(14 July 2021) There is something that resonates deeply when a match is lost (or won) in a penalty shootout. It is the utter finality of it. Even when one’s team make a dreadful error or have a moment of genius, the match usually continues for a while. With a penalty that is it. They remain moments embedded in my memory.
For example, when we got a penalty near the end of the game, against our rival to top the second tier, our penalty taker, a craggy old pro playing at the back, slowly walked the length of the pitch, the stadium silent and certain of a goal. The opponent’s goalkeeper unfurled his white flag. The ball went to its destiny in the upper corner.
On another occasion, in a penalty shootout against a continental team, we needed to score the fifth to stay in the contest. Our diminutive striker approached the spot with all the slow trepidation of a naughty schoolboy trudging towards the headmaster’s study. The goalkeeper lit a cigar and leaned against a post; only moving to onehandedly pick up the ball which dribbled towards the goal- not even worthy of the description “shot”.
I woke up on Monday missed penalties flying past my weary eyes with a kind thought that I hope the players go on to have reasonable careers though never scoring against Chelsea.
I took the picture below on Monday to represent my feelings.
