The final whistle blew. The game was tied, and the winner was yet to be decided. We all knew that the fate of the game was to be determined by penalties, a soccer player's most hated fear. The entire team was nervous as our coach carefully studied each player, trying to figure out whom he would choose for this infamous task. There was a moment of silence; the kind of silence you think only exists in movies. The ephemeral moment lasted an eternity. Would he choose me? Was I to bear the pressure of representing the entire team in a lottery that could easily be lost?
             Much to my regret, I was, indeed, one of these unfortunate people. I was to be the last one to shoot, the deciding figure, the person upon whom rested the hopes and dreams of our team for reaching the final. I was lost in the nebulous world around me. I was so concentrated on how I would shoot the ball that I did not even realize it was almost my turn. The score was tied at three. If I made the penalty our team would win the game. If not... I could not even think about that. My mind was fixated on two thoughts: winning and winning. My brain had no room for more. I knew now that I could no longer delay the final verdict. It was time to kick.
             There I was, facing the ball, trying to anticipate the goalkeeper's next move. I was paralyzed. The few seconds between the time I placed the ball on the penalty spot and heard the whistle seemed like an eternity. My head was bombarded with horrifying thoughts, "Where should I shoot... To what side will the goalkeeper throw himself... What if I miss?" All my previous preparation was no longer pertinent. Now it was just me and the goalkeeper. Sweat was running down my forehead. The heat around me made the suffering unbearable. The ardent sun was burning my face. The heat, the sweat, the pressure- all were impediments to my own personal glory. As I approached the ball my mind went blank. I had stopped breathing a ...