Match Point

2-6, 2-5; 15-40.

Javier bent down, on his haunches, breathing heavy. He glanced up at the scoreboard, and then stared at ground. His stomach squirmed inside.

Match point. He was about to be knocked out of the tournament. The same tournament that he had worked so hard, and sacrificed so much, to part of.

As he slowly stood up, his mind flashed back to all those skipped classes; all those missed outings with friends and family; all those parties he didn’t attend; all the hard training sessions, the hours of relentless practice he had put in; He remembered his knee injury, and how traumatic that had been, and then the eventual recovery that followed. He remembered his first girlfriend, Laura, dumping him, because of his commitment to his tennis. He remembered missing his grandmother’s funeral, while he was at a training camp.

His jaw clenched together unconsciously. Was he really going to lose after all that? After all those journeys, was he going to bow out tamely in the quarter-final? Was it all over for him?

A burst of adrenalin soared through his veins.

No. No way. It was not over for him. Not today. Not like this.

He took a ball out of his pocket, and went up to the line, preparing to serve. He looked across the net. His opponent was ready, waiting to pounce, probably eager to finish him off and go home.

Javier’s breathing became steady. He bounced the ball on the ground. Silence. Not a single thought flowed through his mind. He felt a gentle gust of wind flick against his sweaty brow. All he could hear was his own breathing.

He tossed the ball up, arched his back, and swung the racket in a swift motion. Ace. 30-40.

His mind remained still. His breathing was an even keel. He went back to the mark, and served again. Another clean connection, but this time the opponent got a racket on it and it came across to his service line.

Javier saw the trajectory of the ball, every step of the way, as if it were moving in slow motion. He saw the ball, only the ball, and nothing but the ball. He found that his legs had already carried him into the perfect position for the next shot. With a deft flick of the racket, the ball was dispatched to the open court for a winner. Deuce.

            Two more clean aces, and Javier took that game, making the score 3-5.

            ….Javier went on to win the match 2-6, 7-5, 6-3, and stay alive in the tournament.

*****

0-2; 75^th minute.

            Gooaaaal. The opposing team players rushed to celebrate with the goal scorer, who was dancing at the corner flag. The majority of the stadium went into a stunned silence, except for the small contingent of traveling fans, who yelled in excitement.

            Andy looked to the sky in angst. His shoulders slumped, his back hunched. He could scarcely believe it.

They needed to win this match to get through to the next round of the tournament. To do that, they now had to score three goals in less than fifteen minutes. Given that they hadn’t managed a single one in the last seventy-five minutes, their chances were less than bleak. He looked at his fellow midfielder, Scott’s downcast eyes and saw nothing but despair.

            His team was about to go down in front of their home crowd. Their season would be over. What an arduous season it had been. First, the two top scorers from last season, left to play for other teams. Then, Marco, the main goal-keeper, suffered a hamstring injury. Despite all that, the team came together, filled-in the various positions, and somehow got to that point. There were lot of disputes and tough moments. So many players had to play out of position, out of their comfort zone. Yet, the team was still there in the tournament, still hanging on.

As he trudged back along with his teammates, to their own half, Andy looked at the crowd in the stadium, where a grave silence hung in the air. Some had already started making their way to the exits, unable to bear the misery any longer.  A young boy, sitting in the first few rows, caught Andy’s eye. The boy was wearing the home team’s jersey, and holding the flag. His face was painted with the team’s colors. But at that moment, his face had contorted into an expression of pain. He looked like he was about to cry.

Andy felt something snap inside of him. It was like a dam bursting and releasing a deluge of water.

We can’t let go. We can’t lose this. Not here. Not today. No chance in hell.

“This is not over,” Andy found himself yelling at his teammates, who stared at him. He quickly rounded them into a huddle.

“This is not over,” He repeated. “We’re not going to lose today. No way. Now, I know you’ll are tired and it’s been a tough season, but we can’t let this go.” Andy paused and looked at his teammates. The words were automatically pouring out of him. His voice rose to a fever pitch. “We didn’t come this far, to lose like this at home. We didn’t go through all that, only to be knocked out.”

Andy was shaking his head. “Let’s fight for Marco, and for our coach. Let’s fight for all those doctors and trainers that gave up their nights and weekends to get us in shape for this. And most of all, let’s fight for these fans that have filled the stadium every weekend, traveled through rain and snow, and supported us through thick and thin.”

He saw a glimmer of hope in his teammate’s eyes. He could tell that his words were having an effect. “Let’s do this.”

“Yeah.”

“C’monnnnn.”

“It’s not over…”

“Let’s give them HELL.”

Play resumed, and the team raced around the field with renewed energy. Each player covered their positions as though their life depended on it.

Andy began controlling more of the ball in the midfield and dictating play. His mind had suddenly cleared of all noise. His breathing was rhythmic. He found his legs moving swiftly, of their own accord.

He stole the ball of the opposing midfielder and darted ahead down the left of the field. A couple of defenders were closing in on him from ahead. Of the corner of his eye, he saw Scott was unmarked to his right. He tilted his body to the left, and slid the ball across to Scott. In the next instant, he spun in between the two defenders and made a run into the opposing penalty area.

Scott saw this movement, and immediately laid the ball back to Andy. Before the defense had a chance to react, Andy cut back to the center, with the ball at his feet. His mind was still eerily silent. He looked up at the goal. The goalkeeper was moving closer to him, trying to cut off the angles.

Andy lifted his right foot, turned slightly to the right, opening up his body. The goalkeeper saw this and started stretching to his left, to the far post. But Andy had other ideas. At the last instant, he changed direction, swung his foot to the left and let the ball fly towards the near post. The goalkeeper was left wrong-footed and unable to react.

Andy watched the ball airborne, as if in slow motion. It crashed into the bottom corner of the net.

Gooaaaaal. Andy was surrounded by his jubilant teammates. 1-2. He picked the ball up and carried it to the center line.

“It’s not over.” Andy shouted. “We still have work to do.”

The team drove onwards, their blood pumping at a furious rate. They didn’t let the opponents hold the ball for more than a couple of seconds at a time. When they had the ball, they surged forward towards the opposing goal in numbers, like iron filings drawn to a magnetic north pole. It was an irrepressible force.

…Andy’s team went on to score two more goals in the remaining minutes to win the match 3-2, and stay alive in the tournament.

*****