Here I am; waiting, watching, hunting, stalking the ball, but I'm not the only one. Onlookers in the stands, players in the water, coaches on deck, and even sideline benchwarmers are hoping for a team member who is brave enough to take a shot. The pressure is on Offense to break the tie. The defensive goalie will have to face me. I'm not afraid.

I grab the ball and charge quickly. Goalie starts to look scrawny, and low-treading. Her team tries to press us out as hard as possible.   . . . Can’t blame them. That's how teams should be. It keeps the game interesting. For some this method works, others not so much. I’m determined it won't this time. Their coach shouts different plays a mile a minute, like a sergeant taking roll. Though we’re all exhausted, I already know our team will be victorious.

It starts drizzling. The sky seems as if it were filled with fireflies drifting downward. It’s the stadium lights. The “fireflies” land, then dissipate. I'm awakened by fans shouting, “SHOOT!” They’re yelling for me to take the lead. I decide to pump fake: one pump, two pump, three pump, and shoot. I feel energy surge through my arm as it releases into the ball. The orb soars. All else is still and quiet. The glorious arc ends with the ball swishing into the goal, landing with a hard thump. I love that sound. Things are up to speed: the crowd cheering my name, my friends congratulating me, the coach elated, and teammates patting my back.

“Only five seconds left!” I hear from the player to my right. “Hold the ball!,” another shouts. The last five seem an eternity as the goalie grasps the ball. “Buzzzzzzz!” screams the ear-shattering alarm. The final quarter is history.  For a moment in time, we’re the champions.