2025-05-24, 04:03 PM - Word count:
In the 58th minute at The Beach, the sun was slowly setting on the Auckland coast, and the match was a boiling pot. North Shore United and Cairo City were tied 2-2 in a stalemate that was going neck-and-neck, with early goals, strong clashes, and the constant chants of an angry crowd always demanding more. Then, something happened that no one had seen coming, or maybe they had: the goal that Santiago Mitidiero had dreamed of a thousand times, but that never seemed to arrive.
The play started with a long volley from the American goalkeeper, looking to take the pressure off his area. But Warrick, steady as ever, won from above and put the ball back into the contested area. The rebound fell to Santiago, who just barely passed it back to Warrick. Chris didn't hesitate and first-timed it to Andrews, who made an epic run of almost 30 meters, breaking lines like a hot knife through butter.
And there he was. Santiago, who had been accompanying the play unmarked, saw Andrews' pass arrive like a gift from fate. He controlled it with the outside of his right foot, elegant and natural, and in a single movement, he switched the goalkeeper's post with his inside. Subtle. Clean. Lethal.
The net swelled, and The Beach exploded. It wasn't just any scream of goal. It was an explosion filled with pent-up love, pent-up anger, that desire to see a seemingly indestructible wall fall.
That scream, that outpouring of strength, wasn't just for the goal itself. It was for everything behind it. For the countless times he'd been close and the ball had gone wide, off the crossbar, off the goalkeeper's body, or straight into nowhere. For the clear chances he'd squandered, angrily biting his lip, knowing the opportunity had been there and had slipped away. Thirty-three games without scoring, with clear chances that seemed to mock him.
That's why this goal was different. It was a reward, a relief, a gesture from football that told him: "Keep going, kid. You weren't that far behind."
In the stands, a light blue and white flag waved as if it understood everything. The fans chanted his name for the first time, and Santiago, who rarely gets carried away by emotion, knelt, closed his eyes, and gripped his jersey tightly. He knew what that goal meant. Not just the scoreboard. It was his 34th game. Thirty-four times waiting, working in silence, being that dutiful guy who doesn't miss, but who also doesn't stand out.
After the game, still sweating, he said with a shy smile: "I was starting to regret it, je. But it came. And it came just in time."
And it came just in time. North Shore ended up winning that game 4-2, but beyond the result, that goal left its mark on him. Because it wasn't just breaking a drought; it was a sign that all the effort, the waiting, and the frustrations had made sense. That goal didn't change the game. It changed his soul.
The play started with a long volley from the American goalkeeper, looking to take the pressure off his area. But Warrick, steady as ever, won from above and put the ball back into the contested area. The rebound fell to Santiago, who just barely passed it back to Warrick. Chris didn't hesitate and first-timed it to Andrews, who made an epic run of almost 30 meters, breaking lines like a hot knife through butter.
And there he was. Santiago, who had been accompanying the play unmarked, saw Andrews' pass arrive like a gift from fate. He controlled it with the outside of his right foot, elegant and natural, and in a single movement, he switched the goalkeeper's post with his inside. Subtle. Clean. Lethal.
The net swelled, and The Beach exploded. It wasn't just any scream of goal. It was an explosion filled with pent-up love, pent-up anger, that desire to see a seemingly indestructible wall fall.
That scream, that outpouring of strength, wasn't just for the goal itself. It was for everything behind it. For the countless times he'd been close and the ball had gone wide, off the crossbar, off the goalkeeper's body, or straight into nowhere. For the clear chances he'd squandered, angrily biting his lip, knowing the opportunity had been there and had slipped away. Thirty-three games without scoring, with clear chances that seemed to mock him.
That's why this goal was different. It was a reward, a relief, a gesture from football that told him: "Keep going, kid. You weren't that far behind."
In the stands, a light blue and white flag waved as if it understood everything. The fans chanted his name for the first time, and Santiago, who rarely gets carried away by emotion, knelt, closed his eyes, and gripped his jersey tightly. He knew what that goal meant. Not just the scoreboard. It was his 34th game. Thirty-four times waiting, working in silence, being that dutiful guy who doesn't miss, but who also doesn't stand out.
After the game, still sweating, he said with a shy smile: "I was starting to regret it, je. But it came. And it came just in time."
And it came just in time. North Shore ended up winning that game 4-2, but beyond the result, that goal left its mark on him. Because it wasn't just breaking a drought; it was a sign that all the effort, the waiting, and the frustrations had made sense. That goal didn't change the game. It changed his soul.
![[Image: 2REKk3q.png]](https://i.imgur.com/2REKk3q.png)
