Don't Forget to Write

Final Match

For 90 minutes I sat on the cold metal bench with Bruno, Mustafa, Dante, and the substitutes. I wish I could tell you the players fought with a fierceness that could rival gladiators in the coliseum, or that the back and forth was as dramatic as a World Cup final, that they passed and shot and played "the beautiful game" or "joga bonito," as well as Barcelona and Real Madrid, each player dancing with the ball as elegantly as Cristiano Ronaldo and Messi, or that we defended like the tactical geniuses of Italy. But it wasn't like any of that.

Both teams had played the previous day. The collective fatigue of both teams coupled with the dramatic drop in temperature heavily impaired everyone's abilities. Each touch was taken as if the players' cleats were layered in cement. The pace was slow on their tired legs, like they were all playing with sandbags strapped to their bags. Neither team could retain possession for more than five passes. Any and all offensive attempts were futile. All of the few shots on target went right to the keepers. If all of that seems underwhelming or even disappointing to you, imagine how we felt.

The sloppy and underwhelming 90-minute regulation time ended at 0-0. We went into overtime. Whoever scored first within the two 15-minute periods of overtime would win. If nobody scored, we would go into penalty kicks.

There was a fresh buzz of excitement now. The overtime whistle had brought with it an air of urgency. In the early minutes of the first half of overtime Baruch got three shots off, Deco made two diving catches at full extension, and a lightning-quick reflexive foot save. Our fans in the stands were reinvigorated, screaming chants at the top of their lungs, encouraging our defense to persevere.

Armando put more players on defense. His tactic was clear; wear down the other team, prevent them from scoring, and bring the game into penalty kicks. They practiced penalties every day and had nearly perfected them.

In the second period of overtime, Baruch did the opposite of Armando. They overloaded their offense, putting all of their faith in the risky open play of these dying minutes. Baruch would take a shot, immediately recover possession, try to get another shot, and repeat. All our players were stationed around the goal, hip-checking, slide-tackling, and throwing their bodies in front of every shot they could.

With two minutes left our defender intercepted what would have been a critical pass, and sent the ball far up the sideline into the other half where Sammy, who only had only one defender on him. Sammy sprinted forward with the ball faster than I'd ever seen him run. When the defender went shoulder to shoulder with him, Sammy threw his thick arm up and pushed the defender aside with ease. Now he was heading straight to the goal with only the goalkeeper between him and the conference championship.

The keeper sprinted to stop Sammy at the top of the box and slid as Sam connected with the ball perfectly for a shot. The shot, which must have been nearly 90mph, rocketed past the goalkeeper's outstretched fingers and towards the corner of the net. We all stood, ready to celebrate the conference championship, visions of glory and trophies and medals flashing in our heads, tears of joy and smiles and the popping of champagne bottles and the endless fame around the college, until the loud DING of the ball ricocheting off of the post brought us back to reality. No goal. The shot hit the post so hard that it traveled over 30 yards out after hitting the post and landed at the feet of a Baruch defender. He promptly turned and blindly kicked the ball as far up the field as he could. Somehow, it landed at the feet of a Baruch attacker on the other half, standing right in front of our defender. The Baruch forward passed the ball back to a teammate and turned to run, then that teammate sent a long pass towards our goal for the first forward to run onto. He took one touch into the penalty box, then with a swift flick of his foot sent the ball towards the corner of the net. Deco launched himself across the goal and stretched his whole body, his fingertips just touching the ball and deflecting the ball slightly off its original course, but was it enough? The seconds stretched into hours as the ball rolled, slow enough to be painful but fast enough that our defenders couldn't get to it, until it made its way past the goal line and into the net. The immediate silence of my team and most of the crowd was met by the crashing wave of Baruch's celebrations.

The air was colder. My breath felt hollow. My teammates had their heads down. Some sat on the ground. Deco was still face down in the turf where he had landed. I walked over to him, pulled him up, and put an arm around his shoulder as we walked back to the bench.

We shook the other teams' hands and stood with our chins up (Armando demanded we stand with pride) until the athletics commissioner of the conference called our team (including Bruno and I) up individually and put big silver runner's up medals around our necks. I tucked mine under my shirt, as did many others. It was ice-cold against my chest. Then we watched Baruch get their gold first-place medals and big-ass trophy. They celebrated. Seeing their happiness was heartbreaking, because we all thought it should have been our joy to have. 

Only in the fierce rivalry of competition can somebody else's joy rightfully bring you pain.