"Rhythm," Mrs. Woolf whispered. "Poetry is not just words. It is a heartbeat. Iambic pentameter. Da-DUM. Da-DUM. Da-DUM."

She tapped her ruler on the desk to the beat.

"If you break the rhythm," she said dramatically. "You break the spell. The poem dies. The reader loses interest."

Alex sat at his desk. He tapped his finger on his notebook.

Da-DUM. Da-DUM.

Football was rhythm too. The sound of the ball being kicked. The sound of feet on the grass. The roar of the crowd.

"Mr. Finch," Mrs. Woolf asked. "Can you complete this rhyming couplet? The ball flew high into the sky..."

Alex looked up.

"And landed where the seagull fly," Alex suggested.

"Grammatically questionable," Mrs. Woolf sighed. "But poetic enough."

Mark sat next to Alex. Mark was wearing a beret and a fake mustache (again). He was writing furiously with a feather quill.

"I AM A BARD!" Mark whispered loudly. "I AM WILLIAM SHAKES-SPEED!"

"Mark," Alex whispered. "That is not a real name."

"It is my pen name!" Mark insisted. "Listen to this. The pizza is round, the cheese is yellow, I am a very hungry fellow."

"That is terrible," Alex said.

"It is raw emotion!" Mark argued. "It speaks to the soul!"

The bell rang.

Alex packed his bag. He was glad literature was over. He preferred numbers. Numbers did not need to rhyme.

But tonight, he needed poetry.

Premier League. Matchday 30.

Liverpool vs Arsenal.

Anfield.

It was the hardest stadium in the world. A place where logic went to die and emotion took over.

Alex walked out to the car park.

Milo was waiting.

Milo was dressed as... a Beatle.

He was wearing round sunglasses, a wig with a bowl cut, and a grey suit with no collar. He was holding a yellow toy submarine.

"ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE!" Milo sang (badly). "AND GOALS! ALEX! I AM THE FIFTH BEATLE! I AM SELLING YELLOW SUBMARINES! THEY ARE JUST BANANAS PAINTED YELLOW! BUT THEY FLOAT IN MILK!"

"Milo, bananas already float," Alex said.

"NOT LIKE THESE!" Milo yelled. "THESE ARE PSYCHEDELIC BANANAS! FIVE POUNDS A BUNCH!"

They drove to Liverpool.

The city was grey and windy. The River Mersey looked cold.

But Anfield was red hot.

Steve, the manager, gathered the team in the away dressing room.

"Listen," Steve said. "This place is a trap. The fans scream. The ground shakes. They want you to lose your mind."

He looked at the team.

"They play 'Heavy Metal' football. Fast. Loud. Chaotic."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. Do not try to shout louder than them. You cannot win a shouting match with a hurricane. You must be the quiet note. The pause."

"The rhythm," Alex whispered. "Iambic pentameter."

"Exactly," Steve said. "Control the heartbeat."

Anfield.

The players stood in the tunnel.

Above their heads was the sign. THIS IS ANFIELD.

It was designed to scare people.

Virgil van Dijk stood next to Alex. The Liverpool captain. He was huge. He smelled of expensive cologne and intimidation.

He looked down at Alex.

"You are small," Van Dijk said.

"I am concise," Alex replied.

Van Dijk raised an eyebrow. He did not smile.

The music started. You'll Never Walk Alone.

Fifty thousand people sang. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It vibrated in Alex's chest.

Mark was standing next to Alex. Mark looked pale.

"They are singing very loud," Mark whispered. "Are they angry at me?"

"No," Alex said. "They just love their team."

"I will sing back!" Mark decided. He cleared his throat. "THE PIZZA IS ROUND! THE CHEESE IS YELLOW!"

"Mark, please stop," Alex said.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

Liverpool came out flying.

Salah ran down the wing. Nunez ran through the middle. Diaz ran down the left.

They were a storm.

In the fifth minute, Salah cut inside. He curled a shot.

Ramsdale saved it.

The crowd roared. The noise level went up.

"It is too loud!" Rico yelled. "I cannot hear myself think!"

"Don't think!" Alex shouted back. "Just feel the rhythm!"

But the rhythm was broken. Arsenal could not keep the ball. Liverpool pressed them like a pack of wolves.

Trent Alexander-Arnold got the ball. He hit a long pass.

Nunez ran onto it. He smashed it.

It hit the post.

CLANG.

The stadium shook.

"We are drowning!" Ben White shouted. "We need a life raft!"

Alex stood in the center circle.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Da-DUM. Da-DUM.

The Liverpool rhythm was fast. Da-da-da-da. Like a machine gun.

Alex needed to slow it down.

He got the ball from Rice.

Mac Allister came to press him.

Alex did not pass. He stood still.

He put his foot on the ball. The "La Pausa".

Mac Allister stopped. He was confused. Why wasn't the boy running?

Alex waited. One second. Two seconds.

The crowd booed.

Then, Alex passed. A simple, slow pass to Odegaard.

Odegaard passed back.

Alex stopped the ball again.

He was killing the momentum. He was lowering the heart rate of the game.

"Boring!" the Liverpool fans chanted.

"Effective," Alex thought.

By the thirtieth minute, the storm had passed. Liverpool were frustrated. They stopped running so hard.

The rhythm was now Alex's rhythm.

Forty fifth minute.

Alex had the ball.

He saw Van Dijk. The giant defender was standing on the edge of the box. He looked like a statue that could not be moved.

Mark was making a run.

But Van Dijk was too strong. If Alex played a high ball, Van Dijk would eat it.

Alex needed poetry. He needed a rhyme.

He saw Rico on the left.

Alex passed to Rico.

Rico did a shimmy. He passed back to Alex.

A couplet.

Alex saw Mark again. Mark was pointing to the ground behind Van Dijk.

Alex hit a ground pass.

It was not straight. It was curved. It spun around Van Dijk's ankles.

It was a "Sonnet of a Pass".

Mark ran onto it.

He was one on one with Alisson.

"SHAKES-SPEED!" Mark screamed.

Mark did not shoot with power. He recited his finish.

He chipped it.

The ball floated over Alisson.

It landed in the net.

Goal.

One zero. Arsenal.

Mark ran to the corner. He pretended to write on his hand with an invisible quill.

"POETRY IN MOTION!" Mark yelled. "I AM A LITERARY GENIUS!"

Halftime. One zero.

The dressing room was calm.

"You silenced them," Steve said. "The library is open. Keep it quiet."

"I like libraries," Alex said. "They are peaceful."

Second half.

Liverpool attacked again. They turned up the volume.

Klopp was screaming on the sideline. He looked like a heavy metal guitarist smashing his instrument.

Sixtieth minute.

Salah got the ball. He was angry.

He ran past Zinchenko. He ran past Gabriel.

He shot.

Goal.

One one.

Anfield woke up. The noise was back. Louder than before.

"HERE WE GO!" the fans screamed.

Arsenal were shaking. The walls were closing in.

Seventy fifth minute.

Liverpool had a corner.

Van Dijk went up. Konate went up. The giants were in the box.

The ball came in.

Van Dijk headed it.

Rice cleared it off the line.

"Chaos!" Rico yelled. "Where is the structure?"

Alex picked up the loose ball.

He was on the edge of his own box.

He looked up.

The Liverpool team was all in the Arsenal box.

The pitch was empty.

Except for one man.

Mark.

Mark was on the halfway line. He was tying his shoe.

"MARK!" Alex screamed.

Mark stood up. He saw the ball. He saw the empty field.

"Oh," Mark said. "Run time."

Alex hit the ball.

It was a long ball. A very long ball.

It flew over the heads of the Liverpool players.

It landed in the Liverpool half.

Mark started to run.

Trent Alexander-Arnold tried to catch him. But Mark was powered by pizza and poetry.

Mark was fast. He was a blur of neon boots.

He got to the ball.

He was forty yards from goal. Alisson was the only obstacle.

Mark ran.

He entered the box.

He looked at Alisson.

"To be or not to be," Mark whispered.

He did a stepover.

"That is the question."

He went left. Alisson went right.

Mark rolled the ball into the empty net.

Goal.

Two one. Arsenal.

The stadium went silent again.

Mark ran to the crowd. He took a bow. A deep, theatrical bow.

"THANK YOU!" Mark shouted. "NO AUTOGRAPHS PLEASE!"

Alex ran the length of the pitch. He hugged Mark.

"The Bard!" Alex laughed. "You did it!"

"I am cultured," Mark said, adjusting his imaginary beret. "I am sophisticated."

The final ten minutes were desperate. Liverpool threw everything.

But Alex controlled the tempo. He kept the ball. He made them chase.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Liverpool 1.

A massive victory.

Alex fell to the grass. The noise finally stopped.

Van Dijk walked over. He looked annoyed, but respectful.

"You are annoying," Van Dijk said. "You stopped the rhythm."

"We wrote our own," Alex said.

Milo ran onto the pitch. He was holding a guitar.

"THE FIFTH BEATLE!" Milo screamed. "WE TOPPED THE CHARTS! ALEX! I AM SELLING HIT SINGLES! I RECORDED MARK'S SCREAMING! IT IS A NUMBER ONE HIT!"

"Milo, please do not release an album," Alex begged.

"TOO LATE!" Milo yelled. "I AM ALREADY ON TOUR!"

They walked into the dressing room.

The team was celebrating. Music was blasting.

Alex checked his phone.

A text from Maya.

"Rhythm analysis: Optimal. You disrupted their frequency. Mark's speed was 37 km/h. That is faster than a galloping horse. Mr. Shakespeare would be proud. Also, Mrs. Woolf says your rhyme about the seagull was lazy, but she accepts the three points."

Alex smiled.

He looked at Mark.

Mark was standing on a bench, holding a hairbrush like a microphone.

"YESTERDAY!" Mark sang (terribly). "ALL MY TROUBLES SEEMED SO FAR AWAY! NOW I NEED A PIZZA RIGHT AWAY!"

"That does not rhyme," Alex said.

"It rhymes in my heart!" Mark shouted.

Alex leaned back.

They had conquered Anfield. The hardest test in England.