I hadn’t properly seen the incident that led to the penalty award. I was sprawled on the ground having made the initial point blank save and was clambering back to my feet when I heard the shrill blast of the whistle.
‘Penalty! What the fook for?’, was my first thought. Handball on the line by John from the rebound subsequent to my outstanding save explained Tinnion.
The referee then called John over and proceeded to send him off rather harshly. I remember thinking it was an unnecessarily tough course of action to take. John had up to that point been the best player on the pitch in a game that was played in wonderful spirit while not taking anything from the competitive nature of the battle.
Surely a penalty kick into the wide astro goals was penalty enough in this instance rather than applying the strict FIFA and UEFA guidelines on handball. I made a polite protest to the referee.
‘The astro league rules ignore certain regular football rules such as having no offside and prohibiting slide tackles so why are you applying this handball rule in particular? You’ve already given them a penalty and he doesn’t deserve this.’
He told me to go back to the line. Then I had to quickly get mentally prepared to face the penalty. I actually thought, ‘How can I psyche out the penalty taker? Should I wobble my knees like Bruce Grobbelaar did? Will I walk out to the guy and hand him the ball while giving him a dead-eye glare? Will I wait until he places the ball and then stroll out and spit on it?’
I chose to do nothing but stand and focus on the ball. My performance up to that point would be sufficient to put all manner of doubts in his mind in any case. I stared at the ball and then back out at the guy who placed it. Then he pointed to his left. ‘What are you doing?’, I roared out at him. It turned out he’d placed the ball for the man beside him to take.
Then I decided I was going to save the penalty: ‘Arrogant prick. Getting somebody to place the ball for him. Who does he think he is?’
From that point everything appeared to happen in slow motion. John, having left the pitch, called out to me. I briefly glanced over, anxious to retain my concentration and focus on the ball, to see him pointing low to his left.
I acknowledged his advice by raising a glove in his direction. Then I looked back at the penalty taker. The other players were jostling for position ahead of a potential rebound but they barely registered at this stage.
I noted the body shape of my adversary and the angle he was likely to approach the ball and then decided John was incorrect. He was going to my right and therfore so was I.
‘Just make sure you hit the target and you’ll score in those goals’, shouted an opposition player just before the referee blew his whistle. I didn’t waver. I was in the zone.
The strike was powerful. It was pure. But I had already launched myself through the air as he was on the final step of his run up. (Move any earlier and he would have had the simple task of altering his plan and rolling the ball into the vacant other side of the goal).
Getting that tiny fraction of a second start was crucial. As the ball careered towards the top corner, my eyes fixated on it, I realised I’d have to call upon my vast reserves of quality to even reach it, never mind save it.
I stretched so hard and so far that my shoulder nearly came out of its socket. The pain was actually excruciating and incredibly extreme. It was such that I closed my eyes and roared. And then I felt it. Leather on glove.
I had only gone and fooking saved it.
Post edited by: Bandage, at: 2007/08/06 19:55