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; 75th
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.
*****
