You can't beat me.

A quick check on the time. Twenty five minutes before I walk out. Another check on the gear. Everything is there - that must be the fourth time I've reached back into the bag to make sure. I'm doubting myself. That is not good. I pace the rectangular locker room. I am alone here apart from my thoughts.

The room is pine wood throughout. Very stately. A touch stuffy for my taste. Brass adorns every locker and handle. Shining brightly. The smell of polish and sweat.

Nerves are natural I know - I wouldn't feel the same if I didn't feel them. I force myself to stop and sit, clasping my cold hands together. I rub them furiously against each other. Sitting with my back to a closed locker, I get distracted for a moment and stare off for about ten seconds. It relaxes me for a short time, but the opening of an outside door brings me back to the present.

Tim, the masseuse arrives and asks if everything is okay. I ask him to rub the backs of my legs to keep them loose. I had felt a twinge two days ago on my left calf - there must be nothing left to chance.
I have prepared well, re-establishing my own faith in myself. While Tim rubs, I stick my ipod in my ears. My own words play back to me.

"You have done everything to prepare. You are ready. You are loose. This is your day."

The recording pauses for a second - something I did by pure accident - this makes me believe even more that today is my day. I taped this last night on my coach's advice.

"Everyone will finish second to you today. You are the boss of your own destiny. Everyone will play second fiddle to you."

Tim finishes up and I thank him for his invaluable help. I get up and go through my secondary stretching routine. I have already stretched earlier, but this is my process. Having stretched, I put my white tracksuit on. It has green and orange trimming. I zip the top up to the nape of my neck.

This is the last day of the championship.

I can hear the anticipation and excitement of the crowd. I can hear the stewards and busy bodies milling around in the hall. Old men blazers huddle together in the hall.

I spot some former champions and they nod 'good luck' in my direction. No doubt they have done the same to my competitor. Hedging their bets in both directions.

My ipod continues to play in my ears. I stretch my neck by rolling it clockwise. Young men in green t-shirts and shorts carry our bags into the arena. A man in black and white leads the way through the halls. I spot my competitor but not knowingly, ignore him. I am focused on the job at hand. I stare off into the distance.

"You will win today. You are the best. You will want it more. You will perform."

And then as if I recorded it to time my entrance into the arena, came the words I wanted my competitor to hear most.

"You can't beat me. You won't beat me."

I turn to face him for the first time. He extends his right hand in a sporting gesture before we enter the maelstrom of noise in the arena. He is donned completely in a white tracksuit with a red tubed trim.

"Good luck today," he says in his Hispanic accent.

"The same to you," I say politely in return.

I hold his stare for a split second too long. I'm getting into his head before we step into the glare of the crowd and hordes of media.

Camera lights flash in their thousands as we step out into the fifteen-thousand seater stadium.

He can't beat me.

This is the final of the Subbuteo World Cup - I will win today.