“A victim of the 90s,” you might assume, but it wasn’t the parents or coaches who turned me away. I was lucky, to be honest. My parents always supported my efforts with fruit snacks and soft drinks, the most a ten-year old1 version of myself could ask. And my coaches? Mostly washed-up amateurs holding on to their career by coaching youth baseball sides. They knew it, we knew it, they knew that we knew. As long as we were treated well, we wouldn’t bring up their failures in sport.
The truce endured.
At a certain point, I lost confidence on the diamond. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but a weak arm and a sluggish swing can’t help but expose your insecurities. But I carried on, doing my best to masquerade as a resolute young player. But the moments add up, and things began to change.
A misthrown ball to first that the opposition exploited. A penchant for strikeouts during crucial moments. I became preoccupied with failure and began to regularly experience panic attacks on my way to the park. They start with a bitter sweat on the back of your neck. Soon, a swelter dilates on your palms and you begin to wring your hands to distract yourself from your imminent failure. Finally, you start heaving until your vision blurs and you wake up to find yourself standing on second base with a ball in your glove and no idea where to throw it.
The feeling that your performance was the determinant factor in a result is inescapable. No matter that your teammate threw a bad pitch, or hit into a double play with runners in scoring position. You feel it’s your fault, even though games are made of fickle moments.
The game wasn’t fun anymore, so I quit.
This explains, in part, why I’m so fascinated by Heurelho Gomes, a player whose name prompts grimaces and sighs from his own supporters.
On most days, he’s a quality keeper, more than deserving of his starting role with Tottenham. Imperious against AC Milan earlier this season, he can even be world class on his good days. But then, there are those days.
Bobbles, blunders, howlers, whatever you’d like to call them, Heurelho Gomes is the definition of calamity. Venturing out of his area too often, too soon, and too late, he can’t handle powerful shots, and gets flustered on corners. Balls slip from his grasp, and he funnels shots into his own goals. It’s as if Heurelho Gomes is more an actor than a footballer, more concerned with drama than results.
His self-esteem must have collapsed by now, considering that he’s constantly trailed by his own insecurities. Just look at him, full of nerves and heavy breathes whenever the camera pans to his box. Harry Redknapp and his teammates have the look of dissapointed fathers whenever the run of play calls Gomes into action.
And when Gomes lets in a ball that he should have stopped? It’s a horrible sight.
Silently accepting his fate with pursed lips, Gomes keeps his head down, staring at the pitch that betrayed his talents, hoping not to avoid the crowd’s jeers and taunts, but glances from his own teammates. His confidence is gone.
But when he gets things right, it’s awe-inspiring. Arms aloft, he defies gravity and floats through the ether, reaching the corner of the net just in time to get a finger on a ball that deserved to be a goal. Landing, he finds the ball deflected to an opposition forward only 4 yards away. Not reacting so much as letting his muscle memory take control, his arms spread as if to request penance, and the gods answer as his chest smothers another shot as his defense lets him down. The disarray having passed, Gomes rolls the ball to a teammate and trudges back to his box, free from the weight of his position for at least a few minutes.
As he turns though, his confidence in his teammates betrays him as the ball is lost to the opposition in Gomes’ final third. He’s alerted by the crowd to the mistake, but as he turns and lifts his arms to ready himself, his hands abandon him and deflect the ball into goal.
Gomes
- Maxi Rodriguez
I gave up competitive sports in my mid-teens.
“A victim of the 90s,” you might assume, but it wasn’t the parents or coaches who turned me away. I was lucky, to be honest. My parents always supported my efforts with fruit snacks and soft drinks, the most a ten-year old1 version of myself could ask. And my coaches? Mostly washed-up amateurs holding on to their career by coaching youth baseball sides. They knew it, we knew it, they knew that we knew. As long as we were treated well, we wouldn’t bring up their failures in sport.
The truce endured.
At a certain point, I lost confidence on the diamond. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but a weak arm and a sluggish swing can’t help but expose your insecurities. But I carried on, doing my best to masquerade as a resolute young player. But the moments add up, and things began to change.
A misthrown ball to first that the opposition exploited. A penchant for strikeouts during crucial moments. I became preoccupied with failure and began to regularly experience panic attacks on my way to the park. They start with a bitter sweat on the back of your neck. Soon, a swelter dilates on your palms and you begin to wring your hands to distract yourself from your imminent failure. Finally, you start heaving until your vision blurs and you wake up to find yourself standing on second base with a ball in your glove and no idea where to throw it.
The feeling that your performance was the determinant factor in a result is inescapable. No matter that your teammate threw a bad pitch, or hit into a double play with runners in scoring position. You feel it’s your fault, even though games are made of fickle moments.
The game wasn’t fun anymore, so I quit.
This explains, in part, why I’m so fascinated by Heurelho Gomes, a player whose name prompts grimaces and sighs from his own supporters.
On most days, he’s a quality keeper, more than deserving of his starting role with Tottenham. Imperious against AC Milan earlier this season, he can even be world class on his good days. But then, there are those days.
Bobbles, blunders, howlers, whatever you’d like to call them, Heurelho Gomes is the definition of calamity. Venturing out of his area too often, too soon, and too late, he can’t handle powerful shots, and gets flustered on corners. Balls slip from his grasp, and he funnels shots into his own goals. It’s as if Heurelho Gomes is more an actor than a footballer, more concerned with drama than results.
His self-esteem must have collapsed by now, considering that he’s constantly trailed by his own insecurities. Just look at him, full of nerves and heavy breathes whenever the camera pans to his box. Harry Redknapp and his teammates have the look of dissapointed fathers whenever the run of play calls Gomes into action.
And when Gomes lets in a ball that he should have stopped? It’s a horrible sight.
Silently accepting his fate with pursed lips, Gomes keeps his head down, staring at the pitch that betrayed his talents, hoping not to avoid the crowd’s jeers and taunts, but glances from his own teammates. His confidence is gone.
But when he gets things right, it’s awe-inspiring. Arms aloft, he defies gravity and floats through the ether, reaching the corner of the net just in time to get a finger on a ball that deserved to be a goal. Landing, he finds the ball deflected to an opposition forward only 4 yards away. Not reacting so much as letting his muscle memory take control, his arms spread as if to request penance, and the gods answer as his chest smothers another shot as his defense lets him down. The disarray having passed, Gomes rolls the ball to a teammate and trudges back to his box, free from the weight of his position for at least a few minutes.
As he turns though, his confidence in his teammates betrays him as the ball is lost to the opposition in Gomes’ final third. He’s alerted by the crowd to the mistake, but as he turns and lifts his arms to ready himself, his hands abandon him and deflect the ball into goal.
“Goddammit Gomes, let us down again.”
But it wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t mine.