I think I was in seventh grade when I had to learn how to deal with pressure.
I used to cry too easily when things went wrong. I hated being confronted by others, not necessarily scolded, but having to argue with them. My world crumbled easily.
These memories of fragile times came back while I was reading a book by Miguel Esteves Cardoso. The phrase was:
“If you have that psychopathy of not caring about what others say, use it.”
For me, it wasn’t something I was born with, but something I eventually had to develop.
I remember that time vividly because it was when I started playing football.
I decided to be a goalkeeper, and like many things I’ve done until today, this wasn’t a decision I made after much deliberation.
I had already tried playing up front. At school, and maybe at some club that let me train for a day or two, but I felt lost on the field. As with anything you try for the first time, you’re bad at it and never know where to be. Honestly, the goal wasn’t much better, the only difference was that it was obvious I had to stay near it to defend (genius, I know).
That year, I went from a skinny, short kid to a skinny, average-height kid, standing at 1.70m at twelve years old.
So, I ventured into goalkeeping.
The beginning was okay, I definitely wasn’t good, but my height helped for the age group I was playing in. Diving for the ball and keeping it out of the net was genuinely satisfying. I loved being the one to ruin the fun. In a very unorthodox way, I improved over the course of a month or two.
After that period, my coach decided I was decent enough to play.
I was called up for my first match against one of the worst teams in the league. It was cold, I remember that well. Being the sane person my coach was, he didn’t let me start (I think that season I only did so, at most, five times).
It didn’t take long for us to be leading 3-0. I don’t remember the goals, but I do remember thinking we weren’t that bad and that sharing the joy of winning with my teammates felt great, even without playing. I was mature enough to understand my place and my level at the time (or maybe I just don’t remember feeling sad).
The game went on and was nearing its end. On the bench, we laughed and enjoyed that Saturday in a very different way from the other team sitting just meters away.
Ten minutes before the end, the coach said:
“Tomás, go warm up.”
All that tranquility vanished very, very quickly. My heart raced like never before, and my throat tightened into a knot that wouldn’t even let water through.
“Yes, coach.”
No, I’m not ready.
I got up and started the warm-up I did every day in training.
I warmed up for five minutes but wished ten had passed.
“Come on, Tomás.”
No, please.
“The game is almost over. There’s no point.”
At the time, I would have loved for those words to come out of my mouth, but words come from the heart, and I had a knot in my throat.
“Ref! We’re making a goalkeeper change!”
I don’t know if my coach noticed, but my hands were shaking.
“Be confident, kid. It’s going to be fine.”
I’d love to tell you that those words reassured me. But they didn’t.
I ran onto the field. I wasn’t about to play football, I was walking into battle, where everyone around me was the enemy. A stray bullet could come from anywhere, but they were kicking it around. As long as it stayed far from me, I’d survive.
Those five minutes passed slowly. I trembled, but luckily, the ball didn’t come near me too often. That didn’t mean I wasn’t on high alert, even when the other goalkeeper had the ball in his hands (you never know if he might score directly, or worse, make the ball come my way).
By the end of the match, I barely knew if the ball was even round.
And then, my focus paid off.
A boy, about my height, intercepted the ball at midfield and decided to boot it (I’m not using “shoot” or “cross” because I’m sure that wasn’t his intention).
The ball went up.
Up.
Up.
Up.
“It’s not coming my way, someone else will deal with it.”
It started coming down.
Down.
“It’s coming really fast.”
Down.
“Someone will reach the ball.”
Down.
“It’s coming straight at me.”
Down.
“It’s going towards the goal!!!”
And it did.
I jumped with one mission: I couldn’t let it go in. It didn’t matter how I saved it, it just couldn’t, for the love of God, go in.
In a strange, curved, clumsy, and awkward manner, I managed to knock that comet out of my goal.
Someone booted it forward.
The ref blew the final whistle.
It was over.
I was alive.
I don’t think anyone noticed, but I had tears in my eyes.
Not because we won.
Not because of the save.
But because
I
had
survived.
I took a few steps toward my teammates.
All of them, grinning from ear to ear because we had won.
My heart was still pounding.
To be honest, it didn’t feel like it was over.
The anxiety persisted.
A little while later, the coach came up to me:
“Congratulations, Tomás. You played well.”
I walked across the battlefield. I could rest.
I ended up loving it all too much.
So much that I did it for ten more years.
