Being cornered by a difficult decision can be worrying. There are times when we are being demanded to choose a particular course of action in favour of another. We have this idea, this solid appreciation that whatever decision we make is going to have profound consequences. The path that our lives have been set upon wil irrevocably change and things will not be the same, ever again.
Life does that to you because it’s a bully. It keeps taunting you with, ‘Go on. Try it!’ And the more it taunts, the more likely it is that the fear venom will start to rise from the deepest pit of your everyday anxiety. The more it tells you to, “Go on and give it a go’ the more you hesitate, prevaricate, constipate intended actions into an obstinate refusal to act. If we are incapable of acting for long enough, time takes over.
I was once playing football and a very talented midfielder, with a golden boot, gained a freekick just outside of the penalty area. The game was standing at 2-2 and the opportunity presented itself for him to cement his growing reputation in Sunday-League football with a last minute winner. He knew this. We knew this. The opposition knew this. And so did the man and his Border-Collie who were the crowd. Time knew this and was instrumental in what was to follow.
It was one of those mockingly cold Sundays that had refused to let the freezing winds of winter completely go. Rain had begun to join in and was lashing our drawn-out expectations. As the moments went on, we got wetter and colder. Words of support were offered from a few of us towards the golden midfielder. The other team were offering words that were not advice, unless advice was to let the dog take it. All of this added to the tension.
The referee uttered a few words about time-wasting yet still there was no action. Our talented midfielder had dallied too long in the world of indecision. The clock was not just running down, it was racing down, rocketing down. If the kick was not taken quickly, the whistle would be blown.
At moments like these, time steps in.
In this instance, time was dressed up as a rather forthright defender who wanted to ‘get a bloody move on’.
As Golden Boots dillied and dallied, checked the wind, checked the rain, checked the position of the other teams defensive wall, our rogue defender mumbled, ‘Fuckit’ and ran up to the ball and whacked it. To be fair, he often whacked things; he was a good defender. And the pub was about to open.
I can’t remember what happened as a result of his whacking it. I can’t remeber because this is only a story that I created to illustrate the point of my dilemma. In an ideal world the ball would have sailed into the back of the net. In another world it would have missed by miles or have been saved by the keeper. In the world of Independiente, our Neo-South American football team that owed alliegience to no one other than ourselves, the ball may have gone on to ricochet into forever towards time’s coming dusk. Regardless of the intervention, nothing has changed significantly since then.
I had a very difficult decision to make recently. I had been offered a job in a school in southern Spain. It could have led to significant things. I could have been a contender. The implications of any decision could have been significant. Guess what?
Just as I was standing over the ball, petrified in indecision, the same bloody defender came racing up from behind me and blasted the ball. I watched it leave his boot, fly towards goal, be anticipated by the keeper and then…
This time, Time was not a defender but an email which I accidently sent off with a swipe of my finger as I was showing it to my wife. I was trying to prove to her that I wasn’t indecisive and Time decided to help me.