The GoalAs I dribbled down the drenchedfield,I fake left,fake right,and kick a rather hopeful efforttoward the goal.The referee blows his screamingwhistle,signaling half time."Play hard! Play hard,"our coach yells and it echoes intoour ears.I run out to the field feelingcocky or confident.As the opponents make an openingkickoff,automatically I charge the man andtake him downstill hearing the coach's echo in myears.The referee yanks out a yellow card.I slowly turn my back and wave myhand in spite, noticing the referee did notappreciate the deed,he pulls out the most feared card, thered card.I quickly run to the sidelineregretting what I did. ... Thirty seconds left and we're in a tie game. As the opponents dribble down the field I dread the thought of losing. I look at their team, making us once look like pros, and now like stumbling morons who haven't touched a ball in ourlives. Ten seconds left ... nine ... eight ... seven . ...six five They shoot wide and I grin,but out of nowheresomeone,somehow,somewhere,heads the rock ball in for a goal.At that exact momentI feel as if my hearthas been stabbedin a million places at once.Four three twooneand the whistle blows.I watch my teammates limp to thesidelinesto get a lecture from the coach,and out of nowhere,I feel something slide down myface.Perhaps a rain drop, I wonderIt occurs once more,this time it's no wonder what it is,a tear drop. by Christopher Lenz, Williamsville, NY