We've all been there: down a goal in the dying stages, you desperately search for a way through a bunkering defense. Players in the opposing color are seemingly everywhere, breaking up every pass, tackling the ball off your best attacker, flummoxing every chance with superhuman feats of agility. Finally, you find it: a bit of space at the edge of the box, the perfect place for a curled shot to the far post. You mash the buttons like a morphine addict laid up in a hospital bed after back surgery. The ball flies—for all the world looking true—and you prematurely jump off your couch to celebrate what is surely the goal that will bring you level against some guy from California that deserves to lose because he picked Barcelona.
