World Cup Dreams

The Penalty

The beads of sweat are clearly running down my forehead. Everyone in the crowd, even those on seats high up with the gods, can see this in crystal clear clarity. Millions upon millions of fans at home watch each trail of sweat as it works its way down my face, some in glorious high definition.

I need to put this out of my mind, it is just me, the ball, the goalkeeper and the goal. This is the most pressure I have ever felt in my ten years as a professional footballer but this kick is not to win the World Cup, far from it. This is the end of what has been a poor display from both teams in a second round match. Like the rest of the game, extra time was a cagey affair. And so here I stand, all four of my teammates penalties converted. The opposition having missed just one of their five.

I had to drag my aching limbs from the halfway line to get here and now my legs feel like they want to buckle under me. I hear the whistle go and close my eyes, visualising where I want to place the ball. The world waits with baited breath as I open them and summon up every ounce of energy I have remaining. I strike the ball, just managing to stay on my feet. It is not a good penalty, perfect height for a save and too close to the middle of the goal, but the keeper has dived the other way. All the pressure disappears in a split second.

As the net bulges I scream and punch my fist upwards, but it is just my body’s reflex as every sound around me dulls as if I have just been in the middle of a bomb blast. I stand still trying to remember what has just happened, the crowd a distant and dim sound despite their screaming. I come back to senses as I am swamped by my teammates and lifted high in the air, the cheers of the crowd almost deafening me. We have done it, we are through. As it starts to sink in I imagine commentators and fans thinking, “we never doubted him for a minute”. But whilst I will not tell anyone else, I cannot say that I did not doubt myself at all.