It was early evening and the temperature in the western Polish city had cooled a little and the setting sun gave the whole place an almost Mediterranean air. Acosta bounded into the teams changing room wearing an exquisite pair of handmade blue and gold silken football socks a gift from his husband Xavier who was currently on tour with his flamenco band somewhere in India. The young winger struck a pose to show them off and his team mates wolf whistled.
Pastore was on the floor doing some last minute pre match press ups the powerful Argentine attacking midfielder looked stronger and fitter than ever largely due to the fact that under his managers advice he had practiced total sexual abstinence for the 3 months leading up to tonight’s game and the explosive right footed attacker was primed and ready to explode one way or another in the coming 90 minutes.
Mr Sempleton was stood next to Signor Robbiati wearing his spanking new suit and matching deerstalker in the colours of Rio Grandé. He had felt great honour when Signor Robbiati had told him that he had been appointed as a member of the coaching staff even though he was still struggling to grasp the finer details of the game and kept shouting lbw or Howzat during recent training sessions.
The English detective leant over and asked Robbiati who was busy fiddling about trying to pin the team sheet to the cork tactic board with little success, if they would be taking tea and cake at half time. Trying his best not to be irritable with Mr Sempleton he suggested to José his assistant manager that maybe he could take the Englishman with him to collect and count the half time oranges from the stadium canteen.
They retuned a few minutes later and José looked over at Signor Robbiati and said “Rolando these look like excellent oranges sweet and juicy I’d say.”
“Who is Rolando?” asked Mr Sempleton and José rolling his eyes skyward pointed at Signor Robbiati.
“Oh I see that is your name” said the English detective losing count of the oranges for the tenth time.
A huge cheer erupted around the dressing room as in cycled Suarez on the fully restored elegant blue Mirabella a grin spread across his face. The rest of the team sang “Viva Suarez, Viva Mirabella, Viva Rio Grandé, Viva Don Blanco.”
Signor Robbiati raised his hand and called for quiet and concentration as the minutes until kick off ran down. Pointing the long vintage Fidelito castrato cigar (a gift from the Don for winning the Coppa Della Magico six years ago) at the tactics board that he had finally with great effort managed to pin the team sheet to; he addressed his players.
“My brave brave Rio Grandeans,
Tonight the world will watch us as we fly like condors, twist and turn like the great rivers of Rio Grandé. We must flood the opposition with the beauty of óle football, yet not commit a foul as we must honour the life of Don Blanco and the people of our beloved nation who toil under the evil dictatorship of Generale Baratopolippo. Now go my boys and win for dear Don Blanco.”
Mr Sempleton stood back up and examined the team sheet a little closer, he thought he must have been imagining but there was his name on the team sheet in what appeared to be the wicket keepers position.
“Er ah hello Signor Robbiati it seems that you have made a mistake my name is in the wicket keepers’ position am I playing?”
Rolando touched the confused looking Englishman on the shoulder and said “goalkeeper that is the position my friend and yes I am afraid due to unforeseen circumstances we have no keeper, you will be fine.” Then handed the poor detective a pair of padded gloves and patted his bottom and sent him scampering after the other players down the tunnel. He lined up behind his new team mates in the narrow walkway that led to the pitch. There on the other side stood the impressive genetically modified figures that made up the mighty El Capitalisto’s. Their wealthy superstars started to fall about laughing when they saw the Englishman in the blue deerstalker struggling to put on his keepers’ gloves. They blew raspberries at the nervous and confused looking Mr Sempleton who tried his best to ignore the relentless teasing. Gargagno the tough but deeply spiritual defensive midfielder (who was due to play his final match for Rio Grandé before beginning the long journey high into the Tatra mountains to the Monasterio della Socrates where he was to take up a life devoted to spiritual enlightenment.) walked over and looked the English detective in the eye and with a kind smile touched his cheek. “Do not worry Signor Sempleton let the spirit of Santo Socrates guide and bless you.” Then as a deafening roar erupted around the stadium the brave Rio Grandeans found themselves on the newly laid green carpet of the pitch.
Torado looked around the huge stadium and up into the high stands that surrounded them on all sides “Santa Maria Zico” he said “there must be more than a million people here!”
None of the Rio Grandé players had ever seen anything like it before. High above almost in the setting evening sky were tall wooden towers and ladders made from old pieces of crate and driftwood. On them tens of thousands of cheering Rio Grandé teetered and rocked in the gentle breeze unsteadily. There were so many people packed in and around the stadium that the collective body heat of everyone made the players on the pitch feel as if they were at the bottom of a burning cauldron.
The referee called the two opposing captains over. Aromga stepped forward adjusting his hair band one last time. He held out a hand towards the El Capitalisto captain Christopher Overhairproducto who refused the offer of a handshake and simply spat on the ground in front of Aromga before calling him a traitor to the great Generale Baratopolippo.
The crowd saw the incident take place and boos echoed around the far end of the stadium where the Rio Grandé fans stood packed together like baby mackerel in fishing net. People from far corners of the globe who would sat glued to their transistors, shook their fists at the radio as the commenters described the unfolding scene in hundreds of different dialects.
The whistle blew.
Aromga quickly found the silk socked young winger Acosta with the deftest of flicks but before the golden haired young wide man could show the crowds his delightful dribbling skills; one of the bulging legged El Capitalisto’s clattered into him, sending his slight frame flying high into the air.
No whistle. As Acosta crashed to the ground his Rio Grandé team mates swarmed around the referee protesting his decision to give no foul. Gonzalo pointed at the blood that was now staining the young wingers Acosta’s handmade socks as if to illustrate the severity of the challenge.
The next 25 minutes of the match continued in a similar vein and just half an hour into the game over 7 of the Rio Grandé team sported bloody wounds on various parts of their anatomy. Gilberto and Gonzalo the defensive greats were some of the few Rio Grandé players to escape injury during this brutal period. This was mainly down to the fact that the mighty El Capitalisto players genuinely feared the mythical stories of the strength the two centre backs possessed. This had caused great relief to the Brazilian and Argentine defensive partnership as they had been rather preoccupied with keeping the ball as far away from Mr Sempleton as possible. Who for some inexplicable reason kept turning around in his goal to face the wrong way.
In the 41st minute disaster struck! Gargagno limping stud marks all up his thighs found himself surrounded by the menacing figures of five El Capitalisto’s with nowhere to go he was forced to lay the ball back to the English detective in goal. To everyone’s amazement Mr Sempleton who for the briefest of moments was actually facing the right way collected the ball comfortably but the as Gargagno cried out “Noooooooooooooooo” the detective picked the ball up and hurled it into his own net before shouting out “Howzat”
Signor Robbiati watching from the side lines threw his hands in the air an act of sheer exasperation and stated to laugh.
He turned to his assistant manager José and smiled. “That Englishman is a wonderful gentleman but Don Blanco was right he is truly an idiota.”
The game had barely restarted when the referee blew for halftime 3 minutes early ignoring the protestations of the Rio Grandé captain Aromga.
No comments:
Post a Comment