World Cup finalists! The long-standing ducks are dropping like flies at the moment! First the one about getting to the semi-finals, and now the one about getting past the semi-finals.
World Cup finalists!
How good does that sound?!
I'll admit, there were times where we'd slipped from being semi-finalists and taking the Multiverse by surprise that I feared this day would never come. I feared that we'd lost the initiative. I feared we wouldn't be strong enough to beat the Multiverse in a straight fight, and that the element of surprise that we'd seized upon to reach the third place play-off two cycles running was being eroded more and more with every passing year.
With the retirements of Timo Skye, Niko Marek, the late Morten Yarbin, Petter Bielsen, Zacharias Juul, Jorgen Hauge, and many more, I feared that every great that retired was another nail in the coffin of our World Cup hopes. I feared we were in a rut with Kirkkegaard, and then I feared that Schwartz wasn't the right person for the job. I feared Rasmussen wasn't either. All of this was trussed up nicely under a mask of journalistic endeavour and neutral optimism, measured hope, and honest objectionable views on the opposition and our strengths and weaknesses. But the fear was still there.
You cannot imagine how happy I am to have been proved wrong. Or maybe you can, I don't know - I'm pretty sure I can't have been the only person running around waving my replica top in the air when van Sorensen netted in the fiftieth minute. Or jumping up and down at the final whistle when the substitutes ran onto the pitch in celebration. Mentally, I was running amongst them. I was one of them. One of the twenty-three glorious men that have yet to taste the sting of defeat this cycle. Should it come in the last match, it would no doubt be the most painful and bitterest pills to swallow, but for now they are wearing that mantle with pride, like a scar you fought hard to acquire. Almost as much pride as they passion with which they wear the badge over their hearts. I've never seen them sing the national anthem like this before. I don't know what nationalistic, jingoistic mantra Rasmussen and Pekarik are instilling in them before they take to the field, but it's working so far.
We knew Andossa Se Mitrin Vega would give us hell, and so they did. Fighting to reach a second final on the trot and right the wrongs that Audioslavia inflicted last cycle [Ed: Aren't we all?], they proved a tough physical match for the Terns, and after a bruising first half of tactical mindgames, both teams retreated to the dressing rooms aching from their exertions. The players from their muscles, the coaches from their heads. The Tidal Surge was proving a difficult one for the Pythgorean to unlock, and likewise in the opposite direction. Neither side had seen their strikers really test the opposition goalie, and it was going to take a measure substitution from Rasmussen to make the breakthrough.
Never one to worry about making important decisions at half time, he hauled off the hitherto dominant and playmaking figure of Marten Cornelius, and replaced him with Jorgen Kirvesniemi - the aim being that with more direct running and physicality in the middle of the part, the Vegai may begin to shy away from tackles a little. With Kirvesniemi doing his bulldog act, it also left more of the creativity to pass from the shoulders of Cornelius and onto the likes of Villeneuve and van Sorensen, moving the decision-making higher up the pitch, and by necessity demanding that the ball be protected until it got there - thus forcing the Sea Dragons back. They're used t playing even more defensively than we are, of course, but it took something special from our talisman to make it happen for us.
The goal didn't take long to come after the restart, and in the end it was more nice work from Villeneuve and Illich-Svitych that led to the latter breaking into the box and dummying a pass to Felix Saarinen before rolling it back to van Sorensen. In years gone past, the captain would have chipped it then and there, curling a ball into the top corner and away from the reach of any human goalkeeper. In years gone past. Last night however, he did something very special indeed, cutting inside and jinxing past three players before burying it into the roof of the net from nine yards. Left, right, left, left again, his hips were reliving the glory years, even if he did later go off to prevent a strain ahead of what was looking increasingly like a final on the horizon.
Our match-winning talisman once again, Alexsandr van Sorensen has of course made it known in the past couple of weeks that the next cycle will be his last for the Terns, and there are some who speculate in the press and on social media sites that should the Terns win, he would be tempted to retire on the spot, having led his international career to one final euphoric high. I can't see him doing that myself, but you never know.
They came back at us, of course, but the likes of Sudesval, Kirvesniemi, Kungas-Vaga, and Oyen-Spekke shut them out. Petersen and Kirilaunen each saved a certain goal with a clearance and a save respectively, but when Rasmussen brought on Bosnjakovic for Illich-Svitych and Kolehmainen on for Saarinen, the game was up, and we were consolidating. For the rest of the game, it appeared to all that Rasmussen had the measure of Ust'da, and we were all treated to the site of that mad bastard Magnus Ragnorak doing a little jig as the WCC co-President celebrated and completely failed to look neutral.
So, which is the team tasked with stopping the Terns? Wight. The Sondry Folk. Those weirdos from the north of AO.
Staggeringly, we've never actually faced them on the football pitch, though I can see why you might assume we have done given our history of entering the same competitions. And so, what are they like? Well, rather buccaneering, since you ask. They've scored four goals in each of their last three matches, scoring three in the one before that, so they're fairly attacking to say the least. Then again, the Terns haven't conceded in their last four matches, so we're not doing too shabby either. A team that scores loads against a team that doesn't concede many. Something's got to give.
Their manager Masvidal will need no introduction, so I'm not giving him one. Nor will substitute midfield Ia Rodda, who has been impressing onlookers for the Flotilla all season past. The rest of the team won't exactly be household names, but the likes of Cotterill, Mackenzie, and Kennard have all turned heads at this tournament, as has defender Marriner Friend-Forsaken. Wonderkid Falcon will lead the line alongside Cotterill, and he will have to be watched incredibly closely, carrying with him as he does that youthful lack of fear and inhibition. He could dearly punish us if allowed the chance. Physically speaking, Big John is the player who comes up to the size of our players, and I must say the guy terrifies me.
But then, I'm just terrified of everything right now. Am I nervous? I'm not sure. Am I excited? Not sure on that either. Am I terrified? Pretty much so, yeah. Technically speaking, we're the favourites here. Considered a stronger team by the contentious mark of quality that is the KPB ranking system, we also have the dubious advantage of having to travel a shorter distance to the tournament. Though, for a nation with a history like Wight I'm not so sure travelling is such an ordeal for them. Even if their fans haven't travelled in huge numbers. According to some camps, we're almost expected to win, which is a truly terrifying and nervewracking thing to be told if you're prone to being as nervous as I am. Would you have told us at matchday seven that we'd be the favourites in the final, having just squeezed past Mechelen by a single goal to nil? I doubt it. I'd love to win. I don't think I've wanted something so badly as this in my life, and I can only imagine what it must feel like for the players on the day of the final, standing in the tunnel and waiting to make history, but I don't sit easily with the idea of being heavy favourites. Wight are well in this, don't you forget it. Surprise package or not, they're here for a reason.
Mind you, the idea of winning football's greatest trophy in a nation so reliant upon Sargossa for their defence would be pretty hilarious.
Fact fans will also note that we are guaranteed a new name on the trophy, with neither team having won it or even contesting a final in the past.
I'm sure you'll all agree with me on whose name you'd prefer to see, mind...
Polar Islandstates
Likely starting XI for the World Cup Final, vs Wight, Stade de Torgos, Pasarga
----- Kirilaunen -----
----- Rovanpera ---- Oyen-Spekke -----
----- Petersen ---------- Sudesval ---------- Kungas-Vaga -----
----- Cornelius ---------- Villeneuve -----
----- van Sorensen (C) -----
----- Illisch-Svitych --- Saarinen -----
Likely starting XI for the World Cup Final, vs Wight, Stade de Torgos, Pasarga
----- Kirilaunen -----
----- Rovanpera ---- Oyen-Spekke -----
----- Petersen ---------- Sudesval ---------- Kungas-Vaga -----
----- Cornelius ---------- Villeneuve -----
----- van Sorensen (C) -----
----- Illisch-Svitych --- Saarinen -----
So, come on then, Wight, Let's see how much you want it. Because you're going to have to be the first team to beat us this cycle if you're going to take it from us. That's the task ahead of you. We've got our flaws, and our weaknesses, and if you can work them out then you're welcome to attack and probe at them, just as we're going to attack yours. Can you hear that sound? That is the sound of sixty thousand Twitchers taking the plane down and invading Pasarga. That is the sound of a nation looking on from the edge of their seats back home. That is the sound of the blood, sweat, tears, and spit of a nation; gathered from the beginning of our very first international match, combined into a solitary mass and coming your way at the speed of sound. The full force of the Terns is headed your way, and you're going to have to want it to survive the onslaught, because the biggest trophy of all is within our grasp for the first time, and we want it. Within ninety minutes. Within sight. Within our imagination, and living in every solid living fibre and blooded vein of the Polarian people. It's pumping our hearts, it's nourishing our lungs, and it's consuming our minds. Raise the flags and wave your scarves, ladies and gentlemen, the time is now and the flares are ready. Sing as if it were your last breath. We may come from the land of ice, but our hearts are full of fire. Let them know how much. Let them know the passion that fuels Old Aelaris, fluttering proudly on the flagpole in its white and navy majesty, bejewelled with those four green triangles. Show them the meaning of the words in the national anthem. Show them what counts when you're a Valhallan. Sing and scream and shout for the Terns. Terns, it's up to you, now. I know how good you are. You know how good you are. The whole nation knows how good you are. Now show the Multiverse. Fight, battle, run, fight, be strong, dominate, and then fight some more. There are eighteen million souls urging you on. Don't worry, we got your back. Forget your demons. Win it. Win it for us. Win it for yourselves. Win it, and become heroes. Time to change the world. Time to make history. Time to win.
So you better believe we're coming for the trophy, Wightlings, and we've got one thing on our minds: winning. Bring it, Wight. We want it.
We want it very badly indeed.
Per Tenebras ad Lucem.
Eff out.
xx
