A shootout.
The fucking final came down to a fucking shootout. We’d scored within the first five minutes of the first half and then proceeded to do virtually nothing else for the rest of the game.
At least we had shots on goal. The Miami Wave only had two the entire game, both coming in the last seven minutes of play in the second half.
To be honest, I was a little bored standing there, watching my teammates nearly a hundred yards away. It’s hard to stay focused when the ball barely crosses midfield. I had a few tap outs and a few throws and one lame corner kick, but other than that, I might as well have been twiddling my fingers. But as fatigue set in toward the end of the second half, the boys got sloppy.
Actually, only one boy did. Brandon Nix. First of all, he had no business being that far back in the penalty box. Then, he should have kept his damn hands to himself. He’s lucky he didn’t draw a red card for that clothesline. But it did give the Wave a penalty kick.
The thing with PKs is there’s no amount of training that will guarantee you can stop every one. Time moves too quickly. In the end, you just have to take your best guess at where the shot will be. Guessing wrong results in a goal.
I knew he was shooting left, mid to upper range. As I launched myself in that direction, the ball whizzed over my gloves. I was inches too low.
Doesn’t matter. I missed and we tied. The boys weren’t able to do anything with the remaining time or the stoppage time, nor even in the overtime.
Since it was the playoffs, we went to a penalty kick shootout. Normally the game of soccer is played eleven on eleven. When it comes down to a shootout, it becomes a one-to-one match. Everything else about the rest of the game is erased and there is only the kicker and the keeper. Me.
Each team gets five chances. The world record in Global Games play for saves is four. If I were literally the best in the world, I’d only be able to stop eighty percent of shots.
As luck would have it, I’m not the best in the world. I managed one incredible stop. The Wave made the other four. Unfortunately, Pressley Samson whiffed his shot, going right over the top, and Brandon Nix went wide.
And just like that, our season was over.
I had to pray that it wasn’t the final for my career as well.
While I wanted to stay on my knees on the field and wallow in my own anguish, I wouldn’t have that be the last image the press caught of me before the off-season.
I stood up and shook hands with the opposing team. I hugged some of my teammates. I didn’t punch Brandon Nix in the face, so at least that was one good thing.
Coach Dawes is on the sidelines. “Hard break.” He’s not what anyone would describe as verbose.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without crying. That would be even worse than losing.
“Are you in town for a bit? Can you come up to campus and talk to the team?”
I nod again, willing to do anything he asked of me. Coach Dawes set me on my path. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you knew they were important. I’ve adopted a similar philosophy.
He got recruiters to come and watch, resulting in my original deal with a farm team for the Nevada Renegades. Whenever possible, he comes to games.
It’s more than I can say for my own parents.
Sure, if we’d made it to the final, they would have been there, but they weren’t going to waste their time flying out to Indiana—again—if it weren’t a high-stakes match. In other words, they were only going to come if it were the championship match and there would be TV coverage.
I’m not putting words in their mouths. It’s what my mom texted me when I asked if they wanted tickets.
I’ll have Justice’s assistant, Heaven, get me a rental car and switch my flight back to Boston. Heading down to Bloomington for a day or two might not be the worst idea in the world.
It was a good time in my life. I was supported by solid teammates and a good coaching staff. I’d say I was happy then. It’d be nice to recapture some of that feeling.
Before heading off the field, I make my way to the sidelines where eager fans are waiting. I take several selfies with those who think I’m special. I’ll be splashed across social media, these people using me for their fifteen minutes of fame. Story of my life. As I hand the phone back, one girl—probably in her early twenties—says, “You’re so serious. Why don’t you smile?”
I shrug. “I’ll smile when our performance is worthy of it. There wasn’t much to smile about tonight.”
The mood in the locker room is quiet but not somber. You’d think the team would be more upset than they are. Looking around, I seem to be the only one who is gutted by this loss. We don’t get to go to the finals. This is it. Our season is done.
Is my career?
It will be if I don’t get selected for the National Team and get to play in the Global Games.
