The smell of the fresh cut grass and the newly laid paint.
The rush of the crowd trying to get the best seats.
Warm-up, music pumping loud, intensity getting higher.
Coin toss flying threw the air, each captain hoping they're the luckiest.
The kick off, hen every one's nervous energy is turned into skill.
The game is close, every one doing what ever they can to get that one winning point.
Zero to zero game, point fifteen seconds left on the clock.
Defender strikes a forward hard, resulting with a penalty kick in the box.
The crowd roars, feeling like a fret train coming right through the field,
Some over joyed with happiness others disgusted with anger from the call.
Last chance to win the game, number 22 versus the keeper.
The keeper sets in his intimidation, while the forward aligns the ball perfectly on the white dot.
The whistle blows, taking precisely four steps back and one two the left, then goes forward to the ball in the same pattern.
The ball flys at a semi-fast pace, calf high, to the right side, a ball that could easily be stopped and only a foot from where the keeper started on the line...
But the keeper dove left.