My gift to Mix Diskerud was a short story of his goal during Cupfinalen. He favorited all four of my tweets to him regarding it. Love this man.
Mix Diskerud kept his eyes trained on his Rosenborg teammates from just outside the 18-yard box, balancing carefully on the balls of his feet in case he needed to take off quickly. There was a bit of pinballing inside the box amongst his teammates, but he saw his opportunity before it arrived. His teammate passed him the ball and he sprung, hopping forward to meet the spherical object. Immediately, he noticed a Molde player moving out of the sea of blue to try and stop him. With quick and skillful movements, he simply side stepped them and their sloppy slide-tackle missed. He gave it one touch, two, and then turned to the goal, blasting the ball. Mix’s entire body swung with the force of the kick as he attempted to put as much power as possible into it. When both of his cleats met the ground again, time seemed to slow and his strong blue eyes noted the ball’s path with intent. He could tell, with the amount of force and torque on the ball, that it was heading straight for the location that his coaches always told him to place it, that spot where it’s nearly impossible for a goalkeeper to save unless they spontaneously sprout wings—that upper ninety.
Time caught up with him and he knew that it hit the back of the net before he even witnessed it do so. He jogged to the edge of the stadium, grinning with index fingers pointed skyward. The crowd cheered and screamed, the sound booming in his ears. It could have easily been overwhelming if it were anyone but him.Â
Their support fueled his energy much like Gatorade fueled some of his friends and Mix would never stop loving the feeling that he got when that happened—when that electricity zipped through his body and jump-started his system. It wouldn’t matter if he had been playing for five minutes or five hours, the crowd never ceased to motivate him to fight on. One of his teammates joined in on his celebration, hands jostling his shoulders and his slightly curly brown hair fell into his eyes. He flipped it from his face and kept smiling that smile that he knew the fans (especially the female ones) loved.Â
Mix Diskerud not playing soccer is like peanut butter without jelly or a writer without a pen. The fans knew that, his teammates (Norwegian and American) knew that and he knew that. Which was why he would never stop playing the fantastic game of footy unless he was physically incapable of doing so. And he’d be damned if that was any time soon.
