From 1.5 Metres Away: The Glove Battle and the Dream Beneath Indonesia's Stands

I write one heartbeat slower so I do not miss the moment cleats touch grass.

On a training afternoon, I stood about a metre and a half from the goal. One and a half metres from the pitch, but enough to feel the breath of the match. The air here was different from Valencia. Hotter, more humid, the sound of insects woven into the sound of the whistle. A goalkeeper stood between the wooden posts, clapping his gloves before every ball, and I could hear clearly the sound of gloves rubbing together — a sound I have heard thousands of times in my life, but this time it echoed in a place I never thought I would stand.

That was Maarten Paes. At least, that is how the news agencies have reported it in recent days. He stepped into the goal, bent low, lowered his centre of gravity, and pushed himself up. I have no precise data on his minutes this season. I am not standing here to argue about numbers. I am standing here to observe — and after many years in this profession, I have learned that some stories only emerge when a person is willing to stand still long enough.

Some evenings I choose to stay at the ground instead of going home, and in return I get a story no one has told. This evening was like that.

Another goalkeeper stood beside him. Emil Audero. The two trained together, swapped roles, passed the ball to each other, retrieved balls for each other, and neither hid his face. In football, the moment two goalkeepers share a training goal says more than a whole press conference. You can see the tension if it exists — in the posture, in the way they throw the ball back, in who calls whose name first. Here, I did not see that. I saw two men trying to make each other better, and that made me want to stay a little longer.

But I did not rush to conclusions. I do not take sides; I only record how beer spills and how a generation curses. And in this story, there is too much I need to verify before I tell you the whole thing.

The backdrop to this story is a tournament the media calls the "FIFA ASEAN Cup". Indonesia is said to be hosting the group stage, where they will face Malaysia, Singapore and Bangladesh. Further ahead lies the AFC Asian Cup in Saudi Arabia — the big target around which every squad decision revolves. And in the head coach's seat, from what I have read, is John Herdman — a man I remember well from his years in Canada, with his fast speech and eyes always looking ahead.

I tell this story from one and a half metres away. Not because I want to stand outside. Because I believe that sometimes the beat keeper must stand close enough to hear the breathing, but far enough not to ruin the moment.

***

The atmosphere around the Indonesian national team in recent months is one I recognise well. I saw it in Valencia in the years the club tried to return, and I saw it in Madrid on afternoons when Real or Atletico prepared for a major tournament. It is a blend of hope and worry — a brew only a tournament staged at home can create.

When a country hosts a regional tournament, everything changes. The press writes more. Tickets sell faster. Stands fill up. And the pressure — something no metric can measure — grows heavier.

According to the information I gathered, Indonesia will play Malaysia, Singapore and Bangladesh in the group stage. On paper, this is a group the host is rated above. But paper is one thing, and football is another. I learned that long ago, on afternoons at Mestalla when a supposedly weaker side played as though they were fighting for their lives.

The question I asked myself as I sat at the training ground that afternoon was simple: with a home tournament and an Asian Cup right behind it, how would a coach pick his squad?

The answer is usually not in what we see in the starting eleven. It is in what we do not see — in the way he looks at his goalkeeper, in the way he whispers to his assistant, in the moment he decides to rotate.

John Herdman, if he is indeed the man leading Indonesia, has a very valuable window. He can call it whatever he wants — but the essence of his job right now is to build an identity before entering a tournament where identity is everything. The Asian Cup in Saudi Arabia is not a place to experiment. It is a place to perform. And the weeks before it, within the regional tournament, are the last chance to complete a framework.

I once watched a coach use a small tournament to experiment and receive failure in return. I also watched another coach use it to build momentum and receive a brilliant season. The difference was not tactics. It was whether he knew what he was building.

With Herdman, I hear he wants to "lock down" his tactical blueprint. That is a phrase I like. It does not promise a perfect style. It only says he wants a framework where every player knows what to do when the ball rolls.

But I must admit one thing: in everything I have read about Indonesia recently, I have not found any specific tactical data. No figures on how they build from the back. No figures on how they press. No information on how their goalkeeper distributes — a detail that in modern football is one of the most important indicators of how a team wants to play.

I write that not to criticise. I write it to remind myself that I am missing information. And when information is missing, the only honest way to write is to say so plainly.

***

In the middle of the training ground, I saw many things cameras do not film, and one of them was the silence before a shot. When a goalkeeper prepares to face a shot, there is a moment when everyone — from the goalkeeping coach to the players waiting at the edge of the box — holds their breath. That moment is shorter than a second, but it contains the entire story of a goalkeeper.

With Maarten Paes, I saw him move in a very calm way. He did not try to impress. He did not jump too high, did not dive too early. He waited, and when the ball came, he took a small step and opened his body at a narrow angle.

I mention this detail not to compare him with anyone. I mention it to say that, in an environment where goalkeepers compete for the number one spot, calmness — or rather, the appearance of calmness — is an asset.

Emil Audero, on the other side of the goal, seemed more dynamic. He communicated more, laughed more, and there were moments touching the ball where I felt the confidence accumulated over years in Serie A.

The two of them, standing side by side, created a picture many Southeast Asian national teams are trying to paint: a team relying not only on domestic talent, but on players trained in Europe, bringing a different standard.

I have heard many debates on this in Spain. People often talk about "identity" in a very emotional way. But after decades of following football, I have learned that identity is not where you were born. Identity is how you play when it is hardest, and how you stand up after being knocked down.

These goalkeepers — Paes and Audero — do not need to prove they are Indonesian by speaking louder than others. They only need to catch the ball. And in a team preparing for a major tournament, catching the ball well is the most pragmatic patriotism.

What I felt from that session was a mutual respect. I am not saying the two are close friends. I am saying they understand each other's role. When one made a mistake, the other did not laugh. When one made a fine save, the other clapped. These are small details, but in a dressing room, they decide everything.

***

According to what I have read, Maarten Paes was once a mainstay at FC Dallas, and he has experience in both MLS and the Eredivisie. That is no simple journey. A Dutch goalkeeper, raised in Europe, then moving to the United States, then entering the Indonesian national team — where he likely did not grow up with the language, but carries a bloodline thread.

I wonder: how does he feel about that distance? A man moving between three continents to find a goal.

In the quotes cited, Paes speaks about something I hear from many goalkeepers once they have passed the midpoint of their careers: their ego matters less than before. He speaks about how, if the team wins, it is the team's win — not his or Emil's.

Outsiders may see that as a diplomatic line. But based on my experience watching matches and training sessions, I believe it is not just formality. There is a period in a player's career when he begins to understand that his career has a limit. Not a limit of skill, but of time. And when he realises that, he begins to play for memory, not for himself.

That is what I see in Paes. I see a man no longer racing other goalkeepers for recognition. He is racing time to be remembered.

But to be remembered, he needs a moment. And that moment usually arrives on nights when the home stands are full.

Paes speaks about wanting to lift the trophy at home, in front of Indonesia's supporters. That is not an ordinary statement. It is a statement carrying a very specific pressure. When you say that in public, you have staked your honour on it. If you win, you become a hero. If you lose, you become the one who promised too much.

I once interviewed a former goalkeeper in a small bar in Valencia after a defeat. He told me something I never forgot: "The stands do not see me. They only see the ball. If the ball goes in, I am at fault. If it does not, I am the hero. No one notices everything I did until the final moment."

That is the truth of the goalkeeper's trade. And in a home tournament, that final moment becomes many times more tense.

***

There is one thing I must state clearly before going deeper. In what I have read, there are a few details I cannot independently verify, and by my professional principle, I cannot tell them as absolute truth.

First, Maarten Paes being described as an "Ajax goalkeeper". I read this information, but there is no confirmation from the club itself. If it is true, Paes's story takes on a completely different shade. But if it is wrong — or outdated — any inference built on it will collapse.

Second, Marc-Andre ter Stegen being said to be present at the Johan Cruyff Arena with Paes. This is a notable detail, but I have found no confirmation from the club or from resident journalists.

Third, John Herdman being the head coach of Indonesia. I know Herdman very well from his time in Canada and his years in New Zealand. But I need him to confirm it, or an official federation source, before I write about him as the central figure in this story.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, the name "FIFA ASEAN Cup". This is not a title I have heard in FIFA or AFC press conferences for many years. The Southeast Asian regional tournament I know goes by a different name. A tournament being called by an unofficial title may simply be an editing error. But it may also reflect a change in the tournament's position in the international calendar — a change I need to track.

I list these four points not to undermine anyone. I list them because I believe readers deserve to know what is certain and what needs verification. In a world where any piece of information can spread in seconds, a person in my trade must be the last one to hold on to a little slowness.

***

If all the details above are true, then the picture of the Indonesian national team appears fairly clear: a team trying to make the most of home advantage, with a generation of players of European origin, led by an internationally experienced coach, aiming at a major continental tournament.

That is a beautiful picture. And I believe it can come true. But there are hidden corners in the picture that the media often skip, and by the instinct of a beat keeper, I want to talk about them.

The first hidden corner is expectation.

When you host a tournament, the fans do not just want your team to win. They want your team to win beautifully. They want domination, sharp passing, showpiece moves. And when those expectations are not met — even if your team still wins — the disappointment still smoulders.

I saw this at Valencia in the years the club played well but not well enough. The stands were still full. But on leaving the ground, people spoke in a different tone — not joy, but waiting. And waiting, if prolonged, turns into irritation.

The second hidden corner is the competition between Paes and Audero.

Everything in the papers speaks of harmony. And I believe that, at this moment, the harmony is real. But competition in football is not a static state. It is a dynamic process. When results are good, competition is motivation. When results are poor, competition easily becomes a burden.

Especially for a goalkeeper. The goalkeeper position is the most sensitive on the pitch. A defender's mistake can be covered by teammates. A midfielder losing the ball can be shielded by the system. But a goalkeeper's mistake has no one behind. The ball goes in, and people remember you.

If Paes makes a mistake in a big match and Audero is on the bench, Indonesian media will ask questions. If Audero makes a mistake and Paes is on the bench, they will ask questions too. There is no way out of this spiral unless one of them plays so well that no one can object.

That is why Herdman — if it is indeed him — must decide early. Not to eliminate one, but to define each one's role. A starting goalkeeper and a back-up goalkeeper can be friends. Two goalkeepers competing for a place can be friends. But two goalkeepers who do not know who is number one cannot be friends for long.

The third hidden corner is the combination of home advantage and team identity.

Indonesia has one of the most passionate football markets in Southeast Asia. I met Indonesian supporters in Doha during the 2026 World Cup, and I remember their eyes. They were the eyes of people who had not come to watch football. They were the eyes of people who had come to find a part of themselves.

When a team has a community like that, home advantage is a weapon. But it is also a blade. Because when you play for others, you face not only the opponent. You face all the expectations that have never been put into words.

And when the team includes players born abroad, those expectations become more complex. Some fans see them as pride. Some fans see them as opportunity. And some fans see them as a reminder of the limits of the domestic game.

I am not saying any of those views is right. I am only saying they all exist, and a good coach is one who does not ignore them. He is the one who turns them into motivation, or buries them under results.

***

I return to the story of that training session.

It was starting to get dark. Players left the pitch in small groups. Paes was among the last to stay. He practised free-kick walls — a drill I had seen Carlos Soler do at Mestalla years ago, and also one I know many goalkeepers choose as their final drill of the day.

He stood in the goal, crouched, waiting. The ball flew in, and he pushed it out. Then the second, third, fourth time. None of the saves was special. But there was a persistence in the repetition, and that is something I have learned the best goalkeepers all share.

They do not train to be heroes in big moments. They train to get used to small moments, so that when the big moment comes, they will not be caught off guard.

I remembered another afternoon in Valencia, when a young goalkeeper named Jaume Domènech stayed behind after training to practise gathering balls. He was not practising shots. He was practising basic movements — movements any player could do. But he did them with such focus that I had to stop and take notes. Years later, when he had his first big match, I thought about that afternoon. And I understood that sometimes preparation itself is the story.

With Paes, I saw the same thing. He was not trying to impress anyone. He was just preparing.

That is why I do not write about his best saves. I write about the afternoons he stayed at the ground alone. Because that is where the truth about a player hides longest.

***

But personal preparation, however perfect, cannot replace a system. And this is something I always remind myself when analysing football: no player plays alone.

If the Indonesian national team is genuinely heading to the Asian Cup with a specific tactical blueprint, then the question is: what is that blueprint?

I do not know. And I say that honestly. I have no data on how Indonesia press, how they build, how they transition. I do not know whether they play with a back four or a back five. I do not know whether they use the goalkeeper as an eleventh outfield player — a trend that has become widespread in European football over the past decade, but has not yet been widely applied in Southeast Asia.

What I do know is this: how a goalkeeper distributes says a great deal about his team. If he usually plays short to a centre-back, his team wants to build from the back. If he usually hits long, his team wants to play fast and direct. If he plays at a medium tempo, his team is probably in transition.

Paes, from what I observed in that session — and I must stress this was only a session, not an official match — has a very stable long kick. He can deliver the ball into the opposition half with controlled height and distance. But he can also play short when needed.

That sounds positive. But in football, a player's flexibility only has value when the team's system allows him to use it. A goalkeeper capable of playing short but required to hit long will look poor. A goalkeeper capable of hitting long but required to play short will look confused.

And that is why defining Indonesia's identity matters more than defining who is the number one goalkeeper.

***

There is one thing I always think about when writing on Southeast Asian football: this is a region with endless inspiration but a shortage of strategic patience.

I have followed this football scene for many years, and I see a repeating pattern. Every time a major tournament comes, a wave of expectation rises. The press writes about big dreams. Fans buy tickets. And then, when the team fails at a key moment, all that expectation collapses, and the cycle begins again.

This does not happen because the players are not good enough. It happens because the system is not built to withstand the pressure of success.

When I speak of "system", I do not mean only tactics. I mean youth development infrastructure. I mean the quality of the domestic league. I mean the environment for coaches, how they are trained and evaluated. I mean the stability of federations, how they make decisions.

In a solid system, a defeat is a lesson. In a weak system, a defeat is a crisis.

What I see in Indonesia — and I say this with respect — is a country with a fierce love of football, but also with a management pattern not yet stable enough to turn that love into lasting success.

This regional tournament, whatever name it goes by, is a chance to break that pattern. But it is also a chance to repeat it.

And what decides the difference is not the final result. It is the process. It is whether the team improves from match to match. It is whether the coach makes decisions based on data and observation or only on feeling. It is whether the players feel they are part of a long-term project or just called up for a tournament.

***

When I read Paes's statements — about wanting to lift the trophy at home, about valuing the team's win over his own ego — I see a maturity many players only reach at the very end of their careers.

But I also see a pressure he may not fully realise.

When a player speaks of lifting a trophy, he is drawing a vision. And that vision can become a chain. Because if he fails, not only does he know he failed. Everyone knows, because he said it out loud.

There is a type of player I greatly admire: the quiet type, who does much, says little, and lets others tell his story. But there is another type, no less admirable: the one who sets a big goal, announces it publicly, and then works every day to get closer to it, accepting that he may fail.

Paes is the second type. And that tells me he does not just want to win. He wants his story to have a climax. A goalkeeper who crossed three continents, struggled to find a place, and finally lifted a trophy at home in the colours of a country he was not born in.

It sounds like a film. But football is not a film. Football is afternoons at the training ground, long flights, sleepless nights before a match.

And in the time between those moments, the real stories are written.

***

I want to talk about something I rarely mention in my writing: the loneliness of a goalkeeper.

I have interviewed many goalkeepers in my career, and all of them said the same thing. None of them feels football is a team sport, at least in the decisive moments. They feel it is an individual sport, where there is only them and the ball.

And when you are a goalkeeper for a national team, that loneliness is heavier. Because you do not only represent yourself. You represent a country.

Paes, who was not born in Indonesia, perhaps feels that loneliness on a deeper level. He comes from a different culture. He speaks a different language. He may have friends in the squad, but when he stands in goal before tens of thousands of fans, does he feel he belongs here?

That is a question only he can answer. And perhaps that is why he stayed on the pitch longer than the others. Not because he wanted extra practice. But because he wanted to feel he was part of this place.

I once saw this in another player — a naturalised player at a Spanish club. He stayed after every session, not to practise shots, but to talk to the ground staff. He wanted to learn each one's name. He wanted to know who had children, who had just moved house, who was grieving. He built a community around himself, because that was the only way he did not feel like an outsider.

Paes is perhaps doing the same in his own way. And if he succeeds, it will not just be a football story. It will be a human story.

***

There is one truth I must acknowledge, even if it is not easy to hear: the article I am analysing has very little data.

I have read it many times, and every time, I see the gaps. No minutes played. No save percentage. No clean-sheet count. No distribution metrics. No analysis of how the team plays.

That does not mean the article is worthless. It has value as a piece about emotion, statements, aspirations. But if I used it as a data source for tactical analysis, I would be deceiving my readers.

I write this because I believe that in football, truth matters more than story. And the truth, in this case, is that I lack a great deal to make a complete assessment.

What I can do is tell you what I saw, what I heard, what I felt. And I can be clear about what I do not know. That is the only form of honesty I can offer my readers.

***

From one and a half metres away, I see a goalkeeper trying to find his footing. I see a team trying to find its identity. I see a nation trying to find its pride.

And in all that searching, I see something familiar — something I have seen in Valencia, in Madrid, in Moscow, in Doha. It is the pursuit of a moment. A moment when all the effort, all the sacrifice, all the afternoons at the training ground become meaningful.

For Paes, that moment may be a save in the 90th minute of a final. For Audero, it may be a clean catch in a match where he is given a chance. For Herdman, it may be a home win in the opening game.

But for Indonesian fans, what is that moment? I do not know. Perhaps they do not yet know either. That is why they come to the ground. That is why they buy tickets. That is why they sing.

And that is also why I am here, standing one and a half metres from the goal, taking notes on every detail. Not because I want to predict the result. But because I want to record the moment before the moment happens.

Every article is a heartbeat, and I am the one keeping time for a whole river of people singing.

***

In the weeks ahead, there are a few signals I will track.

First, the official squad list. Who is called up, who is left out, and what that says about the coach's priorities.

Second, the division of roles between Paes and Audero. If one of them is given the start in friendlies, that may be a sign of the staff's intention.

Third, the fitness of key players. With a dense schedule including the regional tournament and the Asian Cup, an injury could change the whole picture.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, how the Indonesian press writes about the team. If the tone shifts from hope to expectation, and from expectation to demand, that is a sign that pressure is rising.

And finally, I will track how the team plays in the first matches. Not the result, but the way. How they build. How they press. How they react when behind. How they stand up when knocked down.

Those small details will tell me more than any league table.

***

I wrote this piece over three days. Not because it is long, but because I wanted every sentence written carefully. I did not want to tell you a story I do not believe. And I did not want to pretend I know more than I do.

That is why I am clear about the unverified points. That is why I do not draw firm conclusions about matters where I have only one source. That is why I write about afternoons at the training ground instead of big matches.

I do not need the dressing room to open, as long as one fan opens their heart. And in this case, I have had Indonesian fans — people who shared with me their hopes, their worries, and their dreams for the national team. They are the truest source I have.

One fan told me: "We do not need a trophy. We need the feeling that we are on the road to a trophy." I think that is one of the most accurate lines I have ever heard about football.

Because football is not a short trip. It is a journey. And on that journey, every match is a step, and every step is a chance.

***

If the Indonesian national team gets a moment. If they get through the group stage. If they go deep into the regional tournament. If they overcome teams from neighbouring countries. Then the next question will be: is that moment enough to change anything?

I think that, in Southeast Asian football, too many moments have come and gone without leaving a trace. I have seen teams win regionally and collapse in the years that followed. I have also seen teams fail but build the foundation for a decade of success.

The difference is not in the moment. The difference is in what is done after the moment.

With Indonesia, I hope this moment — if it comes — will be the start of something bigger. Not a single trophy, but a statement that this football nation has grown up.

But I am also fully aware that hope is not a strategy. And football does not reward those who hope. It rewards those who prepare.

***

When I left the training ground, it was fully dark. The floodlights faded, and the pitch became hazy under the faint light of the surrounding buildings. A few ground staff were collecting balls. I heard them talking in a language I did not understand. But I understood their tone. It was the tone of people who had worked all day and were longing to go home.

I wondered: among those people, had anyone ever watched Paes practise shooting and thought that, one day, he would be the hero of this country?

Perhaps not. Perhaps they just saw a player training like any other. And perhaps that is the right way to see football — as a job, a habit, a simple joy.

But I cannot see it that way. I see it as a journey. And on that journey, every beat keeper must find a way to tell their story.

I found my way on that afternoon. I will not tell you about the trophy. I will tell you about a goalkeeper who stayed at the ground later than the others, and about a distance of one and a half metres that is never enough to understand a human being fully.

I do not take sides; I only record how beer spills and how a generation curses.

And that generation, in Indonesia, is preparing to write its story.