Time is a strange thing. It seems that time always behaves counter to how we want it to behave. Time will creep by during an uninteresting lecture as the audience grows more impatient; on the other hand, time will fly by while one is enjoying a night with friends. It seems that time is subjective to the activity. I and fourteen others were victims of this paradox two years ago.
“How much time is left, sir?”
It was the state semifinals of soccer, and we were up one nil with minutes left. I had scored the only goal of the game merely seconds into the first half, but just before halftime one of our best defenders went down with an injury. Thrown into defensive unbalance, we had to pull some players off the attack to make up for the loss. Immediately the game’s atmosphere changed from an eagerness for victory into a grim battle to hold the lead. One injury had paralyzed our entire offense. All we could do was hope our defense would continue to be the rock it had been all season.
“One minute.”
Hope flowed through my veins. One minute, a mere sixty seconds, and this defensive franticness would be over, and we would still be on top. But the other team kept attacking. Each time they brought the ball into our half was like a heart attack. So many things could go wrong, and they only needed one to tie up the game. Yet, we had held defensively for nearly eighty minutes now; I did not think that one minute was enough time for them to score.
“Thirty seconds!” coach yelled from the sideline.
Long ball to the corner! They had caught us, defense out of position, and now it was a frantic chase to the ball. “Clear it!” I screamed, “Clear the ball!”
Thump! The ball sailed to the other end of the field. A collective sigh of relief exhaled from our team. That had to be it; there couldn’t be enough time for them to mount another attack. Yet, they came again; passing, dribbling, forcing their way down the field. Was the minute ever going to end? My mark had the ball and we were sprinting juxtaposed down the sideline. I was just quick enough to send the ball out of bounds.
“Where is that final whistle?”
The other team raced to grab the ball and get it back into play. Down in the corner of the field, they were already in a good offensive position. We rushed to mark all of their attackers, but the throw-in went by three of our defenders, including myself, and an opposing player was able to gain control of the ball. Into the penalty box he dribbled, past another defender, closer to the goal. Shouts for us to stop him drifted from the sidelines and various parts of field. Yet, we were powerless to do so. Within moments, the gentle ripping of a soccer ball was heard against the net.
Four seconds. Four seconds was all that had remained in the game when we finally gave up the pivotal goal. We were bound for overtime, but we were too spent as a team. It was not long into the first overtime that we gave up the winning goal. Doomed to take the long bus ride home in heartache, we could but hang our heads in contempt and think about what could have been. In one minute, the fates of two separate teams were decided, but I would argue that that was not a minute. That was an eternity.
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