The Match

The start of the match. I was going at full speed. Vigorously charging down at midfielders, sweeping past the defenders and there's only the keeper to beat. The maiden shot was blocked.

There were times in the match, the first half; discouraging moments I have. The ball I shot was either heading towards the hands of the keeper to be deflected, or else heading towards the spectators. I was silenced by the beauty of sadness beyond words, or in this case, kicks.

Those times were just times that can pull you so deep down under the currents of spectating pressures that you felt no matter how many saving tackles you made, how brave your header was, or how brilliant your footwork was, it's just the ball over the line that will matter. Nothing else.

Second half's beckoning. With a blow of the whistle the battle's started. And a blow of the whistle for 5 more times signalled the beginning of a duel; the keeper and myself.

The goal is in front of me now. I step up to position myself with careful tenderness. With a sigh so very calm and composed I run my right foot up the upper corner of the ball; causing it to go at an outward spin towards the low left corner. The video camera focuses on the keeper as the keeper dives, the wrong way, the right way - I do not know....

But I know I hope the keeper dives the right way. I hope the keeper catches the ball. My ball. At least it will be safe in those pair of gentle hands that I feel, rule the world.

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