Penalty Kick - Writers Forum

cafka · 07-03-2006, 07:38 AM

The referee raises the whistle to his lips and blows out a sharp note. The match suddenly comes to a halt, everyone’s eyes swivel in search of the committed foul.
A team mate for the home team lies sprawled halfway into the square box of the opposing team’s eighteen where he has just been tackled. Every player hovering close by on the field rush to his aid as the referee makes the ultimate signal: there is going to be a penalty kick.
There is sudden pandemonium unleashed and excited clamouring emanating from the immense crowd. The stadium today is filled with total capacity, as the divided crowd’s voice rise up as one massive uproar. Out in the city streets and busy expressways, there is little traffic movement – the sidewalks are nearly almost deserted. Nearly every restaurant, drinking bar, homely abode and working building with a TV screen is compacted with excited folks and raucous chattering noise – this is a match no one born alive is supposed to miss.
The opposing team’s captain approaches the referee just as several of his team-mates gather behind him as if in support. The captain’s plea is futile; already he knows this and takes a step back, not wanting to aggravate or give the referee another excuse for a much harsher rebuttal. Even from across the field, at the opposing team’s stand, he sights his coach stumping his feet in fury and making angry gestures, but even he knows that’s for nothing. The referee’s decision is final – even already the commentators were announcing it into every receiving station.
The game is already into its eighty-fifth minute and both teams are still goalless. But for the home players, the thought of drawing the game is just too terrifying. They know very well that things will get worse for them if ever the match ends into exchanging penalty kick-offs. They are well familiar with just how reputed and deadly the opposing team are if it ever comes to that. For them, the referee blowing for penalty in their favour is a much welcomed blessing – most of them are already feeling tired from the game.
The home-side team are given a moment to huddle themselves together to select someone amongst them who would take the shot. All around them the high-spirited tremour coming from the stadium crowd grows with enchanting immensity; it is nearly palpable enough to drown everything and anything else.
The team-mate’s eyes all fall as if in unanimous agreement upon their captain. He sees the glimmer in their eyes and knows without a doubt whom their choice is. Personally he would love to have protested, but such is not a time for any. Now was a time to be brave.
A minute later, the ball is placed in the marked out spot; the opposing team’s goalkeeper stands in readiness in the centre of the post. Behind him, numerous photographers lean into the shutter of their camera lens, wanting to capture every nuance and movement, every inch of a mile of what’s about to take place before them. High up in the commentator’s booths, lips are busy conversing into the heads of microphones, transmitting every bit of detail far out into the speakers of every radio and television that’s tuned to the occasion. Out in the city and in distant places elsewhere, there is a hushed beating of hearts, as if in readiness for the attack that’s bound to come out as a result of this match.
The captain of the home team makes his way towards the waiting ball; his team-mates along with those of the opposing side stand a short distance away in readied anticipation of the impending outcome. All round the stadium, several spectators for both teams close their eyes in muted prayer, sweat pours copiously from their brow while all around them comes a dynamic uproar of chanting.
The captain bends to adjust the ball in the marked spot, and then he takes a few required steps backward. There is a heavy trembling within his heart. There is fear, courage, anger and love beating at that moment inside his heart. He swallows a deep breath as if to stifle the beating, but it’s of no use. In a second he begs for whatever sin he has committed prior to this evening, he begs that he will do whatever penance and serve whatever needed punishment for his sins to be quelled if only he would get through this trembling heart of his.
The referee blows his whistle; the captain begins his trot towards the ball (all he sees is the ball right in front of him); there is a hushed silence all over the stadium, the silence is broken only by the fast-paced drumming of heart beats; the opposing teams’ goalkeeper leans forward, his every limbs tensed and ready for what’s about to happen.
The captain’s foot connects with the ball … he sees the ball fly into the air like a guided missile, but that’s before he closes his eyes, not wanting to see where it’s going – too afraid to see where it’s going.
Every eye, every camera in the stadium follows the propelling soar of the ball as it makes its way towards its designated mark.
Every heart gives one final piercing drumbeat …
The goalkeeper makes a well-fitted dive …
In a split second it is over – the screaming uproar rising from the crowd says it all.
The captain opens his eyes in time to see his team-mates running towards him, screaming his name. The drumming in his heart is finally over and then he chooses to smile … and then he too begins to run.

mamadivine · 07-03-2006, 03:08 PM

The referee raises the whistle to his lips and blows out a sharp note. The match suddenly comes to a halt, everyone’s eyes swivel in search of the committed foul.
A team mate for the home team lies sprawled halfway into the square box of the opposing team’s eighteen where he has just been tackled. Every player hovering close by on the field rush to his aid as the referee makes the ultimate signal: there is going to be a penalty kick.
There is sudden pandemonium unleashed and excited clamouring emanating from the immense crowd. The stadium today is filled with total capacity, as the divided crowd’s voice rise up as one massive uproar. Out in the city streets and busy expressways, there is little traffic movement – the sidewalks are nearly almost deserted. Nearly every restaurant, drinking bar, homely abode and working building with a TV screen is compacted with excited folks and raucous chattering noise – this is a match no one born alive is supposed to miss.
The opposing team’s captain approaches the referee just as several of his team-mates gather behind him as if in support - (if they’re not behind him for support, why are they gathering behind him? ‘As if’ implies to me that ). The captain’s plea is futile; already he knows this and takes a step back, not wanting to aggravate or give the referee another excuse for a much harsher rebuttal. Even from across the field, at the opposing team’s stand, he [sights -sees?] his coach [stumping-stomping] his feet in fury and making angry gestures, but even [he - he who? the coach or the captain?] knows that’s for nothing. The referee’s decision is final – [even already the commentators were announcing it into every receiving station- reword this part].
The game is already into its eighty-fifth minute and both teams are still goalless. But for the home players, the thought of drawing the game is just too terrifying. They know very well that things will get worse for them if ever the match ends into exchanging penalty kick-offs. They are well familiar with just how reputed and deadly the opposing team [are- is] if it ever comes to that. For them, the referee blowing for penalty in their favour is a much welcomed blessing – most of them are already [feeling-delete] tired from the game.
The home-side team are given a moment to huddle themselves together to select someone amongst them who would take the shot. All around them the high-spirited tremour coming from the stadium crowd grows with enchanting immensity; [it is nearly palpable enough to drown everything and anything else- this doesn’t jive with me. What are you trying to say here?].
The [team-mate’s- the home team? Clarify this and reword the sentence] eyes all fall as if in unanimous agreement upon their captain. He sees the glimmer in their eyes and knows without a doubt whom their choice is. Personally [,] he would love to have protested, but such is not a time for any. Now [was- is] a time to be brave - time for who to be brave? Also, I think the tension could be built up more in this paragraph. I’m assuming it’s the team captain of the home team who will be kicking the penalty shot. Show is apprehension. Is he sweating? Is his stomach in knots? Help the reader feeling what he’s feeling.]
A minute later, the ball is placed in the marked out spot; the opposing team’s goalkeeper stands in readiness in the centre of the post. Behind him, numerous photographers lean into the shutter of their camera lens, wanting to capture every nuance and movement, [every inch of a mile- what does this mean?] of what’s about to take place before them. High up in the commentator’s booths, lips are busy conversing into the heads of microphones, transmitting every bit of detail far out into the speakers of every radio and television that’s tuned to the occasion. Out in the city and in distant places elsewhere, there is a hushed beating of hearts, as if in readiness for the attack that’s bound to come out as a result of this match.
The captain of the home team makes his way towards the waiting ball; his team-mates along with those of the opposing side stand a short distance away in readied anticipation of the impending outcome. All round the stadium, several spectators for both teams close their eyes in muted prayer, sweat pours copiously from their brow while all around them comes a dynamic uproar of chanting.
The captain bends to adjust the ball in the marked spot, and then he takes a few required steps backward. There is a heavy trembling within his heart. There is fear, courage, anger and love beating at that moment [inside his heart- are you sure?]. He swallows a deep breath [as if- this reads weird to me here. Can this be said differently?] to stifle the beating, but it’s of no use. [In a second he begs for whatever sin he has committed prior to this evening, he begs that he will do whatever penance and serve whatever needed punishment for his sins to be quelled if only he would get through this trembling heart of his.- I know what you’re trying to say here, but this doesn’t work for me. Consider rewording/reworking this part]
The referee blows his whistle; the captain begins his trot towards the ball (all he sees is the ball right in front of him); there is a hushed silence all over the stadium, [the silence is broken only by the fast-paced drumming of heart beats- Really?] ; the opposing teams’ goalkeeper leans forward, his [every- delete] limbs tensed and ready for what’s about to happen.
The captain’s foot connects with the ball … [he sees the ball fly into the air like a guided missile, but that’s before he closes his eyes, not wanting to see where it’s going – too afraid to see where it’s going.- the shift to the captain’s POV took me out of the story.]
Every eye, every camera in the stadium follows the [propelling soar- can different words be used here?] of the ball as it makes its way towards its designated [mark- target?].
[Every heart gives one final piercing drumbeat …- is this necessary?]
The goalkeeper makes a well-fitted dive …[I feel like more should be said here. What happens? Was he close to snagging the ball?]
In a split second it is over – the screaming uproar rising from the crowd says it all.
The captain opens his eyes in time to see his team-mates running towards him, screaming his name. The drumming in his heart is finally over and [then he chooses to smile- why does he just smile? Is he stunned he made it? I’m thinking he’d have a bigger reaction.]… and then he too begins to run.

I enjoyed the story. Play up the tension and such. Hope this helps.

MamaD