SECONDS TO GO

Dear Spike:

You're four. That makes you a little bit squirmy. And even though you love soccer, 90 minutes is a long time to sit, to watch, to wait, to wonder. The beautiful game gives us an opportunity to practice our patience. And sometimes it tests our patience.

It did today. The U.S. national team was up 1-0 over Brazil with 25 minutes to play in the quarterfinals of the Women's World Cup when Marta — the most dominant player I've ever seen in any team sport — darted into the box, beating two U.S. defenders before Rachel Buehler caught up to her. Marta took a handful of Buehler's jersey. Buehler had a handful of Marta's. The referee called the American for the foul and gave Buehler a red card, to boot.

Penalty kick. Brilliant save. Jubilation. The Americans were down a player, but they were still up a goal. But the referee ruled that goalkeeper Hope Solo had left her line before the kick and ordered the shot retaken. The replays show otherwise, but what does it matter? Marta converts. One-one. Back down to earth we came.

Overtime. Marta again. Brilliant finish. Damn.

Your countrywomen spent the next 30 minutes knocking on Brazil's door. Were they still down a player? I couldn't tell. They were determined. They were ferocious.

And then, with seconds to go, it happened: Megan Rapinoe sends a cross to the six. Someday I'm going to teach you about this spot — the perfect spot — that forces a keeper to commit forward and pulls her dangerously off her line. The cross sails over Brazil's defenders. It sails past the outstretched fingers of the keeper. And it sails perfectly into the path of Abby Wambach, who heads it firmly into the back of the net.

Seconds to go. Seconds to go. I've been watching the replay for the past two hours and I'm still getting shivers. Seconds to go.

Kicks from the spot are a horrible way to resolve a soccer contest, but at least there is resolution to be had. I called you over to me and held you before the television screen.

"Watch this," I said. "This is history."

The U.S. converts its first shot. Brazil too.

You squirmed a bit. You're four, after all, and you'd never seen this strange game-after-a-game before.

The U.S. converts again. Brazil too.

You ran off for a moment and I called you back, pulling you onto my lap and whispering into you ear.

"Trust me," I said. "You don't want to miss this. You really don't."

The U.S. converts another.

And then ...

...

...

...

... Hope Solo.

The shot came in hard and left. Solo, arms outstretched like Superwoman, punched it away.

We leaped together in joy. You chanted with the crowd, half a globe away: "USA! USA! USA!"

After that, you squirmed no more.

The U.S. converted its next shot. Brazil too.

Up 4 goals to 3 in the shoot out, it all came down to Ali Krieger, who put her shot in the lower corner to give the U.S. women a victory.

We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down. You watched the women celebrate on the television and — for a moment, I think — you pretended to celebrate alongside them.

We watch a lot of soccer in this home. I don't think you'll remember this moment above any other. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that it'll stick with you in other ways.

For a moment you were able to clearly and concretely see the way that patience can pay off. And that is one of the most beautiful parts of the beautiful game — because it's one of the most beautiful parts of life.

Love,
dad