89:00.  That’s the time the clock reads when I glance over.  Only one-minute left in this grueling game.  Somerset throws the worn out soccer ball in at midfield on the west side.  I shift to position myself in front of number 11, their best player.  I am so focused on making sure that number 11 doesn’t get the ball that I’m not even paying attention to where the ball actually is. 

1-1.  That’s what the score board reads as the Somerset player passes the ball downfield from midfield to her teammate.  The pass connects perfectly and just like that she’s on a breakaway to the goal with no one close enough to stop her.  I watch the scene before me play in slow motion, sprinting in a hopeless effort to catch her. 
89:20.  That is the time that the clock reads as the Somerset player dribbles across the eighteen-yard line.  Alexa, our goalie, comes off her line in a last ditch effort to stop the opposing team from scoring.   Maybe she can pull it off, I think.  She’s in good position to stop the goal.   Then the Somerset player passes the ball off to her teammate, Shawna, who is running ahead of her.  I get excited.  Offside, she was offside! There was no way two of our players were behind her.  I look over at the assistant referee.  His flag stays down.   He didn’t recognize that the player was offside.  Anger boils inside of me.   How did he not see it?  It was so obvious. 

89:33.  That is the time that the clock reads when Essie blocks Shawna’s shot with her face and tumbles backward.  The ball bounces back into play and is easily recovered by Shawna, because no other Amery player was back on defense.  Where is the centerback? That is their spot to cover.  Essie is the only player back for Amery.  Who did Coach put there when he pushed me up to defensive midfielder? That was my position.  If the coach wouldn’t have switched me out of my spot, would this still be happening?

89:37.  That is what the clock reads when the Somerset player kicks the ball into the net, right over Essie.  The ball crashes into the back of the net and the whole Somerset team leaps and cheers in excitement.  The Somerset crowd and bench goes crazy.   Every single player on my team hangs their head in defeat as the center referee blows his whistle, signifying that Somerset has scored.  Frustration builds in the pit of my stomach as I trudge back to my spot. 

1-2.  That is what the scoreboard reads when our team captain storms over to our defensive line.  “You had one job,” she yells with disgust and anger oozing out in her words, “Keep the ball out of the net.  All you had to do was kick it out!” My heart sinks as she walks back to her spot like she’s better than the rest of us with her ponytail swinging back and forth, her shoulder pushed back, and her nose stuck up in the air.  I poured my heart and soul into this game and for her to tell us it’s our fault that we’re behind is infuriating.  She plays forward.  How many shots had she missed today? It’s just as much her fault as it is any of ours.  That’s how a team works.  Teams make goals, teams miss goals, and teams give up goals together, as a whole.
89:40.  That is what the clock reads when Cami and Kaylie kick off in the center circle.  Everyone pushes up the field in a whole-hearted effort to score; to not lose this game.  I run up the field when the ball gets kicked out by a Somerset midfielder.  “Here, here,” I yell, realizing there is no one from the opposing team near me.  I chest the ball down to my foot and pass the ball up to Cami.  She spins with the ball and dribbles toward the Somerset goal.  She attempts to cut around a defender, but in the process she loses control and possession.  The defender kicked the ball as hard as she can out-of-bounds.

90:00.  That’s what the clock reads as the horn blasts.  The game is over.  I feel the anger and disappointment swell inside of me.  Time seems to stop.  My team, with slumped shoulders and heads down, saunters back to the bench.  We lost the game, but more devastating for me, I lost any and all respect I had for our captain.  She put a high school soccer game ahead of her teammates and friends, placing the blame on us instead of supporting and encouraging the team.  Even more than that, because of the words she spat at us in a moment of anger, the faith and confidence I had in myself as a soccer player, as a defender, and as a teammate was damaged.  I learned important lessons from this game.  I learned that wearing a band on your arm doesn’t make you a captain and I learned to watch what I say in the heat of anger, because what I say can affect a person or group of people more than I may realize.  I lost and gained all of that knoledge with only one irrelevant minute of a high school soccer game.