A Significant Goal

An adult may tell a nine-year-old that he’s being moved to a different country. An adult may even point out that he’ll have to leave his friends, hobbies and school behind, not that the latter would bother him too much, and be given new ones. A decent adult would even get him ready for the fact that he’ll have to learn a new language. But an average boy wouldn’t really understand at first how much all this change will affect him. Maybe he’ll realize when he witnesses the uniformed men take his furniture away to be shipped abroad. Maybe it would hit him when he was on his flight to his new house.
But for some reason, when my parents announced they were moving my sister and me to Spain, when three men came in to wrap up and take away our TV and sofas, and even when I was on my single-ticket flight to Seville, I felt absolutely nothing. I didn’t realize what was going on until later: until my first day in my new school.
The realization was like a broken arm. It didn’t hurt at first, it just left you shocked, confused and with the knowledge that the pain will hit in a matter of minutes. I finally understood that things would never be the same again, and that everything that seemed to matter in my life was left in London, never to be seen again. I felt slightly angry towards my parents: who were they to decide where I should live?! But above all, I was scared. No, I wasn’t scared; I was terrified.
The drive to school must have been the longest half hour of my life. A bunch of questions bounced around my head. What were the kids going to be like? How would I communicate? What will my teacher be like? The worst part was that it was hard to find the patience to wait for the answers. Eventually I was walked into the large school gates and was left to fend for my life.
What seemed to me like thousands and thousands of children were standing around staring at the new kids. But, thankfully, I had my sister’s hand to grasp, and her apparent confidence was all that kept me from crying my eyes out. We both slowly walked through the Spanish gazes, and made our way towards our classrooms. Unfortunately, our two years difference in age meant that she was put in a completely different building to me, and I quickly found myself alone.
About twenty students were all talking and messing around outside a classroom; waiting for the teacher to arrive. I shyly approached them, and placed my sponge-bob school bag (which is just as awesome to me now as it was then) on the floor. All twenty heads turned to look at me, and I decided to stand nervously three metres from them and lean against the wall. Several minutes passed. Two of the larger boys walked towards me, and said something that meant nothing, but vaguely sounded like English to them.
“Wachi wacho wanadoo?” is the closest letters can get to the ‘noise’ they made.
This was it. Every second of nerves that I’d been through, every terrifying question that lingered in my head and every ounce of rage that I felt towards the whole situation came together, and I could no longer control myself.
Having previously heard of my arrival, the kids were interested in me. Not only was I new to them; they had probably never really known anyone from another country. The two boys who came to “talk” to me were probably only trying to be friendly, but had no idea how to communicate and recurred to humour. But at that moment it didn’t seem like it to me, and I wasn’t exactly in a humorous mood.
I lowered my head, and burst into tears. The whole class started to laugh: they thought that the two boys had accidently said something offensive in English. Their laughter only made it worse for me.
Roughly a minute passed, and the teacher finally arrived.
Some hours later, a bell suddenly went off, and the whole class was out the door before it stopped. It was break time. I made it for the door, and started following the rest of the class through the hall and down the stairs. It wasn’t long before I was faced with a decision.
Half the class headed towards the football grounds, and the other half wandered off elsewhere, probably to chase each other around. I opted to follow the former: I’d always enjoyed football, and maybe this was an opportunity to get to know some of the guys in my class. Plus, football was a universal language: nobody would have to translate a goal or a corner.
On my way towards the school yard I had to walk past the younger children’s classrooms, of probably seven and eight years of age. They were all standing in a line, almost as if they were waiting for me, and started to get excited when they saw me come their way.
“Wachor name?” they asked, knowing perfectly well that it was ‘Matthew’, but eager to practice their vast knowledge of English. I found myself too nervous to laugh, and carried on towards the playground before losing sight of my class-mates.
Shortly after, I found myself standing by the mass of boys who were trying to organize the game. Luckily for me, the teams were already made: my class would play another class. I didn’t have to live one of those nervous situations when you’re waiting to be picked for one team or another. The boys separated, a goalkeeper was chosen for each team, and the ball was thrown into the centre of the field. My first football game in Spain had just kicked off, and I felt just like I’ve felt during job interviews later in my life: like I was being judged, and that my future depended on that judgement.
A boy from class 4-C, our opposing team, booted the ball all the way towards our goal from the half-field. The ball slowly arched over our heads, and our goalkeeper neatly collected the ball. The ball then slowly but safely made its way back up the field, but one of our players found himself surrounded by their defence and took a distant shot at the goal, missing by a mile. Minutes later, one of their players found himself in a similar situation, and missed our goal.
The game went on without any goals or entertainment. Time passed, and the ball found itself with one of the two boys who had triggered my tears not even an hour ago. He made his way towards 4-C’s defence, and decided it was impossible for him to carry on. He quickly looked up, and found me standing there looking at him. I’m not sure if it was an act of desperation or genuine interest towards my football skills, but the boy elegantly placed the ball towards me.
I had two 4-C’s almost three metres ahead of me, both sprinting to receive the ball before I did. But they didn’t stand a chance. I quickly took control of the ball, and instead of running ahead with it I turned on myself and ran towards the side of the field. I waited to be dangerously close to the line, and suddenly turned towards their goal, confusing the two defenders and leaving them behind after a short sprint forwards. Another boy approached me, and I wasn’t sure which team he belonged to: but I didn’t take any chances. I quickly stopped the ball, rolled it a metre to one side, and then suddenly sprinted with it to the other side. The boy initially jumped to intercept me, and couldn’t do much to stop me when I changed direction.
The goalkeeper was the only person left between the ball and the goal. I looked up and saw him standing still and looking slightly distracted. I needed no more convincing: a strong kick sent the ball towards the upper left corner. It darted towards the upper bar, brushed it, and firmly stroked the back of the net.
I stood there smiling, absolutely proud of my beautiful score.
The big lad who had passed the ball to me was shouting at me, and I turned to look at him. He quickly ran towards me and violently grabbed my shirt and pushed me back a forth. I had no idea what I had done to annoy him: maybe he was wishing he had scored himself, who knows? I was scared, and deeply annoyed myself: all that effort for this?
But soon I realized that he wasn’t angry, he was simply excited. Half of the team was pushing and tugging me, shouting my name, and slapping me on the back. ç

The game was over. My goal had won the match.