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One of my bookshelves contains a novel by the German writer Peter Handke called "The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick"; I read the spine a lot. Although I haven't read the book, it's such a wonderful title that I feel like I have, just like it seems that I have read Irwin Shaw's short story "The Girls in Their Summer Dresses." Actually, I think I did read that story a long time ago, but I can only remember the title, which proves my point. In fact, sometimes I feel like I wrote "The Girls in Their Summer Dresses."
Handke has other great titles, including "A Sorrow Beyond Dreams"; "Short Letter, Long Farewell"; "A Moment of True Feeling"; and "Self-Accusation." I've read them often—the titles—with great pleasure. But the one I come back to the most is "The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick."
I know that anxiety; I played goalie for one season in school. But I'm sure the title can be appreciated even if you have never played soccer. You can feel it, can't you? One against one, no intermediaries. The ref blows the whistle. The kicker scuffs cleats in the soil (no artificial turf in Handke’s mind), looks at all the places in the goal where you are not. Then glowers at you, searching for a shadow in your eyes that says "I don't belong here."
The kicker is feeling anxiety, too, but the title couldn't have been "The Kicker's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick," which doesn't sound right because the syllable "kick" is repeated. Even if you changed it to "The Shooter's Anxiety...." it wouldn't be as potent. The goalie has more anxiety. The kicker has nothing to lose; the worst that can happen is the score remains the same.
But the goalie can wind up with this thing in the net, this thing that only the goalie and counterpart on the other team (that distant soulmate) are allowed to touch with their hands.
The kicker is aiming at your territory, arousing your animal instincts: being scored upon is allowing your home, your nest, your lair, to be invaded. It's the goalie who risks feeling like the tearful Parisian in that famous newsreel photo of the German occupation. ("The Citizen's Anxiety at the Occupation"? No, too serious, stripping the title of metaphor; better to stick with a game.)
Handke’s title evokes other, more mundane, moments causing universal anxiety, such as: "The Birthday Celebrant's Anxiety at Blowing Out the Candles." You've felt that, haven't you? Your family and friends are gathered around. The cake is aglow. You wait for your will to coalesce as the wax starts dripping. You don't believe in birthday wishes, but you respect the power of suggestion. You're more afraid that if you don't extinguish all the candles the wish will never come true, than you are hopeful that if you do get all the candles the wish will come true. Can you muster enough wind, will you spit all over the cake? Your loved ones are silent; their lives cannot proceed until you have acted, like the crowd at a soccer match as the cleats are scuffed.
The year I was goalie, we played for some kind of championship. We lost 2-0. I was successfully invaded twice. Twice that thing wound up in my home, my nest, my lair. I remember nothing of my saves, except the taste of delicious dirt.
The first point has stayed with me; it is repeatedly posted on my mental scoreboard. A penalty kick. I followed the kicker's eyes—grass green—and lunged to my left. Too soon, too far. His eyes had followed mine following his and he went the other way. A flick of his foot and that thing went by me, pounded against the net, and whimpered to a stop at my feet. No one came to claim it. I had to clean up my own house.
The second goal was in the heat of the game, when anxiety is diluted by adrenalin. Pain came after the score, but no anxiety before. It's the difference between a rollicking gun battle and a cold duel.
Walking home after the game, I ran into a classmate. "How you doing?" he asked.
"I lost," I confessed.
"Lost what?"
"Soccer game. Two zip. I was in goal."
"Hell," he laughed, "if you had won three-two, you'd be the hero."
Another moment has just washed up on the shore of memory. The real game ended seconds before the penalty kick: The shooter stopped scuffing his cleats, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.
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