From where I stood

From where I stood, I could feel the expectation welling up in me; an irrational hopefulness.

He broke into a sprint, keeping his eyes on the ball. As the ball dropped, he stretched out a foot to catch it. Then came the unmistakable shrills of the referee's whistle, signaling the end of the game, and the ball bounced off his foot. Almost like a reflex action, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the ball, snatching it out of midair and tucking it under his arm.

For a while, he stood like that, with the other hand on his hip.

He shut his eyes briefly, as though taking in what had just transpired, as though coming to terms with reality. As though realizing that it had ended; that it was at last over. As though he was trying to phrase this in the most appropriate way, but finding that it was all the same.

And he opened his eyes again.

From where I stood, I saw his shoulders heave, and his mouth opened slightly, as though he was exhaling. Or maybe he was crying within. Crying and exhaling are all the same- outlets for things that have built up in us, that need to be released.

He turned his head slightly, surveying the stadium.

And I wondered what he felt, to be standing like this on his beloved pitch for the last time. We never could grasp the meaning of something until it's over, could we? Maybe even right at the very end, we still wouldn't be able to do so. Was it reminiscence, regret, release or resignation?

I thought I saw him smile, but it was a smile laced with the slightest of sadness.

He had given his all, hadn't he? But his best wasn't good enough. He once told me that failing others was painful, but failing yourself was the worst. The past few months had been difficult, fraught with many disappointments. But right at the very end, perhaps even he had forgiven himself.

He turned and walked towards the tunnel.

And from where I stood, I applauded him.