Go, Tamerlane, go.

As the football spins in the mud, and I careen around the center-back to meet it, I realize that in this noisy moment, when my striker is telling me to pass the ball over to him, and I am working my pace gradually, threading my way through the defence, I will find my serenity.

The ball misses the goalies outstretched arms by an inch, and I'm in. I kneel and feel the hands of my teammates hoist me up onto their mud-caked shoulders. And the rain fractures my quadruple identity into a million little pieces of hope and hesitation.