Oh crap, the game is going to penalties ! Well it's ok. We have quality shot takers so it won't get to me will it? I don't usually get asked to be in the 1st 5 shooters so no way, I will be asked to take a penalty. But just in case ..................... maybe I should plan my shot.
Oh crap again ! It's come down to me to take a shot! Thoughts run through my mind as I approach the referee to get the ball and set up for my shot. “Why does it have to come to this?” I moaned to myself. Time slows down as I slowly walk forward. I close my eyes I can almost reply the entire game in my mind in those brief seconds as I start to think about what lies ahead. “Why couldn’t we have settled the match in normal time? Couldn’t the designated penalty takers sort it out between themselves and leave the rest of us cowards to celebrate the victory, or suffer the pains of losing? Why the f*** do we have to put ourselves through this pressure?” Ninety minutes of pulsating action, drama and emotion has left me drained of physical and mental energy. The game got physical and even ugly at time leaving both teams down to ten men, with several other players sitting on yellow cards, and yet the result still couldn't get settled. So off to extra time we went. Another thirty minutes of soccer to decide a winner. If neither team could break down the other’s defense during the initial ninety minutes, then it was not surprising that the extra time period also finished in a stalemate. Therefore, after the referee had blown to conclude the two hours of conflict, and although the overall result of the game was still in the balance, a sense of relief came over me. I had played my part in getting us so far, now it was up to the delegated penalty takers to finish off the job. How I envy the calm assurance in which our strikers embrace the responsibility to slot the ball past the hapless keeper from the penalty spot. How can anyone miss from such a close spot? They relish the task of embellishing their personal goal scoring account and with no opposition defenders to intervene; they regard it as a gift! Our two top goal scorers squabble as to who should go first, while the rest of us hold back, trying to avoid the coaches' eyes, as he looks for willing candidates to make up the compulsory first five penalty takers. Injuries and substitutions had played havoc with our pre-match planning so a few of the likely candidates aren't available but regardless I still I won’t figure in the initial 5 players selected for the shootout, but there was always the faint possibility that I could be called upon if the scores were still deadlocked…. Everything starts well for us, we convert our first two kicks; our opponents squandering theirs, however, as the central characters from both parties involved in this utter madness, either scored, or missed, a nauseating feeling had begun to creep into the pit of my stomach. Maybe, after all, I wasn’t going to get away with the role of a passive onlooker in this drama. As the shootout progresses, those uneasy fears intensified; the first five designated penalty takers had ended in another deadlock, each team finishing up with three scores and two misses. As a result of this impasse a sudden death shoot-out, which included the rest of us sufferers, would transpire. A suffocating gulp envelops me, bringing with it that light sickly feeling that you get when you anticipate some dreadful outcome; surely I wasn’t going to have to play center stage was I ? Even in sudden death the drama continues to unfold, as players from both teams either bury the ball into the net, or else miscued their shot, leaving the keeper to save, or the ball to go high or wide. One by one teammates and opponents alike are eliminated, lamentably leaving the scores level, as it became my bid to face my biggest fear. As the opponent preceding me had sets off on his fearful walk from the half-way line to the penalty spot, his teammates call out words of reassurance and encouragement to help settle his nerves. I notice the scared look on his face, giving clues to his inner torment, which synchronizes with my own emotional inner state. Man can I relate ! As fate decreed, he hit his shot wide of the post. I watch him lay on the ground, the sheer anguish of his mistake overcoming him; suddenly what has been lurking in the alcoves of my mind comes flooding to reality. I have to take a damn penalty shoot ! Ok, breath, the moment has come, forget what happened and focus on what is I have to do. Should I put it to his right or his left or just hammer it down the middle, hoping that he will dive one way or the other? I stare directly into their keepers eyes looking for some clue as to what was going on in his brain, he holds my gaze, glowering back at me, searching for some indication from my body language as to where I might be planning to shoot. Suddenly the undeniable truth hits me. If I score, we win the championship. Our team's first in the history of the league. All those years of history, failures, disappointments and close calls can all be erased by one simply kick of the ball. With my teammates’ best wishes ringing in my ears, I take the last few steps toward the penalty spot. It was so easy to watch from the center line, the point of refuge from where I had cheered along with my teammates each spot kick that our team had converted and applauded each shot our opponents had missed. I can imagine these last few steps being like a man condemned to execution approaching the firing squad. The eyes of teammates and opponents alike, everyone in the stands and who knows how many watching the live stream of the game all focused on me. Hours of preparation and training, a full season of games, playoffs, two hours of today's final game, all the shooters that went before me and it all comes down to one simple issue. Whether or not, from a spot 12 yards out from the goal, I can put the ball between the two posts and under the crossbar. Of course, there is the small detail of that very determined, athletic, well trained, 6ft 3inch goalkeeper who can probably sense my fear and wants to be the hero himself. I'm the king of penalty shots in training. Left foot , right foot, top or bottom corner, either side, I can almost call my shots in advance and score at will. However in games, I am a coward, there is a reason why even with me training field success the coach doesn't count on me when it counts. The referee drops the ball beside the penalty spot, then rolls his eyes, as I slowly go through the ritual of placing it myself. Both my hands are shaking uncontrollably as I roll the ball around in my hands trying to find the perfect image I can use as my target for striking the ball. I can't delay any longer, it is time. I carefully place the ball on the spot and make sure there are no divots around the ball or where I plan to place my pivot foot. Looking up from the penalty spot, my mind has created the illusion that the goalkeeper has suddenly expanded to twice his actual size, and the goal has shrunk to the equivalent degree, thus making my choice of where to aim the ball more problematic than ever. So here we are confronting each other, the keeper’s slight smile disclosing that he has detected my stress, why shouldn’t he smile? If he saves my shot he gives his team another chance for the win, if he doesn't who will blame him, the averages are on the side of the shooter for most. The pressure hangs like a 50 lb backpack my shoulders. If I score, it is expected of me, if I miss, I will be remembered as the guy who chocked when he could have made history. As the referee’s whistle pierces the quiet atmosphere, my mind disappears into a trance like state, everything goes into a haze except the ball, the net and the goalie. I take a few strides backwards before slowly moving forward towards the ball like I've done hundreds of times in practice. I feel my foot hit cleanly through the middle of the ball, exactly at the point of impact I chose, my ears picking up the dull thud as my leg follows through. Everything slows down to the slowest of all possible slow motions, the keeper guesses wrong and dives to the left. The ball drifts directly towards the center of his goal taking an upward flight heading on a collision path with the pristine white, crossbar…. Only the few participants in close proximity hear the thump as the ball cannons off the underside of the crossbar to bounce discreetly over the goal line, before gently nestling in the back of the net. The quiet that existed moments before my shot is shattered as teammates and supporters erupt into a deafening scream of joy, whilst the opponent’s area hushes into anguished misery, their dreams of glory gone. I stand with my arms raised above my head in triumph soaking in the accolades cascading down from the bleachers before being unceremoniously wrestled to the ground by my teammates swarming all over me, smothering me with their sweaty bodies. As we enjoy the moment, making history of our first championship, all the physical and mental anguish of the preceding two hours become a faint memory, dissolved in the surges of adrenaline pumping through my body. “Nerves of steel,” I hear my coach say in whispered tones as I brush past him on the way to collect my medal. “Yeah; no problem coach. There was never any doubt in my mind"
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AuthorAfter many years of coaching at various levels and with different teams, I thought I would share some of my experiences and thoughts about coaching. Archives
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