The floodlights infuse everything with a harsh, yellow light making the green of the grass look plastic and the red of the opposition shine. Beyond the pitch is darkness.
Behind me a team-mate screams encouragement.
There is a defender three meters away in front of me to my right, at two o'clock. There is another defender to my left - a meter further away, at nine-thirty.
They are irrelevant. The ball hangs in the air closer than both of them.
It is coming towards me, dropping in slow motion into that pocket of space in front and slightly to the right of my knee. The hitting zone.
I take in the wider scene.
The goal is ahead or me 15 or so metres away. The goalkeeper is too far to his left. Nine players are looking at me, or at the ball.
The top corner is there. Right There. There is nothing between my right boot and it. The scores are tied.
I can see it. See it all. See it in my head. Burned into my head. Still there, days, weeks, months, later.
I start to lift my right foot - body shape, it's all about body shape.