get any worse. Yet despite all this, his heart drummed in excitement as an electric feeling crackled through his entire body to the point he checked if there were any thunderclouds in the air.

.

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.

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TO BE CONTINUED...