I Think Therefore I Play Read Online Free PDF Page B

from reaching my ears unhindered.
    “You’re first.”
    We both knew what he meant by that: first to take a penalty. Being first on the spot, kicking off that torture in the biggest, most incredible game that a player can play or imagine… that’s not necessarily good news. It means they think you’re the best, but it also means that if you miss, you’re first on the list of dickheads.
    I’ll go right; no left, because that’s the keeper’s weaker side. No, I’ll put it in the top corner, there’s no way he’s reaching that. But what if I get it wrong and the ball flies off into the stand?
    My thoughts were all over the place, drunken ideas at the wheel of fairground dodgems. I really didn’t know what to do, but the worst was still to come. When a match is decided in that way, one man against millions with the keeper trying to save a nation, there’s a sadistic group ritual that leads you to your fate. It’s a sacrificial procession that beckons you to jump on board.
    The two teams gather in the centre circle and the next player up has to make his way from there to the penalty spot. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s barely 50 metres, but it’s a truly terrible journey, right through the heart of your fear. The comparison with the dead man walking, pulling himself along the green mile is exaggerated and not the most appropriate, but it does get across the idea.
    I got up to head to the spot. It was my turn and I acted on instinct.
    I’ll hit it straight down the middle, put a bit of height on it. Barthez will definitely dive and there’s no way he’s getting to it, even with his feet.
    That moment really is a torment. A blizzard of agony. There’s a storm raging inside and all around you. The journey from centre circle to penalty spot was crammed with violent emotions. I opted to walk slowly. On some kind of subconscious level, I didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to take absolutely everything from the moment. I vowed never to forget that little outing that went beyond everything and turned seconds into hours and each step into a dramatic tale.
    I didn’t really succeed. A good few things passed me by, and all that’s left in my mind are a few isolated clips. I stared at the pitch, as if it wasn’t exactly the same as every other one I’d played on, as if my studs were gripping onto something softer than the usual clumps of turf. I’d had my children’s names printed on my boots and perhaps that’s the reason I was trying to move with the utmost care, to avoid doing them any harm.
    Every so often, I’d lift my head to stare at an indeterminate spot on the horizon, right at the end of the journey. Instead of seeing Barthez, I’d get distracted by the photographers’ flashbulbs as they huddled behind the goals.
    Let’s hope they don’t blind me. Fingers crossed they don’t annoy me too much.
    I was in the penalty box holding my breath. I picked up the ball. It was as heavy as the pressure bearing down on me from all sides. I tried to catch Buffon’s eye; I could have done with a nod, a gesture, a little bit of advice, anything. But Gigi had enough problems of his own to worry about and didn’t have time for mine.
    Caressing the ball was something I had to do. I then lifted my eyes to the heavens and asked for help because if God exists, there’s no way he’s French. I took a long, intense breath. That breath was mine, but it could have been the manual worker who struggles to make it to the end of the month, the rich businessman who’s a bit of a shit, the teacher, the student, the Italian expats who never left our side during the tournament, the well-to-do Milanese signora , the hooker on the street corner. In that moment, I was all of them.
    You won’t believe me, but it was right in that very moment I understood what a great thing it is to be Italian. It’s a truly priceless privilege. I never got the same understanding from the empty speeches of the