Andrew Donegan · @piebald77
10th Sep 2014 from TwitLonger
Return to Keeper
As a teenager I played goalkeeper in the local youth club. The nets were tiny, painted onto the wall. There was a big fella named Bob who had a killer toe-bung on him. His shots were dangerous. The noise of the ball smacking the wall was tremendous. It was an enclosed, echoey five-a-side hall with caged windows and a squeaky floor. I hated Bob’s shots but fortunately they had a habit of going wide. That’s the thing with cannonball toe-bungers: they are not the most accurate of shooting methods. If they so much as shaved the post he would declare it a goal and start celebrating. They were so fast you could hardly tell if it was in or not half the time.
One or two of the lads referred to me as a ‘cat’ in net. This was highly complimentary, referring to my agility. I’ve held onto this experience for years and recently decided, after years of being a striker and then years of being a defender, to revert even farther back down the park to between the goalposts again. It’s down to an injury, in all honesty. But being on the pitch, in any capacity, is better than saying farewell for good.
So, kick-off time. For starters, there’s a howling wind going on, and not in our favour. First real test and it’s two on one. Not much I can do but go down and hope the first one shoots. He lays it square instead. I actually half-turn towards the goal expecting to see the ball go past me, preparing to pick it up. Rather than place it, he goes to bury it into the roof of the net. It whizzes by me and instinctively I jab it out of the air and send it over the bar. A sheer reaction save I had no right to stop. Fancy dives look good but those reaction jobs you see are the real deal. It was an actual fisty punch, knuckles rather than fingertips, and I was well happy with it. Two on one, gone to ground, got up half-facing the wrong way, and still saved a blaster. My confidence rockets.
Second incident is embarrassing. It’s a five-mile-an-hour pea-roller which slides underneath me, Robert Green-style. It was going so slow I actually lay down and waited for it. How it crept underneath, I simply dunno. Perhaps it’s because I’ve not played goalie for nigh on two decades? I heard someone moan, “Fuck me,” as I buried my face in my hands. Quite a hurtful comment to make, but well deserved. I would not speak so insensitively myself, at least not aloud. For sure I’d mumble it under my breath, but not within earshot of a keeper I didn’t even know. I’d say something like “Unlucky,” or “Head up,” or something, if anything.
Third incident I rush out and take a stonker from point-blank range in the face. I’m not one to go to ground easy, and certainly not stay there, but stay down is what I did. I threw my body on the line, I should have felt like a hero, stopping that ball is all that matters, but wow...it didn’t half...well I wouldn’t exactly say hurt (although it did), but think I prefer the word ‘disabled’. I was temporarily blinded and stunned and downright disabled. Even now, eight hours later, I’ve got a blind spot in one eye, and a little shiner. These three saves somehow sum up my whole life, however, and are nice in the memory. It's a strange old game, innit. That's why I'm hanging onto it.
I thought my comeback was a mistake, but it’ll be an interesting challenge to see how long I can keep being the keeper.