I inch up to the mid-line keeping their
forward about five yards in front of me.
Three strides. I need three
strides in an open field for acceleration, adjustment and positioning. Their keeper sets the ball down at the corner
of his box and backs up to run into his goal kick.
I glance up at the clock. Eight-six minutes. Four minutes left. Four long minutes. Most goals in a match come in the last ten
minutes of the half. We are up by one,
but don't become complacent. Tighten
up. I am an impassable barrier. Impassable barrier. I am impassable.
The keeper's kick sends the ball in a
powerful parabolic curve dropping to their mid-fielder on the left side, my
side. Our midfielder challenges the
player with the ball. Their right wing,
my primary responsibility, tenses and bobbles on his feet, waiting for a clue
or inspiration about how to position himself for a pass. I give him three strides and wait for his
move.
The ball handler starts an aggressive
dribble out toward the side-line. The
forward, my man, anticipates a chip and sprints down-field. I stay with him. I stay goal-side. I am close.
I am making him an unattractive target.
I am in control of my space. I
own the field.
My midfielder, fifteen yards up field,
overcommits when the ball handler feints to the outside. The opposing ball handler comes away clean
with the ball, gliding toward our goal.
I am the only defender capable of challenging the ball carrier, but I
will have to give up my man and let him lag behind me. I check for offside but my mates cross-field
have sagged back and given the attackers too much maneuvering room.
I can't let the ball handler continue
unaccosted, I leave my man and strike out toward the ball hoping the
center-back will pull the defensive line up and hobble the forward with the
threat of an offside call.
The ball carrier has me at a
disadvantage. He has the center-field
and I will have to come at him from the outside.
Our vectors converge and we start running shoulder to shoulder. I hear a roar from the crowd and my opponent
begins to pick up speed as though surfing the sound waves. I dig, pull and stretch, lengthening my
stride. I will myself into flight.
He will be in range of a credible shot
within five strides. I can see the
outline of the penalty box in my peripheral vision. I don't want to foul unless absolutely
necessary. To make a clean tackle I
cannot slide from behind. I must be even
with the ball handler. I am a hair
behind. I must gain. I must fly.
He redirects the ball, but the move costs
him a fraction of a second. Our
shoulders buffet one another back and forth in an attempt to unbalance the
other. My shoulder comes up in front of
his. I am more than even. I am clear to slide. One more touch and he will shoot with his
left foot: the far side of my challenge.
I will have to cross in front of him.
I must deflect the ball. Time it. Time it. Now....
My right foot lands out far ahead and as I
come over it I straighten my left knee and sling my body forward. My left foots points forward and reaches for
the ball. My body hits the ground as
gently as an airplane touching down on the runway and slides. I feel the satisfying tap on the ball on the
toe of my soft leather shoe, followed immediately by the slap of his boot under
my ankle.
He goes down hard, sprawled out in front of
me. Still on the ground I push up on my
elbows to see what has happened. The
ball rolls harmlessly to our keeper who pushes it forward as he surveys the
field. The crowd is booing. I am inside the penalty area. My opposing forward is curled up in a fetal position
in a pathetic plea for sympathy.
I was even.
I was more than even. It was
clean. I didn't tackle from behind. Anxiously, I look around for the referee
hoping he saw it my way.
1-15-13
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