OPINION: Mike Harris's right boot has sent the ball spinning between the uprights with a strike so sweet it would make Willy Wonka sick.
Yet Harris does not pump his fists or raise his arms in triumph. Instead, like a golfer who has crushed a drive, he leans over and picks up the tee with the ball still in the air. The jubilation will follow.
His immediate reaction explains the kick. Harris is, as they say, ''in the moment''. So fully absorbed by the task that, at least temporarily, he is unaffected by vastly different potential outcomes - victory for the Wallabies over Wales, or bitter defeat.
Sports psychologists will search for Harris's kick on YouTube with the excitement of teenage girls looking for a One Direction clip. It was a wonderful example of poise and execution under enormous duress. For Harris, who was deputising for Berrick Barnes, that game-clinching penalty might be a once-in-lifetime experience. From the stars across all sports, we expect - even demand - that they make the clutch shots time after time.
Few have made more than Tiger Woods. Just two weeks ago, Woods holed a stunning flop shot from the deep rough on the way to winning the Memorial Tournament. Jack Nicklaus described it as the best shot in the event's history. The Golden Bear can turn speed humps into Everest. But it was enough to prompt some to boldly declare ''Tiger is back''.
Fast forward to the US Open at the Olympic Club, which is so treacherous you are not sure whether it was set up by the US Golf Association or the Spanish Inquisition. Near the end of his third round, Woods is standing over a short, but difficult, chip from the edge of the 18th green. The ball is sitting down in the second cut and there is a pronounced slope. Make it, and Woods is two over and right in the hunt. Miss and ... well, if Woods is back, he doesn't miss. Surely.
Yet, instead of a signature shot, Woods produced an ugly scrawl. A horrible chunk that squirted sideways. Once, this would have been like Laurence Olivier burping during a rendition of Hamlet. Now, it is just another reminder that Woods is back in the pack. Not yet the leader he once was.
More evidence: on the final day, Woods dropped four shots in his first three holes. No charge this time, just a funereal procession. Which did not stop the host broadcasters from obsessing over Woods's every irrelevant shot. Meanwhile, Australian John Senden occupied third place but would have been more visible in witness protection. This might have prompted criticism of the irritatingly parochial US coverage - if we were not about to endure our own version during the London Olympics.
The Olympic Club does not so much find a winner as a survivor. Webb Simpson snuck in at one over, then watched in the locker room as first Jim Furyk (from a bunker), then Graeme McDowell (from an eight-metre downhill putt) miss tough chances to take him to a play-off. No clutch kick from the sideline this time. Just another first-time major winner, and the sort of anticlimax that prompts whimsical thoughts of Woods regaining his mojo.
At the same time, LeBron James was setting up victory for the Miami Heat against Oklahoma in game three of the National Basketball Association play-offs. The problem for James is that, no matter how delicious the cakes he bakes, he is only judged on the icing. The world wants to see the man who took his talents to Miami hit a title-clinching three-pointer from a different postcode before it will admit he is fit to light Michael Jordan's cigars.
This time, with the game in the balance, James came up with a brilliant drive over an opponent followed by an underhand shot, and the extra point. A tough lay-up extended the lead to seven points with 2.19 minutes to play. He seized the final offensive rebound in a tough 91-85 victory. Which, with 29 points and 14 rebounds, is enough to vindicate James when he says his team ''executed down the stretch''.
Yet, before the series ends, you figure James is going to have to take the type of crucial shot Harris made, and which Woods flubbed. One that will end up on sports psychologists' laptops, or leave James on a psychiatrist's couch.