Feeling stiff as a plank this morning, as I sleepwalk upstairs to feed our cat, Gepetto, before he wakes us. Playing football again after a four-week layoff is no joke.
My hamstring is playing up, so I spent most of the time in goal - a living target for any misguided shot. Quite a few got past uninvited while I struggled to focus, think smart, log on to that inaccessible software that every keeper craves: intuition or, in more technical terminology, getting it right.
Sometimes, you don't know how you saved a shot that would appear unstoppable to sober eyes. You don't really need to know why; just do it. The best saves are inspirational, illogical, far-fetched. Twisting out a leg or fist, diving mindlessly to right or left with no sense or motive; landing in shock to find the goal still yawning empty and safe. The best saves are untranslatable, unsurpassable, momentous.
How come they can't explain those equally desperate misses?
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