The bright, nearly too bright, blue sky shines brightly, the sunlight reflecting sharply off the polished seats of the stadium. The sound of the crowd crashes and recedes in waves and rhythm to the game. All of them eyeing just one person — Tento Tunishi.
Announcer 1: Did you just see that! Tunishi just broke through the defenses like it was an everyday chore.
Announcer 2: But does he have time to make one more? He has just 10 seconds left to score the game winner.
Announcer 1: Making a shot in this scenario for Tunishi is child's play.
Tunishi glides down the field, he's 28 meters out now. The grass is wet under the stadium lights, but he moves as if hes going for a casual walk on a Sunday night. There are eight seconds left. The scoreboard shows, but Tunishi doesn't care. His jersey hangs off him, his eyes are serious and unreadable. Three defenders converge, focusing their lens on him. One tries to close the angle, while the other stays close on his left and the third hangs back, waiting, lurking for a moment to pounce. The crowd stirs with noise and anticipation now. Tunishi barely notices. With the outside of his boot he taps the football forward and glides past the first defender. No drama. No panic. Just rhythm. The second defender lunges. Tunishi shifts his weight, lets the ball roll, and glides past like he's dodging a slow-moving bicycle. Five seconds left. The box is within reach. The third defender steps up, desperate, but Tunishi doesn't break stride. A subtle feint, a gentle touch, and he's through. The goalkeeper moves his feet, knees bent, arms extended to the fullest. Tunishi never looks up. He knows where the goal is. Two seconds. One last touch. And then he crosses his legs and bends- rabona, from nowhere. The ball just comes off lazy elegance and dips over the outstretch gloves of the goalkeeper and just falls into the top corner of the net. The net wobbles. The crowd looms. Tunishi turns his back to the goal and walks back down the field with all the same look as if he were tying his shoes. No celebration. No roar. Just a slow walk, hands by his side.
Tunishi: This is really boring. Not bad, but I'm aware of it thoroughly. The crowd is losing it, I can both hear and feel it. It was like a film I've experienced a thousand times, same set-up, same finish. The rabona was not premeditated, it was just my body doing its thing. The space opened up, the circumstances it was the ball, and before I even processed what happened, my body just went. People are calling it brilliant, but there is no way to prove that. It was just another instinctual reflex almost muscle memory actually. At no point do I actually feel the gravity of the scenario. To me, the pitch is the one genuine hush place at that moment in time. There is nothing in my mind, with no second-guessing; only brief flashes of patterns, motion, and timing.
This moment will be reviewed a hundred times, commentators will dissect it, and the fans will argue if I intended to do that - it makes no difference. I really didn't do this for them nor anyone, for that matter. Sometimes, I wonder if I am even part of this. Everyone is so charged and is filled with fire and I'm just...still, like I stepped in the middle of a storm. I don't celebrate. Not because I don't care, but I don't find any worth in acting like it is something different; it's not. Just an event in a run of events.