We Shall Win the World Cup

I pressed my lips together, scrutinizing the green field. My Italian players, clad in blue and white, huddled, mentally readying themselves for the behemoth task they were about to face. Score these 5 penalty shots and win the 1994 World Cup, or lose and be denied the success now waiting at our fingertips, tantalizing us in the final. I strolled over to address them one by one.

“Baresi, you go first. Open with a bang.

“Albertini, your penalty must back up Baresi’s.

“Evani, if things come to the worst, we must rely on you to keep us in the game.

“Massaro, if all goes well, you will seal our victory. If it doesn’t, then you must pull us through.

“Baggio, your penalty will most likely be the deciding one in today’s game. Shoot it wisely.

“Pagluica, the Brazilans will mostly shoot at the corners. Be sure to dive the right way.

“Brazil’s goalkeeper, Taffarel, will always go for one side. It may just be a wise choice to shoot high up in the middle. Do the best you can. Up with Italy! We will win the world cup once again!”

The referee’s whistle sounded. I remained at the halfway line with my players, all of them linking arms. I crossed mine in front of me, mentally preparing myself for the colossal reckoning to come.  

The shootout whirred past.

We missed.

They missed.

We scored.

They scored.

We scored.

They scored.

We missed.

They scored.

I ran a few calculations. They jerked me back to reality.

I turned away, head down, digging into the grass with my heels. The equation for our victory was simple, cruel and quite evident. If Baggio misses, then Brazil would win. If Baggio scores, all Brazil needs to do is to score the next penalty. If, and only if, Paguica makes the final save, we would be even with Brazil once again. I held my face in my hands, the sudden uphill battle to come knocking me off my bearings.

Baggio would have to score. He would have to carry us through once again.

***

It was two minutes to the end of the round of 16. Nigeria led, 1-0. I held my face in my hands. A miracle would have to happen for us to pull though.

That miracle came. Roberto Baggio slipped the ball past the goalkeeper after receiving a cross from his teammate. He drilled the ball into the corner of the goal, leaving no chance for the keeper. Suddenly, we arrived in overtime. My hopes surged.

Roberto Baggio did not disappoint. Twenty minutes into overtime, he converted a penalty, completely tricking the goalkeeper. 2-1, the scoreboard read. Italy wins.

Then came the quarterfinals. Baggio scored another goal.

The semifinals arrived. Baggio’s brilliance shone with the brightness of the sun. He scored two goals, beating the Bulgarian goalkeeper with ease. He single-handedly sealed our trip to the finals.

***

Baggio departed for the penalty spot.

He backed up just outside of the box, just as I told him to. He sprinted to the ball, just like he had done in practice so many times before. He shot it high, tricking the goalkeeper. Time seemed to slow down.

The ball took off and flew over the bar.

My hopes, our team’s hopes, Italy’s hopes–they all crashed down that single moment, barely a second long.

Baggio stood there, head down, stunned, hands on his hips. His ponytail ceased to sway. It seemed to me as if his soul had abandoned his body. 

I shuffled over heavily to greet a pair of deep blue eyes swirling with regret. He blamed himself for missing the shot. He knew what he could be, what we all could be.

Brazilian fans rose to their feet, waving banners, cheering and hollering. The Brazilian goalkeeper, Taffarel, ran out of his goal and knelt on the ground, hands pointed to the heavens.

I placed my hand on Baggio’s shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

And without another word, we left the Rose Bowl amid the roaring cheers of the Brazilian fans, a sound that seemed to go on forever.