The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Goalkeeper" (Vratar) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

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Yes, today I'm on a roll, I feel it in my soul –

Muscovites are roaring, losing all control.

Calmly, I disrupt the play, their cheers reach fever pitch

As I pluck those lifeless balls right from the six-yard ditch.

Now the ref awards a pen, the other team's delight,

Journalists swarm that goal like moths around a light.

One alone behind me stands, bored with the game's whole scene –

He'll be taking it quite easy, that much is clearly seen!

Forgive me,

A header comes my way...

I barely graze it,

And they signal a corner play.

Their number ten steps up to strike, his run-up is a sight,

He aims to break the deadlock with all his speed and might.

The ball sticks to my hands, the crowd erupts in cheers,

Though their number ten curled it in, dispelling all their fears.

That kind of shot? I catch those in my sleep, it's true…

But then I hear a quiet sigh from someone right behind me, too.

I turn around and hear a voice emerge from the press throng:

"Sorry, pal, but you just ruined my perfect shot, it's wrong!"

"What do you mean?" "Another chance to touch the ball, you see,

But I could have had a masterpiece, a goal in all its glory!"

I wanted to tell him off,

But held my tongue in check:

That save took all I had, my friend,

I barely had the neck.

I rise, still catching my breath,

He groans, "Not again! I'm cursed!

You’d rather catch than let them score, my shot is unrehearsed!"

"My friend," I say, "I understand, but hear my plea so clear:

Kindly leave me be! Please disappear from here!

Yes, you thrive when I perform worse, I know that's how it seems,

But trust me, there's no way I can accommodate your dreams."

Now number nine charges forth, a cannon in his boot,

The journalist pleads, "Please, I beg you, let him shoot!

I'll photograph your family for life, all free of charge, I swear…"

He's almost in tears now, a sight beyond compare!

"This is football, after all,”

I tell him with a sigh.

"Each goal that's scored, it feels like

A knife plunged through my side.

But listen, just for you, my friend, a goalkeeper's kind deed:

I'll gift you the best shot ever, just concede!"

I wilt beneath his gaze, a branch under a gust,

Towards the shot I move, unsure, in hesitant distrust.

Perhaps I ought to whisper to my teammates on the sly

To smash his precious camera, teach him a lesson, eye for eye...

But he keeps moaning, "Man, that’s just cruel, have you no heart?

You could save it, sure, but please, let’s make a brand new start.

This is just a fleeting moment, a photo lasts a life.

Hold still now, just a moment, for a picture free of strife!"

Number five winds up to shoot, famous number twenty-two,

He's barely even running, it’s the least that he can do.

The ball arcs towards the right, a whistling, blurry streak,

Which means it’s heading left for me, or so you’d think…

That game we played against the wind, no chance for me to shine…

And now that photo, two by three meters, hangs at home, a shrine.

A testament to my disgrace, a constant, painful thorn,

I curse the moment I indulged that journalist, forlorn.

That tempter, that tormentor, how can I ever atone?

Now every time a ball comes near, I hear his pleading moan.

The whole match I battle with myself, my willpower sorely tried,

It seems this is my destiny, my cross to bear, my guide…

But wait, I mustn’t panic – they’re lining up for a corner… I can feel it deep inside.

Да, сегодня я в ударе, не иначе -

Надрываются в восторге москвичи,-

Я спокойно прерываю передачи

И вытаскиваю мертвые мячи.

Вот судья противнику пенальти назначает -

Репортеры тучею кишат у тех ворот.

Лишь один упрямо за моей спиной скучает -

Он сегодня славно отдохнет!

Извиняюсь,

вот мне бьют головой...

Я касаюсь -

подают угловой.

Бьет десятый - дело в том,

Что своим сухим листом

Размочить он может счет нулевой.

Мяч в моих руках - с ума трибуны сходят,-

Хоть десятый его ловко завернул.

У меня давно такие не проходят!..

Только сзади кто-то тихо вдруг вздохнул.

Обернулся - слышу голос из-за фотокамер:

Извини, но ты мне, парень, снимок запорол.

Что тебе - ну лишний раз потрогать мяч руками,-

Ну, а я бы снял красивый гол.

Я хотел его послать -

не пришлось:

Еле-еле мяч достать

удалось.

Но едва успел привстать,

Слышу снова: Вот, опять!

Все б ловить тебе, хватать - не дал снять!

Я, товарищ дорогой, все понимаю,

Но культурно вас прошу: пойдите прочь!

Да, вам лучше, если хуже я играю,

Но поверьте - я не в силах вам помочь.

Вот летит девятый номер с пушечным ударом -

Репортер бормочет: Слушай, дай ему забить!

Я бы всю семью твою всю жизнь снимал задаром... -

Чуть не плачет парень. Как мне быть?!

Это все-таки футбол,-

говорю.-

Нож по сердцу - каждый гол

вратарю.

Да я ж тебе как вратарю

Лучший снимок подарю,-

Пропусти - а я отблагодарю!

Гнусь, как ветка, от напора репортера,

Неуверенно иду на перехват...

Попрошу-ка потихонечку партнеров,

Чтоб они ему разбили аппарат.

Ну, а он все ноет: Это ж, друг, бесчеловечно -

Ты, конечно, можешь взять, но только, извини,-

Это лишь момент, а фотография - навечно.

А ну, не шевелись, потяни!

Пятый номер в двадцать два -

знаменит,

Не бежит он, а едва

семенит.

В правый угол мяч, звеня,-

Значит, в левый от меня,-

Залетает и нахально лежит.

В этом тайме мы играли против ветра,

Так что я не мог поделать ничего...

Снимок дома у меня - два на три метра -

Как свидетельство позора моего.

Проклинаю миг, когда фотографу потрафил,

Ведь теперь я думаю, когда беру мячи:

Сколько ж мной испорчено прекрасных фотографий! -

Стыд меня терзает, хоть кричи.

Искуситель-змей, палач!

Как мне жить?!

Так и тянет каждый мяч

пропустить.

Я весь матч борюсь с собой -

Видно, жребий мой такой...

Так, спокойно - подают угловой...

Vladimir Vysotsky's poem "Goalkeeper" uses a sports narrative to explore profound philosophical themes. The lyrical hero, a goalkeeper at the peak of his career, grapples with an existential crisis.

On one hand, he is a consummate professional, "on fire," capable of "pulling out dead balls." He feels responsible to his team, city, and fans, who "scream themselves hoarse in delight."

However, a conflict brews within him. The appearance of a persistent photographer obsessed with capturing the "perfect goal" becomes a catalyst for this internal struggle. The photographer represents superficiality, the hunger for fleeting fame, the allure of a striking image, even at the cost of defeat.

The goalkeeper faces a dilemma: remain true to his professional duty or succumb to pressure and "gift" a goal for the sake of a "beautiful photograph." He yields to temptation, "bending like a branch under the reporter's pressure," and allows goals to slip past.

By the poem's end, the hero recognizes his mistake. The photograph of the conceded goal becomes a "testament to his shame," a constant reminder of his lapse in judgment. He curses the moment of weakness, "when he indulged the photographer," and is tormented by the thought of how many "beautiful photographs" were taken at the expense of his defeats.

The poem compels us to contemplate the price of success, the ease with which we can succumb to the allure of immediate gratification, sacrificing honor, duty, and calling along the way.