“GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!”

By: Sean | October 13th, 2008

Simply put, there is no greater moment in the drama of sports than the scoring of a football goal.

A slam dunk in basketball? No. Did you miss it? Just wait about ninety seconds and you’ll get another chance to see a dunk. A baseball home run? Going, going…gone! Hey, want to go get a chili dog? Nope, that isn’t it either. A bump and grind NASCAR photo finish? I’m sorry, but there is just something inherently difficult with watching a sport where the underlying anticipation is waiting for the competitors to crash and burst into flames. Bowling a perfect 300? Puh-leeze. Get freakin’ serious.

No, I would argue that nothing triumphs the sheer emotion, the sheer explosion of joy and rage and relief and release that follows when the ball lands in the back of the net. A goal is never promised–our game does not end in 54-27 score lines. It can be elusive and uncertain and even at the end of the match you could still be left with nothing. The passion that a goal elicits does not end when the teams line back up at the center circle. Listen for the songs and chants to roar triumphantly throughout the stadium in the fervid hope for another. (How many times have you said to your fellow spectators, “Great goal! Want to go get some nachos now?” None. You are too busy singing “Ole! Ole! Ole!” or wildly embracing your neighbor.) Our football heroes do not burst into flames and as for bowling, ugh, never mind.

This same emotion for such a simple act–kicking a ball into a net–translates down to every level of the game as it is played. Don’t believe me? Watch a six year old kid playing microsoccer kick the little ball between the two cones for the first time. He may never have seen a match on television before, but he knows what to do. His face comes alive. He jumps up and down. Better yet, watch his parents on the sidelines. They, too, are bouncing up and down, swept up in this perfect little moment, and I promise you that this is the first thing they talk about when they get in the minivan. Football goals can be so perfect, so celebrated, we even name them. I can’t readily think of another sport where a score is christened with its own title.

Anybody who plays the game is always searching for that Beautiful Goal; everybody who has played the game can remember their own Beautiful Goal. Mine was just a year ago. My Over-30 Third Division men’s team was playing a Sunday match and, as was the case back then, we were playing short-handed. We had eight players at the kick-off (does this sound familiar?) We soon acquired a ninth, but even then it was really just eight and a half players…yours truly was in the fifth month of a prolonged groin injury that would have healed nicely if I would have sat out for three weeks, but my desire to play overwhelmed my common sense. I healed just enough every week to hobble through another weekend match and with 1500 mg of ibuprofen, I could hold my own for about an hour. We were playing a team of police officers and DAs and, gimpy though I was, I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my guys take the field without me. We played well for being two down and weren’t breached until twenty minutes into the match. Over time the opposition figured how to use the extra men to their advantage and by the 80th minute we were down 0-4.

About eight minutes from time, our side got a good run down the right sideline and crossed it back toward the center. My 1500 mg of ibuprofen had worn off, it was cold and wet, and I was a pretty useless train wreck of a left midfielder. The ball dropped to me, about thirty yards out from their goal, and I had no business doing anything except passing it away. But I didn’t. I really didn’t even think. I took it off my chest and for absolutely no good reason I lashed out and caught it on the half-volley. The horrible stab of pain in my groin as I shot made me think my right testicle had just spontaneously combusted in my jock. I literally saw a flash of blinding light. When I regained my vision a second later, the ball was still rising with just the slightest curve to the right. The keeper dove, but to no avail. That shot didn’t drop into it crashed into the upper right back corner of the net. The absolute rush of ecstasy that followed electrified every nerve ending in my body. I couldn’t even jump up to celebrate, but I did manage a mangled roar of my team’s name as I limped back to my spot. I may never hit a ball that cleanly, that effortlessly, ever again…but even with the nagging pain that took another three months to fully recover from, “’tis better to have shot and [almost] lost [consciousness] than never to have shot at all.”

How about you, Weekend Warriors? I know every single one of you has a Beautiful Goal to share. I’d love to hear your stories and personal anecdotes.