Decades of self-doubt and irrelevance to the world were about to be undone; the undying loyalty of their adoring fans about to be recompensed. Four penalty kicks scored and one to go. “Think about what hurts you the most, project it on to the ball, then kick the shit out of it,” were the coach’s last words echoing in his head as he neared the penalty kick mark. The plane tickets, airport mix-ups, over-booked hotels, over-priced food, anxiety medication, antacids, near mugging at the park, face paint, funky wig, credit card debt, small loan, third mortgage, vuvuzela, earplugs, ten-pound gain on top of twenty overweight, lost job, eminent divorce, loss of sleep, out-of-whack sleep cycle, lost return ticket, fake weed bought in the parking lot, lost-and-then-found wallet, lost faith, re-gained faith, diarrhea, loss of hearing, lost group of friends, street vendors, sour milk, blistered feet, and mysterious rash. All worth it, for this victorious moment. “Nothing to it, coach” mumbles the kicker to himself as he spins the Jabulani into place before the right-footed blast.