Story of the Week [for the week 17.03 to 23.03.2008]

Final minutes of the second half. Soon, it would be injury time. And it would not last more than a couple of minutes. The game had been a really good tempered one, with no stoppages to speak of.

And now, his team was on its way out of the Champions League. He had had a very quiet game, his creativity stifled by the stoic defending of the rossoneri on their home turf. They gave him little room; pushed him, shoved him and cut off his supply lines from his mid-field. He was as effective in the game as he would have been sitting on the bench.

The UEFA fourth official lifted the electronic board. His team had been given a lifeline of two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds to find a goal which would seal the win for his team and get them into the finals. How he wished destiny were in his hands.

A flash of movement on his left side! Instinctively, he knew that he had to make a run. His friend, the brilliant Portuguese winger had just completed a set of seven step-overs! He knew what would follow: a Marseille roulette, a mazy run past defenders and the final killer ball into the box, where he would be at hand to tap it into the waiting net. He ran as he had never before. He knew he had to be waiting in the box for the pass when it would arrive.

He fell! He cursed the Italian groundsman who had prepared the pitch, although somewhere in his mind, a small voice was telling him it was not the groundsman’s fault. Time was ticking on even his brain now. His estimate was that around twenty seven seconds had elapsed since the fourth official had raised that sign. He knew that his amigo would have reached halfway to his destination by now. He himself was not far off where he knew the ball would come. He knew now, that when he turned around, the ball would be on its way to him; a perfectly weighted pass, that would dodge all defenders and make its way to him. And he would score the winning goal. He could sense destiny paving its way towards him, riding the ball as it brushed past the blades of grass.

He turned. And the whistle sounded! No, it could not be. There were at least thirty more seconds to go. The whistle had to be for something else! It cannot end this way, not when he was this close. It must be for a foul, he thought. And he was right. He had strayed offside! He cursed himself for not timing his run well and getting lost in thought when his concentration should have been at its peak. Just a matter of time now. It was all over bar the shouting. The Milanese were having a ball now. He could feel the joy surging through the thronging masses in the stadium and their raucous chants irked him. Of all the people in his team, it had to be him. This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to hit the winning goal, not waste an opportunity by losing concentration.

The Italian club team members started moving forward as their goal keeper came forward to take the free-kick resulting from the offside. He saw the disappointment in his team mates’ faces and he knew he was in for a hiding from the manager for his mistake. Even his friend from Portugal, who was the sprighliest chap even in the worst of times, had dismay written all over his face. He could see the beginning of a tear in his friends’ eyes, and that was what was giving the twinkle. No! It was a twinkle in his eye! He looked around to find what had made his friend look suddenly interested. The goal keeper had slipped! He had slipped while taking the free kick and the ball was out in the open. It was heading towards the wizard from Lisbon. He has one defender to beat, and I have none! Pass the ball to me, he thought fervidly.

And finally, the pass arrived. It was a simple lob over the last remaining defender and he was on his way towards the ball. He had the net in his sights and the ball was going to reach him at a nice height. Very similar to the pass that Thierry Henry had received from Zinedine Zidane in the 2006 World Cup, when he had famously scored past an immobile Dida of Brazil. He was going to volley the ball into the back of the net. Victory would be his and fans back home would break into raptures of ecstasy. A hush went across the stadium as the moment of impact of the ball on his Nike sponsored shoes approached with imminent inevitability. He was almost there. He could see the headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers!!!

The stadium was in shock for a moment. The cheering away fans had a look of amazement in their eyes. And then, as if the last bastion holding an invading army back had broken, collective cheers erupted from the home fans’ throats.

He had failed. He had hit the ball into the stands and the reason for it was the headline he had seen when he was in on goal:

“STRIKER’S BLUNDER HANDS MILAN VICTORY!!! “