The World Cup of Dreams

[Aguazul]

"This is the best I can do," says Flores. "I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for, here."

"I appreciate it, whatever it is," says Diego Héctor. Flores hands him a piece of paper; it's a very curt email, which appears to be dated December 11.

"It says "What should I wear to the induction? What level of dress is expected?"" Flores reads. Or translates. Chalk another uncertainty up to the Dreamed Realm.

"Any reply? I'm assuming you don't know what induction?"

"I was looking around, trying to, I have no idea how we can see into all the different places or whatever. As far as I can tell, this is a student group at some school, where Spanish isn't the first language...these children are going to schools, right? And some of them just decide to learn to read Spanish, and other languages."

"Weird."

"So then there's some sort of "honor society" for these language learners, the ones who've been studying well. Just promising a bunch of silliness about how they'll be nice people and try their best at learning languages. As far as I know, it never actually did anything, it just looks nice."

"And this has what to do with us?"

"Check the date."

"December 11?"

"No," Flores shakes his head, "foreigners, writing the date backwards..."

"November 12, then. You don't think..."

"That's as much as I've found," Flores shrugs again.

He can just about imagine what it would have meant to play Ariddia at their best, the teams of the thirties; a whirl of é'è on the field, probably the ulek or what have you beforehand, and Aguazul's fans hurling a politically tinged cacophony of chants back at them. He can also imagine playing the red and blacks' more recent iteration, the World Cup 50 nobodies clinging to their hyphens as Aguazul routed them. Or maybe not; at that point Aguazul had never qualified either, it might have been close.

If he tries, he can imagine playing the first Ariddian team too. They had emphasized skill up front and in goal rather than on defense, a familiar enough approach. The players could be called to mind, the records of their careers describing their physical appearance in enough detail for this cursory thought experiment. Aguazul's players are much more nondescript; he's not sure whether there are any decent images of them. Maybe when Bustamante was playing in Cafundéu...? Maybe not.

What he cannot imagine is what is taking place before him, Aguazul's team drawn from across the ages and Ariddia's...he doesn't know. He'd been willing to bet with any of their fans he could find, let them have the home country advantage in trying to figure out who'd constitute their team.

It turns out that if you have a moneyless economy, gambling is maybe not the first thing on your agenda.

Aguazul reach the quarterfinals as the lowest seed there, never mind what they've won. He's said all along, you can't really compare longevity to peak performance, but then whenever they scheduled it it would always be unfair to some team or another. Even when they're not sure what they're up against, Aguazul look alive. Figuratively and literally. Which shouldn't be saying much.

But then again, even if they don't seem to have much need of subs, it's nice to have a team that's present and accounted for. And it's just as nice to know as much.

[The Babbage Islands]

Quarterfinals

Audioslavia (13) 2–0 Jeruselem (11)
Total n Utter Insanity (12) 1–1 Sorthern Northland (18) (1–3 AET)
Starblaydia (2) 1–3 Valanora (1)
Europa Britannia (15) 1–2 Aguazul (22)

Semifinal Pairings
Audioslavia v Sorthern Northland
Valanora v Aguazul

[Aguazul]

Maybe there aren't fans, after all, just blurs of color and appropriately timed roars. Certainly, there hasn't been anyone who seems corporeal and individual enough to bet with Flores. Though with them all coming from different places and times, that could just as well be for the best. Someone or their ghost flickers past, looking purposeful as if to talk to a friend from another time, if they're here at all at least. Maybe Mosqueda, after her retirement from the presidency? She was still rather young when she was elected. Could be anyone.

At least Ariddia had been around recently enough for him to imagine. Europa Brittania are inscrutable. A cursory encyclopedia reference tells him that

Europa Brittania is widely considered one of the greatest footballing nations in history, and certainly the greatest former nation

which tells him more about the process of writing an encyclopedia than how to prepare for their opposition.

More dedicated research shows that, although they had metaphorically lifted the cup after their World Cup 11 triumph, they would not actually physically lift the World Cup trophy, due to an unfortunate incident involving an eagle, an alligator, and the Elven Kings Under The Sky (no relation to Valanora). Despite this regrettable finale, Warnocks Wizards had gone all out in arranging mascots for all of the qualifying teams, among them Dark Outcasts, a team participating in their final tournament. They were represented by "a Nazgul cloaked in black."

Flores smiles, thinking back to World Cup 50, Mark Tupper panicking at the qualifying draw after mishearing them as "a Nazgûl," the first friendly, beating Valanora. He wonders whether anyone will bet that this coming match finishes two to one, one way or the other.

It occurs to him that he certainly did not attend the World Cup 50 draw. He wonders whether to chalk this up to his extensive research and familiarity with Aguazul's history, the Dreamed Realm blurring away the boundaries of space and time, or a slow and peaceful spiral into insanity.

He decides to go with the first option which bolsters his confidence a little.

The Hall of Fame entries aside, Aguazul's system of keeping records has mostly shifted to an internal factbook, away from the central encyclopedias. It's a less flaky approach, thinks Flores, and he's never seen a problem with it so far. But for the first time, he questions himself; if an existential threat should wipe out Aguazul, those archives go with it.

It's here, in the Dreamed Realm, absent a care in the world (and absent the physical world, to boot), that he can think these thoughts and not feel selfish or unpatriotic or concerned about his priorities. He's a megaphone guy first...and yet, the games that matter have already happened and will continue to happen. The collected records say nothing new.

And as for the next two games here? There will be two more games, they can say now, never mind how they barely escaped the qualifiers. They are not counting; you just can't strategize for a tournament half the field knows nothing of, can't brag about goals scored about a defense that just doesn't care. It makes sense, to Flores.

And yet, he remembers too how the government would talk them down, afraid to demand success when it was coming nonetheless.

The players seem to have similar questions. "The heck kind of a semifinal is this?" says Merlín. "Some team we didn't play in the group stage?"

"Ssh," Lita instinctively responds, but nobody's paying too much attention. Or maybe the older players remember Sargossa from the Cup of Harmony?

Time blurs, an ageless team lies ahead, and Aguazul are there to meet them.

[Qazox]

Qazox' dream ends.

A 3-1 loss to Valanora, the third loss to the Elves in our dreams knocked Qazox out of the WCofDreams at the round of 16. Unoffically, that means Qazox is one of the 16 best teams ever; offically, since it all was but a fleeting dream, it ultimately means nothing.

[The Babbage Islands]

Semifinals

Audioslavia (13) 2–0 Sorthern Northland (18)
Valanora (1) 1–0 Aguazul (22)


Third Place Playoff
Sorthern Northland v Aguazul

Final
Audioslavia v Valanora

[Aguazul]

Everyone's a little more highly strung than before. Aguazul are definitely not the best team of all time.

Which most people could have told you.

Now, they're looking ahead to the final game, and a little bit of the "this is all for nothing" is sinking back in. Sure, there's no shame in losing, but if no one remembers...

"I'm the only one that's just faced this team," says Sesmiro. Sorthern Northland beat Aguazul on the latter's home turf in their only encounter, the World Cup 55 quarterfinal. "And you're telling me none of the players from that team have made it? They're all from earlier?"

"The manager isn't," says Sortani, "they've chosen the team they want, players who know each other, can all hang together."

And there can't be any arguing with what Sorthern Northland accomplished. Certainly one of the best teams of their day.

"All the same."

"Well, what do you remember? Maybe something will inspire you, at least for revenge."

"They just really attacked, I mean, it wasn't like they'd been bribing us or the refs, no matter what their media said. Their captain was brilliant."

"Home field advantage didn't help us, I take it?"

"No, we were in Trecelunas. Sorthern Northland had been playing there before, of course we were in the Supercentro up until then..."

Sosimo, at least, can give captainly advice without the armband, and that's par for the course. "Okay, Sorthern Northland tended to play an offensive game, Port of Clotaire were on the defensive side, this team doesn't seem to care much. The way to beat them, I think, is to exploit these tactical differences, and..."

Then again, the older players aren't used to hearing from him. "Since when have you been an expert on the CMSC?" asks Alvaro, which is a little more curt than he meant it but flows a bit more nicely than "since when have Sorthern Northland been in the imperfect tense?"

And Diego Héctor has gone back to flipping through anything he can find in the hopes of learning more about Aguazul's place in the multiverse. All he has left is Flores' old copy of The Story of Polarian Football. Maybe the pictures are iconic, archetypes of footballers across the dimensions? But nobody in Aguazul looks like that...

"Can I see that?" asks Gunsedal.

"I don't know," says Diego Héctor, "can you?" Out of all the realities that might be, one where Gunsedal is literate is too much to fathom.

"Yeah," he says, taking it and flipping through. "They've got nice hair."

"Nice hair?"

"Stands out. Looks cool. Not boring."

"Cisneros, ssh," says Sortani reflexively. Gunsedal never really means to say anything too nonconformist for the sake of sounding disruptive and worrying the governmental censors; yet, even here beyond reality, it's good to prevent him from getting his mouth too wide open.

"Like this guy. Cool. What's that say?"

As Diego Héctor sighs in relief, Sortani takes the book. "Sascha Millerntor, midfielder. Nunivak national. 80 caps, 26 goals. Namesake of the Millerntor arena. Rescued IHK Geddesberg from bankruptcy and eventually became their manager, earning the nickname "The Saint of St Paul.""

And suddenly Diego Héctor freezes up as if the grumblings of his teammates have fallen silent. "Read that again."

Sortani inhales, then dryly begins, "Sascha Millerntor, midfielder."

"No! The part about his club."

Sortani tilts his head to one side, sneaking a glance at his watch (which, this being the Holy Empire, functions mostly as a fine paperweight should the clip on his clipboard refuse to clip). "428 appearances, 56 goals for FC Cape St Paul. But come on, we have a playoff to get to."

"Now?"

"Well, yes."

"How long do we have, after the game, before the portals open? Or we wake up or whatever we're doing?"

"I don't know, what's the rush?"

"I think I've found it."

"Found what?"

"My answer."

[The Babbage Islands]

The Final

Audioslavia (13) 1–2 Valanora (1)

Third Place Playoff
Sorthern Northland (18) 2–1 Aguazul (22)

[Aguazul]

Sorthern Northland are just too good, racing out to an early lead courtesy of goals from their two forwards. They don't seem to have much need for subs, but then, it isn't like they're getting injured on the day.

Early in the second half, Sosimo passes back to Blas, who puts Aguazul on the board. Staying in the game keeps them focused and they get more into it for the rest of the game, but Sorthern Northland find inspiration of their own, and time runs out.

Then Diego Héctor is squinting, fingers rattling to find pencil and paper, to glance through the dimensions. "The Dreamed Realm translates everything," he tries to explain.

"Sure," says Sortani, "that's how come these teams from all over can understand each other."

"But it has to leave some things be. Like, people's names. Feng Shui? Martijn B...well, you know who I mean? That doesn't sound Spanish, it's in whatever language it was in from Sorthern Northland."

"What about Iñaki Arrigorriagakoa?"

"That's fine as it is, it's left intact."

"Okay. So what?"

"The point is, the translation is too good. Foreign place names, unless they're in Spanish, should still be foreign. And Polar Islandstates certainly isn't, that's why we have Franz Josef City and Northbrook Diamonds." The syllables are distorted, rough in his mouth. As they should be.

"So..."

"So we also have "el santo de San Pablo"? This Millerntor definitely never played for the Pumas. But the...whatever's translating this book got confused, because both his city and one of ours were named after Saint Paul of Tarsus, if you trace it back far enough."

"So the epistle writer is the underlying connection?" asks Pepe Raúl, who after all is from another San Pablo club.

"Not exactly, I don't think. But the point is, the city names are the clue. I don't know how the Polarian cities got their name, it wasn't from us. Ours, on the other hand...there's a coincidence, I think, a parallel in another reality."

He begins to sketch a crude map, rough boundaries, the eastern border more concave than the others, further territories out to the west, divided between north and south. He glances up at the north, sketches some water off to the side, hesitating at the top and then shakes his head. "We had home field advantage in Trecelunas, whether or not it helped, but the bleedover wasn't complete. They're special, a little too defensive for us...they're their own thing. And Ciudad Peralta...is so crazy I don't think the multiverse can handle more than one of them."

"But what about the Supercentro?" says Sortani.

Diego Héctor picks up the paper, turns it over, turns it back, sets it down, nods. "We always knew it as too many big cities all in one place, whose suburbs grew into each other." He makes dots for them all, spiralling out from the center. "But it would have looked much the same if there were suburbs surrounding the cities in the middle."

"You're holding that upside down."

"Doesn't matter. Here we are. San Pablo...and Ciudagua." He smiles over at Blas. "You were right all along."

Blas shrugs, as if to say I'm sure I was, even if I'm not sure what about.

Quietly, Diego Héctor adds, "I wish you were still here to see it."

There's no time for somber tension to develop, because Eusebio cuts in. "No way."

Diego Héctor crosses his arms in triumph. "Yes. World Cup 58, Kelsey. Ismael's not here, Blas doesn't remember yet, but you have to admit, we were right."

And Eusebio remembers the group stage match and Diego Héctor's winning goal, spurred on by a vision of light through glass beyond the field. What their city might have been, a stadium that might yet be, twisted through many dimensions and changes, a fragment of home.

He nods. "I don't want to admit it. But you were."

"So what?" says Merlín. "So there are some coincidences between dimensions, it doesn't change anything."

"But we'll remember, you and Lita and I," says Diego Héctor. "We are agua azul, land of the sky blue waters. This might have been a beautiful country, once. Maybe it can be again."

"How much do we tell them?" says Lita.

"They're not going to remember," says Merlín.

"But something they can know for now, even if it's just for a little bit?"

"I'm not sure."

"Yeah. You're right. I don't think we can tell them anything."

"What? Are you kidding?"

"We can tell them nothing that they don't already know."

"You can't be serious."

"What are we going to tell them? That sometimes people get badly injured and their careers have to end? They know that. That the government takes an extremely militant reaction sometimes? They know that. That it's not always clear what the truth is? They know that! That we shouldn't get attached to other teams, recognize that they'll come and go?"

Gerardo nods. "We know."

"That we should give our best every game, it might be somebody's last?"

"They know that," says Merlín.

"That the domestic game will continue to be extremely important in Aguazul? They know that. That there will be women in the league? They know that too. That they get called up? Well, since nobody's coming up from before World Cup 50, I think we can agree, they know that."

"I guess..."

"That Aguazul will talk itself up, but not say too much, afraid of lying by mistake? I think they know that. That even we, even when we have the league and like to think we know what we're doing, are still able to be part of strange stories? You know that, too. And that you can achieve success like no other team before you? I think you believe that already. So now you get to make it happen."

"And if you'd met a time traveller from your future?" Gerardo asks.

"I'd want them to say the same thing."

Diego Héctor peers into reality. "I think they set the stadium on fire."

"Yes, well," Lita shrugs, "they do that."

"No, I mean, they set the stadium on fire."

And when they wake it has all begun, Aguazul is going to host again, the players and the game are coming home.