We'd gotten to the final by facing top team after top team. First Audioslavia, against whom we comfortably lost. Second, 95X, reigning champions. Then Vilita & Turori, regional powerhouses. And after that, the hosts. Surely, an under-25 team in the final would be a blessing? Well, maybe not. This young side had rather inexplicably beaten the Equestrian States, thrashed the Cup of Harmony champions, beaten Audioslavia and then also beaten Ko-oren. Really made me wonder what their senior team could be like.
Have you ever had two hundred thousand people watching you? I have. It's incredible. The atmosphere's impossible to describe. I hated having to sit out this game in particular, but it was a bitter truth I had to accept. There was nothing I could do that Tôr and Fôx couldn't do better, as they'd proved throughout the tournament. All I could hope for was the Firebirds tiring Mâás out.
When the game started, we started fiercely looking to score. The Osarians, on the other hand, looked more comfortable doing little with the ball in their possession. They were truly great at keeping the ball away from us, at least until they wanted to do something with it. However, Mêndêlöíndçêl's form would never plummet in a final, and neither would Bârr's, so they managed very little despite holding the ball for about 60% of the time. That stat in particular surprised me at the end of the game. We had evidently been the better team.
I believe the reason why our possession was so low was that we played that game in particularly vertiginous style. Whenever we got it, we looked for a swift and deadly attack. We had the pace and the technique to threaten our opponents greatly in small bursts, and that's precisely what we did. We took the lead in the fifteenth minute in a way because of that.
Röènôùjýâ passed the ball to Fôx to start a counterattack. Mâás passed to Terán, who backheeled it to Wínrôuge, starting over an injured Delafuente. The young narcissist proceeded to split the Osarian defense in two with an exquisite through pass to Fuego with just one touch. José then faced Monteforte one-on-one, but the Osarian goalkeeper managed to tip it wide. The corner kick, however, was a whole different story. We had a particularly deadly combination in Kâí and Bârr. I might sound biased, but I truly believe Kâí's one of the best crossers in the world. Meanwhile, Bârr is a fucking tower. So, yeah, you can imagine who scored and how. Santana was marking Ivaktör, but not even him could stop the Rulandese from kicking the ball with his head.
After that, we still tried to score. We had our fair share of chances. Risko almost pulled off a cheeky chip from outside the box, but it hit the roof of the net. Terán came very close in the thirtieth minute too, dribbling two players with just one move and then flooring a third before sending the ball barely wide.
However, our opponents were trailing only in goals, as they got a few clear-cut chances as well. Two were stopped by Tzâín, who was in one of his sharp days. However, in the thirty-eighth minute, they managed to pull level with a well-timed finish by Monroe after working the ball into the box with their possession football. Pekarik had told us the Osarians would probably want to punish us on the counter, but we were seeing none of that.
Eventually, half time came. The scoreline was one-all, and it struck all of us as fair. Neither team had been evidently better than the other. Maybe we were kinda better, but not enough to deserve the lead. Either way, we were going to have to truly fight for the title for the following forty-five minutes. Not like we had gone into the match expecting anything different.
For the first few minutes of the second half, both teams were still pretty even. However, that all ended when Pekarik told Mêndêlöíndçêl to man-mark Drummond, who'd honestly caused us a bit of a pretty big headache. I'll be honest, being man-marked by Yurpá sounds like a nightmare. That Alan guy sure did well considering the handicap, though.
With the ball at our disposal slightly more often, and with Terán showing himself sharper and sharper as the minutes went by, mostly thanks to his often annoying decision to rarely run, we started dominating the game. Ivaktör and Yurpá were making no mistakes, Cleto and Drê were bombing forward with efficacy, Rübéãn and Mâás were causing headaches on the flanks, Wínrôuge and Terán likewise in the centre and Risko and José looked in top form at reading the game. Sometimes everything just clicks.
Twenty minutes into the second half and... we had nothing to show for it. Something like four clear-cut chances wasted. The Firebirds had one, too, but Tzâín saved our asses once again. However, our domination was stagnated when Mâás suffered a thigh injury. Nothing too serious, as we found out later, but we needed a replacement. And Ibarra was out with the same kind of injury...
For a moment, I thought that maybe Pekarik wanted to replace Mâás with a more defensive player like, say, Ruy. I was torn between worry and excitement. I was worried he might want me to replace Mâás. On the other hand, I was excited he might want me to replace Mâás. In the end, Pekarik looked at me and gestured towards the pitch. I had already warmed up and was... probably not ready to jump into the pitch to play Osarius in a final, but I digress. Into the pitch I went, fully aware that filling Fôx's shoes would be impossible.
Just like in the penalty shoot-out against 95X, I was only vaguely aware of my surroundings. Those not related to football, that is. A fifth of a million people watching? I'd forgotten that. But, oh my, was I nervous. I was seven when we'd won the AOCAF Cup for the first and until then only time. I was nervous because I really wanted to win. It felt like a duty. In a way, it was.
Losing Fôx was a big blow, but I didn't play badly. Our domination continued, because as good as Mâás was he was still one in eleven. Even in our moment of most domination, the Osarians had still held onto the ball lengthily, though. It's just they were using it as a mechanism of defense more than anything. I was pacey, so I could hit them on the counter.
Just two minutes into my first final, I effortlessly got a yellow card for a silly tackle on Alexander Scott. Legit could've broken his ankle. That definitely wasn't my intention, nevertheless. The minutes went by, and the match looked like it was becoming more and more even, though we were still clearly the better team. Eventually, my chance to shine came.
Mêndêlöíndçêl stripped Pudoremu of the ball with a brilliant last-ditch sliding tackle. You know, one of those that make even us Farves cheer him on. He passed to Wínrôuge, who one-twoed Mancini with Terán's help. Fôrté found a weakness in the Osarian defense almost instantly and passed the ball to me. I had sneaked behind Mitchell's back. He was probably a bit too relieved his Directus teammate had gotten injured. I outsped him on the race to the ball and began my triumphant run towards the box. I dribbled Turner and entered it. I looked up and saw Kâí and Fuego running towards empty space, carrying defenders with them. I noticed space opening up behind them, however. If there's one nice thing about playing for Farfadillis, it's that you've always got more than one person to pass the ball to. This time, Tôr was blitzkrieging into the box. I connected a creeping pass to him, almost as a reflex. Rübéãn blasted the ball into the goal with his first touch. Two-one up. Around fifteen minutes to go. I already felt like a bit of a hero.
It was all so unreal. One moment I was sitting in the bench, the other I was assisting what could be one of my nation's most important goals in its history. Euphoria had gotten to me - I'd dare say I was barely sentient at that point. My thoughts in those blurry moments could be perfectly summed up as 'ball'.
That was precisely what backfired. Just three minutes after Rübéãn's goal, Drummond, who'd drifted to the wing, managed to dribble me in a pretty humiliating way. I timed my tackle wrongly, and he went down like he'd been shot. I don't really remember how nasty my tackle was - and I didn't want to check the replays. But I've got the feeling he wasn't exaggerating a single bit. The referee, left with no other options, showed me the second yellow card. I had even forgotten I had been carded previously. I felt just like when I missed the penalty against 95X. I was putting my team's chances in jeopardy once again. The guilt was unbearable.
Immediately, Bârr and Mêndêlöíndçêl were surrounding the referee. Bârr straight out threatened him. The ref didn't even card him. Ivaktör was on a yellow card, he knew he wasn't getting out alive if he sent him off. Even Yurpá looked furious. He was arguing wildly with the ref. I just left the pitch with my head hanging in shame. Those ten seconds walking my way off the pitch were some of the longest of my life. I could feel the entire world watching me, judging me. I had screwed up big time. I had gone from hero to villain in just four minutes. Pekarik tapped my back, I think, I was barely paying attention. I just made my way to the dressing room. Baek joined me in order to make me feel better.
Once in the dressing room, Casper pulled out one of those long-distance radios, that could pick up Farf signals for some reason, for us to listen to. He didn't speak a word. I think he figured it was for the best. What I heard as soon as he turned it on almost destroyed me.
"Here comes the crosssss... Manciniiiii... it's a goal. Goal for Osarius. Mancini scores. We've given up the lead once again. Two-all."Want to know what's worse than getting sent off in a final? Getting sent off in a final and conceding a goal from the set piece.
"Pekarik is the only one to blame here. A seventeen-year-old is not mentally prepared for high-stake matches like this one."Casper was biting his lower lip in frustration. I could see he was more sorry about me than about the result. A minute or two passed.
"Just six minutes 'til injury time. The match is still pretty much up for grabs, with Farfadillis still actively trying to score. Wínrôuge loses the ball. Mitchell to Mancini. Mancini to Drummond. Drummond goes for the long-range attempttttt..."By then I could barely breathe.
"...AND TZÂÍN BARELY TIPS IT WIDE!! WHAT A SAVE RIGHT THERE! WHAT A HERO!"I punch the air vigorously in relief while Casper sighs profoundly.
"Here comes the cross... Bârr clears it. Mata picks it up, dribbled one, dribbled another. Goes for the through pass to Kâí. Risko picks up the ball. Come on Risko... he's dribbled Mitchell AND HE'S BEEN TAKEN DOWN! SURELY THAT'S A RED!?"Well, at least that meant our chances were a lot higher now.
"And the referee shows leniency for once in his life. That's just unfair. He'd already been carded."Not even that, then. I was beginning to think the multiverse just had it out for me.
"Oh, what is this. Fuego's being replaced by... you know who. Friekder's coming in. Oh, please please save us Lord Dandalleion."Pretentious commentary, yes, but that was an accurate summary of what was going through my mind.
"There's just four minutes to go. Looks like we're headed for extra time. Hopefully penalties. I don't fancy our chances with ten men."I was not exactly sure my heart would tolerate more a few minutes in that state, let alone extra time and penalties.
"Mêndêlöíndçêl passes to Mata. Mata to Tôr. Tôr to Terán. Terán back to Yurpá once again. Yurpá to Fôrté. Fôrté dribbles one, but he's surrounded. Passes back. Drê with the ball. We're pretty much swarming the Osarian half.I'm not sure why, but I was laughing hysterically. I think the nerves had
really gotten to me.
"Drê to Terán. Terán dribbled one, NOW ANOTHER. THROUGH PASS."I could almost feel my heart stopping.
"WÍNRÔUGE ONE-ON-ONE. HE CHIPS IT..."I was pretty sure my heart had stopped.
"SANTANA CLEARS IT, BUT THE REBOUND IS UP FOR GRA-GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL. GOL. GOOOOL. DANDALLEION. IT'S DANDALLEION. EXPLOSIVE SPRINT. HE'S BLASTED IT IN WITH AN EMPTY GOAL AT HIS MERCY. I'VE GOT TO CALM DOWN... *deep breath* I'm fine. I'm fine. WE'VE RECOVERED THE LEAD GODDAMMIT."As the pundit calmed down, so did I. I let go of Casper and I sit once again. I must've broken a few of his ribs with the hug I gave him. Just a few minutes to go.
"The celebration's over. Dandalleion gets carded for taking off his shirt. Most important yellow card of his career."Absolutely agreed.
"We're about to enter injury time. The last couple of minutes of Friekder's career. It just sounds unreal."He'd been a starter for longer than I'd been alive. It was
absolutely unreal. Or, rather, very much real. Old people retire from their national teams all the time.
"And the fourth ref's given only two minutes! Pudoremu's making his opinion about that pretty clear over there. I would send him off."Just two more minutes. I felt like crying. I felt so useless.
"The ball's gone out. Rübéãn's taking his sweet time. Gives it to Yurpááá... who very... nonchalantly punts it up and into the stands. Goal kick for Osarius. Just one minute to go."One minute. That's how much time it took me to heat my milk for breakfast.
"The Osarians are looking very much like us now. Everyone's inside our box. HERE COMES THE CROSS... TZÂÍN PUNCHES IT OUT! DANDALLEION BEAT EVERYONE TO THE BALL! A GOD, HE'S A BLOODY GOD I TELL YOU!"I am sure every single Farf shared that sentiment.
"He's running with the ball, keeping possession. Calabrese catches up to him. Tries to fight him off the ball... DANDALLEION'S JUST NOT LETTING IT GO. HE'S DRIBBLED CALABRESE. HE'S RUNNING TOWARDS THE GOAL, BUT IT SEEMS LIKE THE OSARIAN DEFENSE HAS CAUGHT UP. He's slowed down...So much tension I could cut it with my teeth.
"END IT ALREADY REF! Kâí joins Dandalleion, they one-two Drummond AND IT'S OVER. FARFADILLIS ARE REGIONAL CHAMPIONS."I didn't even know how to react. Casper turned off the radio. We were going to join the team.
I was ecstatic. We'd won.
We'd done it. As soon as I stepped out of the tunnel, I think I finally realized what we'd achieved. I couldn't help but run towards my teammates in celebration. Dancing around the trophy, walking a lap 'round the pitch. We did all of the standard things. It was a first for me, though. We emptied the jerrycan (it had water, don't worry) on Dandalleion's head. There was a bit of disbelief in all of us, I believe. I don't remember exactly who, but more than one of my teammates approached me to tell me I'd been fantastic, despite having been sent off. I knew it was bullshit, but it was nice listening to someone say it. Still, we had won despite my cock up. I just couldn't be happier.
Eventually, the time came for us to get our medals. A Krytenian would be handing them to us. I was later told that's the closest a Krytenian had ever gotten to a senior football gold medal.
We formed a queue in ascending jersey number order.
First one to get his medal was Rôhj. I might sound biased, but if there had been a Golden Glove award, I would've given it to him in a heartbeat. The truth was we'd been slightly underachieving on the attacking front. But that man right there had made sure that wouldn't hurt us too much.
Second in line was Cleto. Must've been weird for Steffan having two of the people who had caused him the most headaches in his life receiving the medals first. The medals of his first title as a manager.
Third in line was, funnily enough, Alex. Alex Terán, the single most frustrating he had ever managed and would ever manage. He was so frustrating I myself could understand how Steffan might've felt. One of the players with the most natural talent out there, but just none of the work ethic to back it up, or even the attention to fully exploit it. Nonetheless a completely different breed of footballer. He could change games with just two touches of the ball, and he'd done that more than once in the tournament. He was tied for third with Tôr and Dandalleion for most important player in our campaign, I believe.
Fourth in line was Röènôùjýâ. Alaminos' injury allowed him to start every game. He did more than well enough, if you ask me. He, too, cause Steffan a fair share of headaches with his overzealous offensive runs.
The fifth player to receive his medal was the Polarian's favorite player, though. Yurpá Mêndêlöíndçêl. A hard-worker like I'd never seen before, and a player who was just on another level. He'd not performed as well as some would have expected, probably because he was fucking thirty-five, but he was still one of our most important players. Ever wondered why our national team tends to concede a lot less than one would expect with our gung-ho attacking? That man was why.
After Yurpá came who I believe was Steffan's second-favourite: Ivaktör Bârr. A player with a lot of experience in the Polar Islandstates, he was a completely foreign mold of defender: a more mixed, standard one. He still had offensive flashes from time to time, but his defensive leadership made him one of our most important players. He'd been just as important as Yurpá and Rôhj for our win, in my opinion.
Number seven was José. He'd not been at the top of his level, to be honest, but he'd still done fairly well. The truth is, everybody contributed at least a bit, and José had done that.
After him, Risko collected his medal. Easily our most important player in the cup. He'd scored four and participated in a few other goals. He'd been our biggest threat in every game. He was heavily marked throughout the tournament, and he still managed to shine. A scary man in his prime, I'd dare say he had been just as good that tournament as Dandalleion in AOCAF Cups 43 and 44. But comparing them was just silly. Risko and Friekder were both Farf legends in their own rights. Comparing them was perhaps doing them a disservice.
Following Risko was Mâás, just like in influence that tournament. Mâás scored against Vilita & Turori, helped us keep possession often, started vicious counterattacks, and was overall just too much for other teams to handle. Having Risko and Mâás (arguably) hit their primes in the same tournament had turned out to be our saving grace.
Delafuente was next. He'd quite frankly not had a very good tournament. Sometimes I truly wondered if Fôrté would push him out of the starting spot instead of Terán. However, none of that happened, because Delafuente still managed to perform respectably at important moments. It was a pretty disappointing performance considering how he'd even carried the team around at times during the previous World Cup campaign, but he'd still done well.
Number eleven was Rübéãn. Tied for third most important player, he'd turned out to be a big surprise. I don't think anybody was expecting him to play at the level he did. Scoring in the semifinal
and the final was something he probably hadn't even dreamed of. And I had helped him score the latter goal!
Number twelve was Ascensión. To be honest, I can't say much about him. I still don't know how he could talk so fast at times.
Thirteenth was Iñaki. He would've probably fared better than me in the final, because he showed a lot of talent whenever he took the pitch. Even though he didn't contribute greatly, he was worthy of the medal.
Fourteenth was Mixé, the guy who never played in Farfadillis. He didn't play much, but he showed everyone how to actually defend. He'd performed really well in that second half against Krytenia.
Fifteen was John Dragonslayer. He played only a few minutes and almost injured someone. Funny but scary guy.
Number sixteen was Ostadar Arambilet. The 'Grathi did his fair share. He was the one the most likely to replace Yurpá once he retired.
Seventeenth was Elexhé. Sadly, he hadn't got any playing time. Subbing in Dandalleion was just far too important.
And speaking of Dandalleion, he was up next. His words still resonated in my head. '
El fútbol da revancha.' It definitely does. That AOCAF Cup hadn't really been
my revancha, but it had been the best possible revancha for him. Probably
the most influential Farf player of all time. I'm sure many cried like he did when he received the medal.
Number nineteen was, I think fittingly, Fôrté Wínrôuge. I can't stress it enough: his attitude always rubbed me the wrong way. However, this man showed talent comparable to Kâí's and Dandalleion's back in the day. He'd had a fantastic tournament, on top of that. Dandalleion was awarded the MoM award n that final, despite touching the ball like ten times tops. Dandalleion gave it to Risko, who probably deserved it. What did Risko do? He gave it to Fôrté. I'm sure there was something highly symbolic about that. But I digress, one of the most, in a way.
Number twenty was another extremely exciting prospect who'd had a great break-out tournament, Ruy Monrazón. Heralded as the future captain of the team, it was clear as day he would be one of the greats. I had found him a bit pretentious in the beginning, but I ended up liking that guy's work ethic a lot.
Twenty-one was Thjorgias Pickton. With Bârr's outstanding tournament, Pickton had only been able to play like ten minutes as a sub. Still, a talented player, as any Farf would be able to tell just by looking at his surname.
And twenty-two was the single most talented player in history... me! Ok, ok, perhaps the single most useless player in the squad. I'd missed a penalty against 95X and, to top it off, I'd been sent off in the final. Plus we conceded off the set piece. But I
did assist Tôr in the second goal, so it didn't feel like an empty victory to me at all. I just hoped Steffan had seen something special about me in the tournament, cause I sure as hell wanted to get called up for the World Cup a year later.
Twenty-third was Calogero Metz. Quiet guy. Tzâín's replacement, most likely.
After Metz, it was Casper's turn. What a man. I just couldn't fully break down in tears in front of him.
And then, it was Steffan who picked up his medal. Such a serious man. His hair had turned full-on gray because of people like Terán. He hadn't run up and down the pitch for ninety minutes, sure, but he too had put all of his efforts into winning the tournament. Right or wrong, he'd always had the team's best interests in mind. A deserved medal if there ever was one.
And soon after came the time for Yurpá to lift the cup. It was cliché, yes, but, just as you would've expected, he called Dandalleion over, and lifted it with his help. Yes, it had been Dandalleion's last game, but it had also been Yurpá's last AOCAF Cup. Them lifting the cup together was the single most happy yet sad moment of my life. These two would no longer be around in a year, and I would be among those responsible for the team's successes and failures after that. Heroes come and go. That was the lesson I had learned.
Oh, and '
el fútbol da revancha.' That too.