The Spectators

The all important ball is right next to his shiny boots
Not a single tyrannous marker is standing in his way
His way is as clear as purified water to the naked eyes
No mountains, no gullies, as any true plain could be 
Even the goal posts are surely at his mercy alone
They are standing as helplessly as a disarmed hostile
The keeper is clearly wetting his unfortunate pants
For from the comfort of the stands we can see it all
We are anticipating that most important moment
When the goal that separates men from boys comes
All signs point most promisingly to what is about to unfold  
Our legs are ready to spring the rest of the body skyward
But to our monumental confusion and wonderment
He sends the ball flying wildly away from the goal posts
With our eyes we all follow the ball till it is confirmed
That indeed the ball is not inside the net, it is not a goal 
Such an act of carelessly kicking a bucket of precious milk
That has just robbed us of elation and lent us groans
Joys which were about to burst out of our chests
Have faced a cruel suppression of disappointment
Our hands have been stopped dead in their tracks
For they were about to fly into the air in jubilation
Our eyes are as wide as the full moon in amazement
Even the teeth are staring out of our mouths in disbelief
Over and over again, crestfallen, dumbfounded we ask
How could he possibly fail to slot that ball home?
How could anyone fail to ease the ball into the net
When all it needed was a simple nudge toward the goal?