Just imagine this for a moment: you’re standing in the tunnel, seconds before the kick-off of your professional debut. You can smell the turf. You can taste the crisp night air of an early autumn evening. You can hear the aaahhhs of an anxious crowd; they’re ready for some futbol. You can see the pitch—corner flag to waving corner flag. You can feel the stadium itself, almost as if match night brings life to the grounds, giving it a heart-pounding pulse. This is it—the “big time.” Are you ready?

As you shift your weight from left to right and back again, trying to keep your nerves from getting the best of you, the head official steps forward into the artificial light of the stadium, signaling the start of club introductions. Are you ready?

Despite the short distance, that walk to midfield occupies the longest minute of your entire life. Your mind is consumed by your new home: the screams of adoring fans, your fans; the thousands of tiny flashbulbs going off every second; and the boisterous match commentator allowing your name to roll off his tongue, making sure he holds the last syllable for as long as possible. Are you ready?

You exchange pleasantries with your opposition as a show of good sportsmanship before the commencement of the match. Then the players, and the officials, take to their respective positions on either side of the midline, awaiting the first whistle. Are you ready?

Here is where you say good-bye to the life you once knew as a church-league player—adios. Everything you’ve ever known is about to be thrown out the window. Your manager’s locker-room speech consisted of one word: composure. Stay calm, and you will succeed, earning the love and adoration of the fans. Lose it, and you will be “thrown to the wolves”—and torn apart in an instant. Are you ready?

Well, are you? You better be; here comes the whistle. . . .

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

As the clock approached the ninetieth minute, there was only one thing on the goalkeeper’s mind: save any and every shot that comes near his net—his home. After all, his team was had the lead, but a very slim lead at that. Possession had been theirs for the majority of the game, but now the opposing team had won the ball, and they were pressing hard; they were in desperate search of an equalizer.

Even though the time on the clock was slowly ticking towards 90:00, the other team did not seemed fazed; they were focused intensely on the task at hand: score once to draw level, then perhaps score once more to win it in dramatic fashion.

The goalkeeper stood, ready to leap to either post, on the balls of his feet; the palms of his hands were outstretched in front of him like two, massive shields ready to defend against a barrage of enemy fire. He could see his opponents, steadily pushing down the field, switching the ball from touch-line to opposite touch-line, breaking down his own team’s seal-tight defense.

Before he knew it, three attacking forwards were charging at him, full speed, with only the keeper between them and their prize: the pristine, white netting of the back of the goal.

As he braced for the blazing fast toe-ball, he couldn’t understand why it was 3-v-1 all of a sudden; hadn’t his entire team just been defending as a unit, keeping their single-goal advantage safe and sound for the last minutes of the match? But now it was his chance to be the hero; it was his chance to prove himself to everyone watching: his teammates, his coach, and the thousands of fans cheering him on.

Just as the game clock struck ninety, the forward unleashed a howling shot that was headed for the upper 90 on the far post: a shot that spelled game-tying goal if it goes in.

The keeper leapt into the air, his arms outstretched, grasping and tugging at the empty air, praying to God that his fingertips would find the ball. As he began his decent back to the unforgiving, green ground, he nudged the ball, bending it just barely around the post. He had done it; he had won his team the game- it was his turn to be the hero.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News