Salty sweat drops trickled down my face, caused by the bright stadium lights, the continuous running …and nervousness. I wiped the sweat away with one hand, the wet substance clinging like water. I wiped my hands onto my shorts – a clear sign of the nervousness. But why was I so nervous? I just had to kick the ball, and the whole thing would be over, right? Wrong. This kick, my kick, would decide my team’s fate in this World Cup. Yes, my team, the Irish, depended on me making this goal to surpass Spain and to get into the quarterfinals. That is, if Spain didn’t score in the next penalty kick. We were down by one already.
I shot a quick look at the innocent soccer ball – the decider – and knew I had to make my decision immediately. Right foot? Left foot? Right side? Left side? Centre of the net? Or miss completely? I knew the latter choice would be morally wrong and would be thought of as deliberate. That would be the end of my soccer career in Ireland. My choice of which foot would not have been so bad if I hadn’t injured it during that one long practice. I had to choose whether to risk injuring it further or to use my ‘bad’ foot – my left foot. I clenched my teeth as I walked to my position.
As I had turned, the cheers and screams from the thousands of supportive fans were muted out and all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart and my quick breaths. The crowds turned into blurs as I focused on the ball the goal – with the Spanish goalkeeper in the way, to defend his team’s lead. I had absolutely no idea what my final choice was as my mind went blank and I kicked the ball. And when I did, the whole world stood still.
It has been one long week since that nerve-wracking night and celebrations are still continuing for Spain and us. Yes, the defeated Irish were welcomed home like heroes. I guess losing wasn’t so bad after all.