Emotional Release

I’m finally in the right place at the right time. My eyes linger over the small chance of opportunity, a slight opening in between the two white jerseys with red pre-wrap and dark eye shadow. I’ve always hated girls who wear makeup to games. Just like those girls who match their sophies to the color of the lettering on their t-shirt. But suddenly the gap is closing; the two defenders are hurtling toward each other, toward my diminishing opportunity. “Through, through”! I scream, and just in time a perfectly placed ball comes rolling toward me, landing peacefully on my right foot. I hear a sickening crash. Glancing behind me I spot the two girls in a heap on the freshly cut grass, having missed the ball by seconds and found each other instead. I’m outside the eighteen with another makeup-clad defender charging toward me. A part of me begins to panic; if I could just turn the ball to the right, take a touch and … the defender is faster than I thought and suddenly I stop thinking. In a second I’m past the defender and the ball is soaring through the air. Everything stops, I watch in slow motion as the ball arcs, curves and hits the net. The goalie is on the ground, the ball’s in the net and I’m standing there.

Suddenly a body hits me and I’m awakened from the daydream. I look up and a whole team is sprinting toward me; others are already hugging me and each other. The goalie is slowly retrieving the ball from the net and the rest of the opposing team is lethargically making its way toward midfield. I guess it wasn’t a daydream, simply some kind of trance. After numerous hugs and high fives we begin to jog back to kick-off formation. I try not to smile too much as the parents cheer and the dark-eyed defenders glare. My mind attempts to reel over the goal again and again, but I can’t picture it. All I remember is that second defender sprinting toward me and that arcing ball, now flying so fast through my mind it might as well have been a bullet shot off from a gun, not my foot. The euphoria has hardly hit me yet, I’m just standing, waiting for the kick-off whistle to blow. Soon I hear the piercing sound but it doesn’t blow once, it blows three times.

At first I don’t understand, but then I hear a scream and realize the game is over. The tournament is won. The score is 1-0. The goal is mine. And the exhilaration kicks in. I run toward the team as we form a mass of red, jumping up and down, screaming at the top of our lungs. The cooler of ice cold water is dumped on our coach, the hands of the other team are shaken, their makeup now smudged from sweat. The parents form a tunnel, cheering madly. One by one we embarrassingly run under the ceiling of arms, occasionally receiving a high five or pat on the head.

Everything has gone by in a blur. Only a couple minutes have elapsed since my game winning goal and a swirl of net, makeup, red, white and grass move through my mind. I’m somewhat abashed at the compliments, awkwardly saying “thanks” and moving on to the next one. Still a sense of pride fills me. It is only the second tournament I have won, the other back in the days of U-13 with shorter halves and more timid players. As a team we walk toward the red tent, gloating over our victory and trying not to walk with too much swagger. The medals are given out one by one, big blue emblems with Colonial Cup written on them and an inscripted picture of an eagle. We proudly walk toward our individual cars, feeling a sense of fulfillment of achieving what we set out to do. As I settle down into my passenger seat and buckle the seat belt for the long ride home, I think to myself “I feel truly happy.”