PK’s

By Jeff Zillich

~I played soccer all growing up, a ball at my feet since the onset of the mind allowing us to pull from made memories. A set of Wiel Coerver (the Dutch tactician) VHS tapes on repeat in the family room, where “no balls in the house” from my mother fell on deaf ears daily, as the Dutch had a sexiness and style to their game that can only be understood by watching their national team play, as opposed to the US National team style, which is often scarred by horrible marking, a lack of creativity in the midfield and failing to field a true elite scorer, but we won’t get into that for this story.

At my childhood home, the home in which my mother still resides today, we had a patch of grass in the front yard only wide enough at one end to hold a full sized soccer net, but just long enough to have a lead up to a 12 yard regulation PK spot. You didn’t have to look for it, as the area around the spot was worn out from the never ending planting next to the ball as I practiced PKs. I spent hours upon hours in that front yard; juggling, shooting, often times working with my Dad and many times alone. We added a spotlight off the garage as I got older. Day and night I honed my craft, as wearing out a pair of cleats was the end game. If I wasn’t wearing out a pair of cleats, cleats I always wore a size too small, I was ensuring my bare feet ended up as tough as shoe leather themselves, establishing a feel for that round ball that brought me much joy in my life, but was also ever so unkind, as it just depended on the day.

My Dad coached me through the age of 11 and handed off the reins when it was time to take the next step and play travel soccer. I always played a year ahead due to my birthday, both growing up and when it came to travel soccer. It made me a better player and given my age and the age cutoff dynamics, let me play with some of the friends I’d made through all those times on the pitch growing up.

Many a summer and fall weekends as a kid were spent with my parents carting me all over the Northwest to play in tournaments. This story hails front a time period in the U-11 to U-13 range as I remember we sported red and white puma uniforms. A sharp look. Premier league travel soccer. It mattered, especially at the time. This particular tournament was in Sandpoint, Idaho in the height of summer. Nothing but soccer and sun for a long weekend in Northern Idaho’s mountainous landscape. We had played well and managed to make it to the semi’s of the tournament. I was the best player on this team, and it wasn’t close. That wasn’t arrogance but an understanding of what all comes with that. Leadership and never quitting were tops on the list that goes with being the best. As we played in the semis on a Saturday evening, I galloped like a gazelle up and down the left sideline, unstoppable, scoring 3 goals in the process, as the keeper wanted nothing to do with me. As the final whistle blew, the game ended in a 3-3 tie. PKs ensued. For those of you that don’t know soccer, PK is short for penalty kicks. Best of 5 shots by 5 separate players for each team. The absolute worst way to end a soccer game in my humble opinion. I never understood it and still don’t. You run around for miles, often 8+ for those of us that were active midfielders, as a team of 11 putting your heart into the game, and yet the game comes down to a few chosen players from the spot vs the keeper 12 yards out from the net. I just don’t get it. Similar to the way a FG in the NFL use to win a game in OT of American football. All that blood sweat and tears, only to be decided by a FG before each team even gets the ball. Just a foolish way to end a competition. None the less, in the tradition of the game, PKs ensued on that Saturday evening in Sandpoint, Idaho.

Set the standard and chalk one up early is the mindset by most associated with the game. Send your best out first and put one on the board. All that practicing in the front yard was for moments like these. I was the leader and my team fed off my confidence. We had played above our ability and were one set of PKs away from making the final. In all those hours in the front yard, I had perfected going left with my right foot, mimicking Roberto Baggio’s semi final PK for Italy in the ‘94 World Cup. I was a dominate left foot growing up, but had worked myself to a point of strongly using both feet within my game. An approach from the left, a right footed strike to the keepers right with authority, kissing the post before finding the back of the net, as roars from the crowd ensued. That was the Baggio PK I had often mimicked, but there were plenty of other techniques practiced as well. There was the blast it right down the middle as fast as possible, expecting the keep to move one way or the other. The psych the keeper out while approaching slowly followed by a chip to the upper post. The lean heavily to the left after looking left, only to send it right just inside the lower corner of the post. Just a few of the weapons I had established in my PK arsenal.

As I made that lonely walk from centerfield to the spot, as the keeper I had beat 3 times previously awaited, I thought about that same Baggio approach I had practiced back in my front yard. It’s a bit risky, as the smart play is a well placed low struck ball on the ground to whatever corner you had convinced the keep you weren’t going to. I hadn’t decided which way I was going during that walk, a lesson I’ve since learned in my walk through life, which is to always go with your gut feel about something. “Well, what does your gut tell you Jeff?” my Dad often tells me when discussing pivotal decisions in my life. I didn’t go with my gut on this particular Saturday evening. After staring the keeper in the eyes, in a meeting of the minds only those that have played the game fully comprehend, I made my mind up. I was going right, or keepers left, using my right foot. I had put three behind this clown with my left with vengeance, yet, in that moment, I went with the opposite. As my team and coach watched with comfort behind me, assuming we’d take a 1-0 lead in PKs, along with the rest of everyone in attendance, I approached and proceeded to strike the ball. An open heeled pass with my right foot, at about 60% of the pace I was capable of, rolled along the ground, taking an uneventful bounce or two before the keeper proceeded to catch it as he had pegged where I was going the whole way. The opposing sideline and team erupted as we were now down 0-1 in PKs. My head sank. An indecisive weak footed shot to the right? A PK that he caught? How embarrassing, but even more than the embarrassment was that pit in my stomach, that feeling of knowing I didn’t go with my gut. Over thought that one big time. The lonesome walk back to center pitch ensued as I would await our fate via my friends stepping to the spot. My team comforted me, as I slowly perked up from that competitive despair while one by one, the trading of PKs led to a 3-2 victory for my team, the team I led and had failed in such a critical moment.

I remember talking to my Dad afterward and detailing what happened. He laughed, “yeah, you ahhhh sure rolled it up there.” My Dad always had a way of being honest with my game, while providing level headed comfort in reminding me it was just a game. As serious as it would get, even in high school where the never ending Mr. officials would flow out of my mouth, arguing every upper body call that went against me, inducing yellow card after yellow card, my Dad found a way to remind me it was just a game and was meant to be fun. That’s probably why he came up with the gum ball idea one year for parents. We couldn’t have been more than 7 years old, but the intensity quickly picked up as parents sat in their lawn chairs along the sideline, screaming about every play. To serve as reminder that it was a game, and was supposed to be fun for the kids, my dad bought a giant bag of gum balls, the kind you get at the bulk food section at a grocery store, and in a light hearted way, proceeded to inform the parents prior to our contest that day: if you yell at the ref or complain about something, you get a gum ball…..By mid second quarter we had parents with a wad of gum in their mouth King Kong himself would struggle to chew. The perfect fun reminder that it was just a game.

We proceeded to lose that Sunday, in the sweltering heat of an Idaho Summer to a team of thoroughbreds from Calgary, 1-2. We just flat ran out of gas after something like 5 games in two days or something insane. I distinctly remember being down 2-0, and my friend Jason scoring late second half, and barely being able to stand up as the celebration with him felt more like a relief knowing that was all we had to give. There’s nothing wrong with losing, someone has to lose in a competition, and there’s nothing wrong with coming out on the short end of the stick so long as you gave it everything you have.

I take many lesson from that experience in Sandpoint as I write this story. It serves as a good reminder that if you are a good leader, and lead with passion, never quitting, they’ll be times when you don’t have the answer or fail, but your team will be there to support you and carry the burden in the process. After all, it’s the success of your team that is the measure of your leadership. This story also reminds me that in many ways, sports are just a game, but they’re also so much more than that, as a means to teach us valuable life lessons within the spirit of competition being one of the many things sports bring us. ~