Space. All you see is the space closing in on you.
You weave in and out almost on pure instinct.
The chalk flies as you move through the touch line.
You feel a thousand eyes burning holes through you.
The anticipation in their collective sighs resound with every
As you bound towards goal,
The weight of expectation bear down on your shoulders;
You feel the hot breath of pressure down your nape.
You see it.
An opening, an opportunity, the last one in the match.
It’s not as clear cut as you’d like but you’ve run this scenario
In your head a thousand times before.
You grit your teeth and tighten your shoulders;
The muscles in your body coil like a viper
Poised to strike at any given moment.
You crash to the ground; pain shooting up your brain.
Your legs taken out from under you; the moment stolen.
The whistle sounds and you get up gingerly.
You can’t let the pain blind you.
You breathe the moment in as you stand over the ball;
The conqueror indignant to the threads of fate.
You make your move, eyes locked on target.
The ball hits the net as you skid across the turf
Arms outstretched and your thunderous cry echoes
On the empty bleachers, the empty dugouts, the empty goal.