REFLECTIONS OF A “SUPER SUB”
It was that time of the year when the school calendar is loaded with sports. Days had literally flown and now hours were ticking away in a countdown to the D –Day. I was particularly glad that I was in the school team though not in the first eleven. In the previous years, I had warmed the substitute bench in all matches except on one occasion when I was called in the last ten minutes to replace the injured Christian.
Christian’s real name was James. If there was a person I loved to hate, it was Christian. He had a habit of looking down upon me; calling me a ‘perennial sub’ who had perfected the art of watching the game from the substitute desk.
I trained to my level best and religiously followed the workout schedule. My goal was to secure a position in the first eleven. I converted any negative word thrown at me by Christian to a force that fueled my motivation. During training, I worked extra hard and was glad that someone had noted my handwork. My coach urged me on and I surely didn’t want to lose his goodwill.
In one of the many training sessions, Christian was unfortunate to sprain in the ankle. The team doctor ruled him out of the next match in the championship. The ankle had to be given a week or so to heal. Meanwhile there was only one man to fill the vacuum - me!
The following day, our team traveled to the neighboring school which was hosting the tournament. On the way, I had to endure Christian whose foul mouth was still in form despite his injury. He reminded me to rise to occasion as the coach still had other options if I failed the team. Little did he know that anything he threw at me went into fueling my determination?
The field was full to capacity. Those who arrived late had to climb on top of trees. The odds of facing the host gnawed the team conscience. But all this mattered little to me. What mattered to me most was the opportunity to prove to the Christians of this world that I was good enough in the eyes of God who had endowed me with the football skills.
The game kicked off and soon enough, the ball fell on my path but I was quickly dispossessed and we conceded a goal. The worst thing that can happen to a team is to concede inside the first ten minutes, it shatters their morale as much as it emboldens their opponent. Worse still is to the player on whom fingers are pointed! I wished the earth could open and swallow me. I realized if I was to shrug off the Christian ghost, I had to stop the slip ups and put my act together. As the game went on and muscles steadied, I began placing accurate passes. This boosted my confidence. Soon a pinpoint pass was placed on my boot. As I positioned to hit a volley, images of Christian teasing crossed my mind. I hit the ball with such venom that it went flying towards the goalmouth like a rocket; only to hit the bar and rebound for an easy catch by the goalkeeper.
At half time, we gathered for team talk. The coach said that all departments were co-ordinating well but we needed to sharpen the attack. “No more blank shots!” he bellowed. Soon the second half was on. It wasn’t hard to restore the rhythm as our bodies and minds were psyched. We played an attacking game choreographed with sleek and deft passes. Our midfield supplied constant passes that tore through their defense like a knife on butter. I got the ball just outside the box and sent a thundering shot that deceptively seemed to go out but curled in just in time to shake the inside of their net. It was a score.
We were now drawing one goal to one and time wasn’t on our side. We continued to pile pressure on our opponents, playing deep into their half with a fanciful ball possession that made spectators to cheer wildly.
As luck would have it, I had the ball once more between my legs. I made a dummy move as if to shoot but softly passed the ball to my striking partner and continued surging forward to meet his deft one-touch with the side of my boot but the goalkeeper skillfully parried the shot for a corner that bore no fruits.
The game was in injury time when I collected the ball in our half, dodged my marker, left him for the dead and raced along the left flank with the backtracking defenders closing in on me. As I tactically ran diagonally with the ball close to my feet enticing them to commit a foul in the danger zone, I spotted the goalkeeper off his mark. With a God given instinct, I looped the ball like a guided missile over the defense and out of goalkeeper’s reach and joyfully watched it dip and bounce right inside the empty goalmouth. The referee pointed to the centre of the field as my teammates came flying all over me in celebration. At the final whistle, we were 2-1 up and I was declared “the man of the match”. As we acknowledged our fans with overhead claps, our coach tapped my shoulder saying, “Your loop has been selected as one of the goals of this championship.” I was beside myself with joy, needing no more assurance that I was squarely in the first team. James was also hurriedly limping towards me. For the first time, I expected a kind word.
It was that time of the year when the school calendar is loaded with sports. Days had literally flown and now hours were ticking away in a countdown to the D –Day. I was particularly glad that I was in the school team though not in the first eleven. In the previous years, I had warmed the substitute bench in all matches except on one occasion when I was called in the last ten minutes to replace the injured Christian.
Christian’s real name was James. If there was a person I loved to hate, it was Christian. He had a habit of looking down upon me; calling me a ‘perennial sub’ who had perfected the art of watching the game from the substitute desk.
I trained to my level best and religiously followed the workout schedule. My goal was to secure a position in the first eleven. I converted any negative word thrown at me by Christian to a force that fueled my motivation. During training, I worked extra hard and was glad that someone had noted my handwork. My coach urged me on and I surely didn’t want to lose his goodwill.
In one of the many training sessions, Christian was unfortunate to sprain in the ankle. The team doctor ruled him out of the next match in the championship. The ankle had to be given a week or so to heal. Meanwhile there was only one man to fill the vacuum - me!
The following day, our team traveled to the neighboring school which was hosting the tournament. On the way, I had to endure Christian whose foul mouth was still in form despite his injury. He reminded me to rise to occasion as the coach still had other options if I failed the team. Little did he know that anything he threw at me went into fueling my determination?
The field was full to capacity. Those who arrived late had to climb on top of trees. The odds of facing the host gnawed the team conscience. But all this mattered little to me. What mattered to me most was the opportunity to prove to the Christians of this world that I was good enough in the eyes of God who had endowed me with the football skills.
The game kicked off and soon enough, the ball fell on my path but I was quickly dispossessed and we conceded a goal. The worst thing that can happen to a team is to concede inside the first ten minutes, it shatters their morale as much as it emboldens their opponent. Worse still is to the player on whom fingers are pointed! I wished the earth could open and swallow me. I realized if I was to shrug off the Christian ghost, I had to stop the slip ups and put my act together. As the game went on and muscles steadied, I began placing accurate passes. This boosted my confidence. Soon a pinpoint pass was placed on my boot. As I positioned to hit a volley, images of Christian teasing crossed my mind. I hit the ball with such venom that it went flying towards the goalmouth like a rocket; only to hit the bar and rebound for an easy catch by the goalkeeper.
At half time, we gathered for team talk. The coach said that all departments were co-ordinating well but we needed to sharpen the attack. “No more blank shots!” he bellowed. Soon the second half was on. It wasn’t hard to restore the rhythm as our bodies and minds were psyched. We played an attacking game choreographed with sleek and deft passes. Our midfield supplied constant passes that tore through their defense like a knife on butter. I got the ball just outside the box and sent a thundering shot that deceptively seemed to go out but curled in just in time to shake the inside of their net. It was a score.
We were now drawing one goal to one and time wasn’t on our side. We continued to pile pressure on our opponents, playing deep into their half with a fanciful ball possession that made spectators to cheer wildly.
As luck would have it, I had the ball once more between my legs. I made a dummy move as if to shoot but softly passed the ball to my striking partner and continued surging forward to meet his deft one-touch with the side of my boot but the goalkeeper skillfully parried the shot for a corner that bore no fruits.
The game was in injury time when I collected the ball in our half, dodged my marker, left him for the dead and raced along the left flank with the backtracking defenders closing in on me. As I tactically ran diagonally with the ball close to my feet enticing them to commit a foul in the danger zone, I spotted the goalkeeper off his mark. With a God given instinct, I looped the ball like a guided missile over the defense and out of goalkeeper’s reach and joyfully watched it dip and bounce right inside the empty goalmouth. The referee pointed to the centre of the field as my teammates came flying all over me in celebration. At the final whistle, we were 2-1 up and I was declared “the man of the match”. As we acknowledged our fans with overhead claps, our coach tapped my shoulder saying, “Your loop has been selected as one of the goals of this championship.” I was beside myself with joy, needing no more assurance that I was squarely in the first team. James was also hurriedly limping towards me. For the first time, I expected a kind word.
Waweru Kariuki,
Four East
Four East
