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The Final ShotLoading...
Francisco Goya, The Third of May, 1808Loading...
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by Sadie Leve
I stood there in the centre of the scene on the third of May. I faced the opposition, my arms up in a Y, my palms outstretched, and a look of anguish on my face that I could not hide. The obscure, sombre sky emphasized the suspense that filled the air. I could see from my position a bold intimidating cathedral in the city of Madrid. My fellow Spaniards were set motionless in red while we all awaited, clenched and with bated breath, the next shot. A row of Frenchmen wearing dark blue uniforms stood stoically on their established line. I observed their tall shadows resting in the nearly empty field. Their blank faces conveyed a clear message, one of conviction and self-righteousness. All around, people covered their eyes, some anticipating and unable to watch the events unfolding, others still reacting to previous shots, still vivid. Although my head was rushing with ideas and emotion, it was simultaneously at peace and at rest. In fact, as time seemed to slow, a single simple thought clouded my mind above the rest: would it hurt when I hit the ground? The cool breeze was the only physical sensation grazing my body at the moment. All I could hear was my heavy breathing slowly steadying as I accepted my fate, while shouts were faintly audible in the distance. My entire body was jittery but stabilized into position as I had to complete the duty that I had set out to accomplish. In the instants preceding the dreaded showdown, I became aware of the details surrounding me: a fly passing by my ear, the wind brushing my hair from side to side, footsteps daunting, approaching. The spotlight was on me. I glanced up at the structure that was framing the space around me. I heard a sharp piercing whistle. I threw myself to the left as my adversary took the shot from 12 yards away; the ball reached the lower-left corner and met my stiff gloves that pushed it out of harm’s way. By the time I reached the grass that cushioned my body, the crowd had gone wild. I realized, in that one fleeting moment, that I had made history — Spain won the World Cup.