LITMIR.BIZ

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and he was off.

      Taking a deep breath, I realized I had made my first real save. And it felt good.

      The coach was looking in my direction, and I absorbed his gaze without returning it.

      Diving, catching, blocking, anticipating. It’s all a part of being a goalie. Within five minutes I had made good use of every part of my body. I could see in the coach’s eyes that he was impressed. I’d later find out that he’d been commenting on my performance. “Wow! This kid is fearless. He’s as quick as a cat,” he’d said. “There’s potential here.”

      It doesn’t take news—good or bad—very long to travel around a junior high school. By the next morning my school life had changed. I had gone from being an immigrant to earning a level of respect because of my athletic ability. In many ways, soccer was what got me through the rough years as a teenager.

      * * *

      Soccer quickly became a huge part of my life. As soon as the coach saw my ability, quickness and agility, I was involved in a team. I joined the North Kildonan Cobras as a 14-year-old, and within a year I had been elevated to the highest level I could play. While still a juvenile I joined the senior league, including playing a season in the second-highest senior division. Beyond that I moved up to the Premiere division (the highest level of amateur soccer in Winnipeg) and played on the Manitoba all-star team from the second year I lived in Winnipeg until my soccer career ended.

      I ended up playing in the Manitoba games and the Canada games, as well as being chosen by a few club teams to represent them when they went to their homeland for a tour against club or national teams. They wanted to keep themselves from getting embarrassed, so their own goalie sat on the bench, a scowl on his face. It allowed me to travel at no cost and play soccer at an elite level, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

      * * *

      The Bermudian sun had disappeared over the hills on the horizon. The game was in full swing, and we were down 2–1. We had travelled to their country to play their national team, but the grass underneath my feet felt the same as it always did—springy and forgiving, until I chose to dive.

      The wind whistled through the net behind me, and the net began to move. I turned to look, taking my eyes off the play for a second. It wasn’t moving the way it normally would from the wind. There were points of the mesh that were being pulled back, hands hanging onto the net. There was chanting and yelling, the sound just in the background of a game that, though the score was against us, was going in our favour.

      There was a yell from up the field, and I turned to look. One of our forwards was moving up the left side of the field, displaying his ball control as he took it inside against one of the defenders. Being in the net, it’s easy to see how the play is unfolding. Like the quarterback on a football team, soccer goalies can direct play and correct their players. They have a vantage point that no one else on the field does. But even if I had yelled, he wouldn’t have heard me—with almost no bleachers around the field, the fans were allowed within six feet of the boundary line. The lighting on the field was extremely direct and perfectly aimed, its limits dropping off as soon as you crossed the white line. Given that we were in Bermuda, the entire audience of somewhere near two thousand, circling the field and yelling behind me, were not the same skin colour as us and blended into the night perfectly. I shot a glance back at the crowd behind me, catching a glimpse of small glowing white sets of teeth in a sea of black.

      Jimmy was streaking up the right side, in perfect position for a cross. Both teams had left their goalies out to dry numerous times, allowing for an open and fast-paced game where the ball spent more time moving up the field than hanging out in the middle. The cross came perfectly to Jimmy, and I saw him put on a burst of speed to pass the last defender, staying perfectly onside. The goalie was scrambling, but I knew how it felt to be in his situation. His momentum would carry him right across. To do anything less wouldn’t stop the play.

      Jimmy played the ball perfectly, behind and underneath the goalie’s jump. It bounced once, curled onto the inside of the post, and was absorbed by the back of the net.

      Our team began its cheer, running back to our own side. I pumped my fist in the air, smiling at the fans behind me. They may have been cheering against me, but they were great fans who appreciated sport. I’d already proven my merit against them by stopping some of their top players on fast breaks that should have ended in goals.

      There were only a few minutes left, and Jimmy had just tied it up. It was a friendly game, and we determined our own format—neither team wanted to leave it to a tie, so the intensity picked up. Either a team would break the tie or we’d go to a shootout.

      Another fast break. A tall forward was moving towards me up the left side. I positioned myself perfectly, anticipating where he would be moving. My defender became a pylon as the man’s quick feet brought him around to me. I could play the pass—I had seen the forward making his move—or I could take the shot. I saw his eyes, and my reactions saved me. In one split second I dove left, going for the shot. He’d aimed that way, and the ball went off my elbows and into the ground. I crumpled on top of it, tucking into a ball and not letting go.

      The crowd’s yells surged out unbearably loud, but I could sense that there was more than disappointment. The Bermudan players were staring their own fans down, and words were being exchanged. It was friendly, but there was an edge. I started to get the feeling that the fans had given up on their team and were mocking them. They’d seen me react point-blank numerous times and knew that that meant one thing—if the Bermuda team didn’t win it now, they’d have no chance in a shootout.

      Shrill and barely audible above the crowd, the whistle ended regulation. We were going to a shootout. The mocking intensified, the fans not helping their players out but just having a good time. As I came back towards the line in my net, the fans were whipping the back of the net into a frenzy. If the ball did go into the net, it would clobber them. I stepped on the line, flattening the grass and planting my feet.

      In soccer a shootout highly favours the shooter. The goalie isn’t allowed to leave the line until the player has contacted the ball, so it’s purely a gamble. The ball is planted so close and the net so big that to even think that one can react in that much time is ridiculous. The goalie must anticipate, jump and hope. Goalies have to pick a side, and it’s not uncommon to see the goalie jumping through the air and the shot dribbling down into the middle of the net. If the player can trick the goalie, the net is his.

      The first few shots were give-and-take, the teams even. Then we took the lead. Bermuda was shooting first on the fifth and final shot. We were up by one, which meant that if I made the save, the game was over.

      Behind me, the net was an undulating sea of string. I couldn’t hear myself think over the sound of the yells, catcalls and screams. The fans were surging ever closer to the lines and net. I felt like they were breathing down my neck, yet I still couldn’t see anything other than their smiles and open mouths in the dark.

      Their last shooter was one of their best. I’d stolen the ball from him on several occasions in the middle of the game. He met my gaze, then looked away. Some players look where they’re shooting. Others avoid where they’re shooting. Some try to play mental games; others just shoot. He didn’t give any indication—just planted his feet a few steps from the ball. I could feel my pulse in my ears, the crowd washing away to the background fuzz on a radio.

      He stepped forward, beginning to run. His cleats dug into the ground, grass clumps flying behind him. I dug my own feet in, moving one step to the right and taking a leap—it was a complete gamble, a guessing game. I launched into the air, my body flat-out four feet off the ground. My hands stretched out. The ball was launching through the air, coming off his foot like a rocket. The crowd’s noise rose.

      And my hands closed around the ball.

      I hit the ground, rolling away with it between my hands. The crowd exploded—all kinds of noises, catcalls, jeers and mocking, aimed mostly at their own players instead of us. I’d earned their respect, and I was thankful we had made friends instead of enemies.

      * * *

      I

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