After 50 years of playing soccer, I faced the moment I dreaded

I cover all kinds of sports for the Observer, but soccer is my first love. Not just to watch and write about, but also to play. I’ve played organized soccer most of my life – middle school, through high school and college and, still, at age 59, in adult leagues and tournaments.

I’ve had my share of success and memorable moments in the game. Played on a state championship team at Chapel Hill High. Made all-conference four times at Guilford College and played every minute of what was at the time the longest college soccer game in history (10 overtimes, 190-plus minutes in a 4-3 victory against Pfeiffer). Coached Lenoir-Rhyne’s team in 1978 (record: 0-7-2). Last summer, my team won the U.S. Adult Soccer Association’s Veterans Cup over-55 division. If that sounds like a national championship, well, it is.

As a defender, which I’ve been since college, my job obviously is to prevent goals from being scored. I have scored some of my own. But one thing I could always claim was that I never had an “own-goal” – accidentally scoring a goal for the opposition.

It’s soccer’s version of scoring a basket for the other team, but, with goals at a premium, the impact is much greater than it would be in a basketball game. You see it every once in a while; it can happen to any soccer player. You might see it more often in youth soccer as kids learn the game and sometimes kick wildly, but it happens even at the World Cup.

My thoughts when I see an own-goal are usually, “There but by the grace of God go I,” or, more likely, “Better him than me.”

Then I did it.

Our opposition last Sunday afternoon in a Charlotte Premier Soccer League game was the wonderfully named Real Lyold (read that closely). As a Real Lyold corner kick came in, I positioned myself between the player I was covering and the goal. It was an excellent ball – a line drive bending dangerously toward the goal’s near post.

I’ve been in that position as a defender too many times to count. I had to deal with a tough ball, with a player who is extremely dangerous in the penalty box half a step behind me and closing fast. But a safe header away from the goal or over the end line takes care of it.

This time, I couldn’t angle myself correctly to the path of the ball. Before I could react, I headed the ball straight into our goal. It was a great header, with a lot of power and misdirected accuracy. Too bad it was in the wrong goal. In the split-second that I headed the ball, I knew it was going the wrong way and there was nothing I could do about it. Our goalkeeper Max didn’t have a chance.

I fell to the ground, pumping my fists in embarrassment. My teammates (as well as most of the Real Lyold players, all of whom are also my friends), thought it was about the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

I got the predictable hard time from everybody after the game. We actually had another own-goal later (no names), but ended up winning 3-2 anyway.

My own-goal? I hope it never happens again.

This story was originally published May 2, 2015 at 2:00 AM with the headline "After 50 years of playing soccer, I faced the moment I dreaded."