The Goalkeeper

Ever stood on a freshly watered football ground? The grass smells the best from there, after all. You get down on a knee, and feel the dew in your fingers. Your studs leave skid marks along the greens as you run. You stand up, put on your gloves, and get ready to man the goalposts in the crisp summer morning air. Your sweat smells sweet to you. The shouts of players makes perfect sense to you, as you have the widest perspective of the game on the field from your vantage point. You can make out the other team's strategy, their danger men, and instruct your teammates thus. The swoosh of the ball sounds like a melody which famous musicians long gone used to describe. The smoothness of it all, the beauty of it all, hits you when you suddenly spring to your toes to make a comfortable snatch out of mid air. That's the best part about goalkeeping - the surprised and shocked looks that I get to see on the faces of the strikers - how for a whole glorious moment, he had almost imagined himself whipping off his shirt in celebration - only to see me block his precious effort with a gem of an interception. I never knew you could have so much satisfaction in stealing that glory. In the entire 90 minutes, you have made contact with the ball only maybe a dozen times - but you are still wiping your brows at the end of the psychological strain you have gone through. Among the stifled murmurs and loud breathing, you understand the significance of being the last line of defence - and the first line of offence.