I scored a hell of a goal last week. If I do say so myself.

I wouldn't say it was the most important goal I've ever scored - while I haven't exactly left a trail of tragically broken goalkeepers across the land, I probably have bundled, flicked, driven, side-footed, curled or tapped home a shot somewhere that meant more than the first goal in an intramural quarterfinal on a balmy Sunday night, before a crowd of...a couple girlfriends and roommates. And some crickets.

OK, maybe I haven't. Nevertheless.

To make a long story short, we were having a hard time getting going against a solid team, who kept coming close on corners without managing to put one in on us. Subs are free and unlimited in this league (a good thing; it's 7 a side) so a few minutes in I subbed in. Shortly afterwards, our left back started a counterattack up the wing and I followed, careering from deep in the midfield, drifting towards the center. The cross came bouncing in from the left, across the top of the box; our forward misjudged it, (let it go, he says later.) I let it bounce across me, then Lamparded the thing ferociously back across the goal and into the side netting from 20 yards or so.

The thing about it - the thing that probably made me look like a bit of a prick, to be honest - is that I had already turned away in celebration just an instant after I hit it. I was halfway back up the line before the ball settled in the net, but that was just instinctive and gut. Sometimes you'll see a shot taken in soccer, a three in basketball, and the shooter turns away, knowing it's in while it's still suspended in mid-air. I knew that shot was pegged as soon as it left my foot.

There's something lasting and delicious about that infinitesmal slice of time, that moment just after the perfect strike. Couple that feeling of time a-hanging with the particular kinaesthetic sense of effortlessness you get when you strike anything - a golf ball, a baseball, a New York Rangers fan - on the sweet spot. I mention it because, in this same state of suspension (only slightly more drawn out) are the comprehensive exams I just finished last week, after a month and then some of studying (did ya notice?). For those not acquainted with this pleasureable academic ritual (I had to explain the deal to my father repeatedly), comps are a quartet of four-hour written exams that represent the summation of whatever you've been doing for the past 2 years here. It's the last real step before the dissertation, which promises to be a barrel of fun of a different sort. It's an oddly stressful experience - much more so than I expected it to be.

But it was also real good. I'll write more about these things in coming days. I think - think - I struck them all sweetly enough. I don't think very many people in our program get knocked back at the comps stage, in any event (now there's a jinx waiting to happen.) But with the quarter up and so no time for the requisite oral defense, they're hanging there frozen in place for another month before I get to see them hit the back of the net (to beat the hell out of that metaphor).


The game? We won, no thanks to my half-volleytastic strike. Credit the dolt on the other team who pointlessly slapped a ball on the ground, then mouthed off to the ref until he sent him off and awarded us a forfeit. Thanks for stealing my thunder-toed glory, jerkstore.

I'm off to Texas tomorrow. Already put my Yankee passport on the nightstand so I don't forget it. Talk to y'all shortly after I've had my first bowl of vegetarian menudo or something.

Oh, and so this is why I pretty much always sneeze when I turn into the sun.