It Hit Like Thunder
Algeria suddenly had a break, a defensive collapse by the US and three green-shirted players danced casually into the box, all of them ready to dash the hopes of the room. The goalkeeper, Howard, made a great play and the defense recovered just enough to avert catastrophe. Everyone buzzed with nervous sighs and a momentary release of anticipated tension. We watched the clock count down from 85:00 to 88:00. The announcer spoke grimly, reminding the audience unnecessarily that the Americans would just have to push the ball down the field now, trying to keep it in the offensive half as much as they could and take whatever shots presented themselves. Slovenia didn’t seem to be offering a tying goal that would help, we still needed that one score.
The clock passed the 90:00 mark, pushing into stoppage or overage or injury time, depending on who you asked. A brash man in a ragged and ugly polo shirt lurked over my shoulder, watching the smaller flatscreen above, a little behind and to my left. He shouted unheard instructions and encouragement at the players, directly into my ear. “Come on! Still time! Still some time! We can do this!” I might have been annoyed with him in another context. Here, it was a source of comedy and an atmospheric necessity. He was a true believer, the kind of guy who really believed in Dave Barry’s concern rays. If he himself wanted it enough, it would happen. It was all he had to give, as a fan, and he gave it his all. “Here we go!” he reminded no one, slapping his hands together noisily.
Four minutes, said the sign. That was how much they would extend the match. Two hundred and forty seconds to accomplish what an hour and a half had not yielded. The play began and Howard took the ball, tossing it down to a midfielder, Donovan, and I glanced at my screen. No new crises, no new messages demanding my attention. My breakfast tray was empty, save a few crumbs and a discarded napkin. I looked back to the screen. Everyone seemed to stop breathing, narrowing eyes and leaning a few inches forward. A play unfolded.
The first shot came in and the Algerian goalkeeper stopped it, but the rebound squirted free. I didn’t see what became of the keeper, I was busy watching the ball roll lazily through two defenders who raced to converge on the loose ball. Donovan, who had started the rush up the side, came seemingly out of nowhere. I don’t know how he beat those defenders, but suddenly he was there and the ball was sailing. The sense that it could be deflected or somehow twist just off course made teeth clench and knuckles grip table edges. Time crawled.
The net rippled from the force of the ball hitting it, and the room exploded.
We jumped to our feet, clapped, and whooped. We pumped fists and high fived our neighbors, strangers or not. The noise was deafening. Then for a moment we paused and turned back to the screens. This had happened before, this had happened in the same game. They showed the replay. They didn’t mention the referees calling it back. The goal would stand. We resumed our celebration.
There was a bit more of the game, there had been less than a minute of the injury time elapsed when the goal was scored. But most of it was taken up by a lengthy protest from an Algerian player who got yellow- and then red-carded. His teammates griped some, too. The clock kept running. At last they tried to start the game, but the four minutes were over. A few unenthusiastic kicks later the whistle blew several times, marking the end of the match. Another round of applause and cheers went up. I smiled at people I didn’t know. They smiled back, with a slight tilt of the head. We’d been there for it. We knew. Go USA.
I closed my laptop and returned my dishes. I gathered the rest of my belongings and nodded silently at the guys who were standing around the tables, also packing up to go back to their cubes and offices. It felt like the end of every sports movie, where the hero finds a way to make it happen at the most dramatic moment possible. Only it had happened in real time, in real life. It could have gone the other way. That Algerian could have scored late and made Donovan’s goal a mere equalizer that landed with a dull thud of disappointment as the US walked away unable to overcome the challenge. But it didn’t. Instead it hit like thunder and it ignited a cafe full of co-workers and, for just a minute, made everyone happy to be there, glad to be working in that place at that moment, sharing that triumph with people just living their lives and doing their jobs. People just being American.
In the grand scheme of things, it was a very minor and very temporary victory. The team moves on, but the next obstacles are even more insurmountable. But sometimes you have to relish the present. Tomorrow will worry about itself, the Good Book says. Soccer isn’t even our game, Americans will tell you, but for a couple hundred Silicon Valley early-risers, it was our game. And we shared it, and the moment, together.
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