A Saturday afternoon,

My junior girl’s soccer team

Faced J. L. Crowe’s.

Both teams fought drastically

And hard during the first half.

Until a corner kick,

 The score was 0 – 0.

Crowe had gotten possession of the ball,

Allowing a corner kick to come into place.

Everyone on

And off the field grew tense,

 Scared,

 And impatient.

Would Crowe manage to get control of the ball and be the first to score?

We wondered this.

We all had dreaded this thought,

Of our rivals,

Crowe,

Scoring the first goal.

Growing stiff,

Unable to move,

My team had become.

Then it happened…

Crowe kicked the ball.

Everyone on both teams,

But a Crowe girl and me,

Were as stiff as statues.

I go for the ball,

Trying to direct it.

But instead,

It soars off the side of my left foot,

And whizzes right into the goal.

At that moment,

Crowe had the lead.

1 – 0, the score was.

In shock,

Girls were staring,

 Either at the net,

 Or me.

Of course,

 Most of my team had blamed me…

But,

 Where was my defence,

 My great goalie?

As the kick happened,

Everyone but me,

 Was dead still,

Including the goalie.

So,

How could I be blamed for something that I was trying to prevent?

 I was hurt,

Sad,

Mad at the girls,

 And mad at myself,

 But ignored it.

The end score though,

Came to an awful 4 – 0,

For Crowe.