She taps the ball.
Very gently.
It rolls forward at a speed that would not trouble a distracted toddler.
I stay where I am.
She follows it, concentrating so hard it’s almost impressive. At one point she nearly steps on it and has to windmill her arms slightly to keep her balance.
I take a step forward, just in case she falls over.
She recovers, keeps going, eyes flicking between the ball and me like she’s trying to remember which one is more dangerous.
She gets closer. Three metres. Two.
Then one.
And just as she reaches me she suddenly looks past my shoulder and says, very casually,
“Oh… I think Dave wants you.”
It’s automatic.
Years of someone shouting my name from the sideline.
I glance toward the building.
Half a second.
That’s all she needs.
The ball rolls past my foot.
I turn back just in time to see it cross the line.
She throws both hands in the air like she’s just won the World Cup.
“Yes!”
I stare at her.
She is absolutely delighted with herself.
“You cheated,” I say.
“I used tactical distraction.”
“You lied.”
“I improvised.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts,” she says, beaming. “Goal is a goal.”
I walk forward and retrieve the ball. “You’re not getting that past VAR.”
“There was no VAR.”
