open goal

We’d just about wrestled the game back in our favour at 3-2 having contrived to give away a two goal lead.  Rain raked across the park in waves, the pitch cut up, the game was stretched at both ends with the ball needing little encouragement to slip and slide on a greasy surface.  Five minutes to go, one of our youngsters broke down the right and I sprinted down my left flank to support.  He did well, beat a player and made it to the byline.  I screamed at the back post for him to square back it across the six yard box.  He passed strongly: it skidded and bobbed off the uneven surface, cutting out the goalkeeper at his near post and missing a striker and defender between us.  It was coming to me, the goal was open, I was five yards out.  I excitedly hurled myself towards the ball  Any contact and surely the game was over, that would be it.  Glory!  A goal.  A comfortable final few minutes to close the game out.  I hurled, slid, firm right boot contact, but wrong, too much.  I watched it balloon over the bar and I turned face down in the mud, hands on head, groaning at the aberration.


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