A Much-Celebrated Football Career

I come from a family of football lovers. From when I was very young, I remember my father’s enthusiasm for this popular game and my uncles enjoyed it just as much. One of my cousins even played several times for the national team. It was not surprising for both my older brothers to follow them and to join a football club, the same as my father had. They were proud of their black and white striped shirts and did quite well. When it was my turn to join of course it was the same club. But to be honest, from day one I was not that enthusiastic about it, that chasing after a ball and then kicking it away again. It became clear when during the training I was inclined rather to duck away from the ball than to go for it. I tried to justify my avoidance of the ball by saying “I thought the ball was meant for you” to one of my teammates. It did not make a great impression.

The first match, I sat in the dugout. When the keeper dropped out after an unfortunate dive for the ball against the goal post, I had to stand in for him. Our team was ahead with seven goals and it appeared safe enough with that lead. The manager must have thought it was the least risky place to have me. To everyone’s surprise, mostly mine, I even stopped a ball. That was probably more luck than skill, but it gave me a bit of a reputation. From then on, I was the goalkeeper.

The next few matches were all won by our team. That was not so much my achievement as I let through a few goals in every match. I was just fortunate that our team managed to score more goals.

One Saturday my father had come to watch and encourage me. My cousin, Martin, who played for the same club, had joined him after his own match. Both were standing next to the goal post. Together with some other parents, they were the only spectators.

It was a dull match for me. Our team was much stronger and in the first half not one ball had come in my direction. Still, my team had not managed to score a goal. Also, after half time not a single goal had been scored. At the same time again no ball had come my way. It was near the end of the match that a player on the other team gave the ball a massive kick and it flew with a big lob towards my goal. All players started running towards me and the ball. The ball quickly lost speed and I thought it would stop just before me. It would allow me to gloriously pick it from the ground and press it against my chest. I would have saved the match. I spread my legs, bended forwards, my knees flexed and had my arms hanging down, ready to scoop up the ball. I would rise a hero.

The ball rolled slower and slower. At that moment suddenly I heard my father shout,’Stop that ball!’

I was shocked by it and looked to the side, shouting back, ‘Shut up.’

When I turned back my head, I just saw the ball roll between my legs and into the goal.
The other players cheered but my teammates started to curse me. The whole match they were stronger and now my team was behind. It was 1-0 to the other team and that ended up being the final score. The only ones who were not horrible to me were my father and cousin Martin. They were both laughing. The cursing continued in the changing room. The whole defeat was blamed on me and even the manager could not hide his disappointment. For me, the fun was over.

‘I’m not going anymore,’ I said to my father after we came home, and he was understanding. I have never been to a football pitch ever again. I joined the local music band, much to my delight.