‘We’ve had shit seasons before.’ Nods and grumbles of acknowledgement all around. ‘Maybe I only saw one of ’em. But I saw enough this year to know that no matter what people have to say, no matter how many times they tell us we’re too young, too hopeful, this team has proven them wrong. This team was made for the championship.’

Team dad Rodney ‘Rod’ Wilson is the stern voice that joins mine in encouragement; nothing new from my best friend on the East Coast. ‘Picture us with that trophy. Out there under the lights with the hardware. Top of the league. Top of the damn sport.’

Rod gives me a nudge. Keep it going. I nod, picking up his energy. ‘We are four games away, boys. Four. Three, after this, and we’ll be on top of the world. Does “national champion” sound fuckin’ good enough?’

Gloved hands slap padded shoulders, as every single one of us howls in agreement. We’ve always been close – you have to, to play a sport that involves so much trust – but we’re never closer than we are right before a match. Especially the most important one we’ve played to date.

‘ALRIGHT, BRING IT ON! ONE, TWO, THREE, BREAK!’

We scatter and jog onto the field on autopilot as we take positions, cleats crunching in the grass. I can’t help looking up at the stands. It’s a bigger crowd than we’re used to pulling in, the usual New Haven Woodchucks lacrosse fanatics sitting front row, but new faces packing the upper bleachers in anticipation of tonight’s underdog event. I tug at the strap of my helmet, relish the bit of peace we get before the game starts and all hell breaks loose for four quarters of chaos and stress.

Way more so than usual, Mill River Stadium is all Woodchucks today, fans toting banners and posters for our first playoff ever as a Major League Lacrosse team. Granted, we’re as young as the league – only about ten years old – but history is history. If we can break this playoff game, we can prove we’ve got a good shot at it all: the championship title.

JJ smacks me in the back with the butt of his stick as I start my trek towards the centre of the field, wrinkling my crisp blue jersey. Technically, I can’t see him, because he’s behind me the entire time, but the insufferable snicker that follows the blow tells me everything I need to know about my attacker.

‘Chucks’ve never gotten this far. Get it done,’ he hums, quoting my words and wagging his stick off to my left.