He sat in trepidation, agitating every single muscle of his body. The game right in front of him seemed so distant, like it was shown through an ailing projector. Players moved here and there, sometimes so close that he could hear their exchange of exclamations, and other times so far that they were merely blue and white dots amongst a field of green. His fellow teammates huddled close to him, their eyes also glued to the actions on the pitch. A few meters in front, the lone head coach was scratching himself anxiously, unsure of what to do next.
All around them headlights beamed overhead like mini suns in the sky. They illuminated what could only be described as a scene of absolute madness. Shouting and screaming came from every corner of the stadium as people made their best attempts in generating noise. High on nationalistic pride, they drunkenly waved gigantic flags while cheering and jeering non-stop like overexcited children in a zoo.
But all this did not matter. This was not his game. Not yet, anyway. His mind gradually drifted away from the match being played, to memories of the recent past. Of the tremendous joy he felt scoring against Ghana on the world’s largest stage. Of the pure disappointment he felt being left on the bench for the final. And of the unbearable frustration, as the clock slowly winded down in this stalemate of a game. He sighed, hopeless of any changes in these dying minutes. Clutching the eagle crest above his breast, he silently prayed to God for a miracle.
Just as he was about to close his eyes and wait out the dreaded extra-time, the loud speakers bursted into life: “Germany substitution. No. 19 Götze for No. 11 Klose!”
And the rest was history.
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