2018 OOF World Cup
The Twenty-Fourth Championship of Ordic Football
18 November 2018
Meine Damen und Herren, machen Sie bitte es sich bequem für die Eröffnungsfeier. Willkommen in der Vierundzwanzigsten Fußball-Weltmeisterschaft!
Ladies and Gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable for the Opening Ceremonies. Welcome to the Twenty-Fourth OOF World Cup!
Like a cold wind the cheery announcements snuffed out the lights of the stadium, and darkness laid itself across the stands. The retractable roof had long since slid closed: and now the inky blackness drained the noise down to soft murmurs. Only after the chatter died did the children’s choir come to life.
Uns’re Heimat, das sind nicht nur die Städte und Dörfer,
Warm yellow spotlights embarked on their journey across the stadium grounds, timed to give the distinct impression of a rising sun. The children’s voices rose into the air like birdsong, high and chirpy, and gradually the scaly red roofs and half-timbered walls of village houses emerged into the sunshine. Nestled snugly inside thickly-grassed hills and fields of yellow grain, the homes stood watch as their quaintly-dressed folk twirled in circles about them.
Brightly-colored Dirndl skirts flew in the simulated breeze as the women went about their day, picking flowers in the meadow with lifted feet, scolding their children with dramatic fingers, or carrying baskets to the central marketplace, which itself was only now uncovered by the sweep of the spotlights.
Uns’re Heimat sind auch all die Bäume im Wald.
Precisely on cue giant fir trees leapt from the ground like frogs: the pistons underneath unheard and unthanked, the gaps in the grass quickly closing. A few dainty children approached and began climbing.
Uns’re Heimat ist das Gras auf der Wiese, das Korn auf dem Feld,
Und die Vögel in der Luft, und die Tiere der Erde,
Suddenly there were birds: pigeons, crows, doves, anything and everything, released into the air from hidden trapdoors, and with great collective waves of wings and wind they escaped into the air, out up to the top where they reached the rafters and settled. Before long the earliest were diving back down, and only now did the sharpest eyes in the audience confirm their falsity.
Und die Fische im Fluß sind die Heimat.
Like great blue ribbons the rivers came alive with light: they wove through the endless green-and-yellow of the village and sparkled in the spotlights. Brightly-colored mechanical fish leapt from their perches below the surface: several children, their happy screams inaudible under the choir’s music, threw themselves into the water, clothes and all.
Und wir lieben die Heimat, die schöne,
und wir schützen sie,
weil sie dem Volke gehört,
weil sie unserem Volke gehört!
Finally the grand prologue was concluded with a flourish of fireworks from below, and the applause rose to chase it. During the closing notes several troops of spearmen had entered the grasslands, taking care not to trample the grain, and behind them strode large men clad in the elegant armor of ancient warlords. Before long, all the actors had gathered around the fountain in the center, stuffed into the cobblestone square like sardines. Everyone had come: the soldiers, villagers, warlords, mothers, fathers, children: all. After a brief silence the next song began.
Sie sollen alle singen
Nach ihres Herzens Lust;
Doch mir soll fürder klingen
Ein Lied nur aus der Brust:
Ein Lied, um dich zu preisen,
Du Nibelungenhort,
Du Brot und Stein der Weisen,
Du freies, freies Wort!
The words came freeform overtop the quiet whistles of woodwinds: in the center a great commotion arose, and soon it became clear that a debate had broken out between a warlord and his soldier. The song bumped along as the two pointed and shook their fists and spat: the crowd around pitched in when necessary. Several steady streams of people were joining the congregation from every direction: eventually, the whole stadium floor was packed, and the raucous noise of argument became clearly audible underneath the song.
After only a few minutes the winding song slowed to its conclusion and the cherubic depiction of ancient Vordic democracy dispersed. The warlord with the largest crown took a seat near the middle of the field, the soldiers took positions around the periphery, and the villagers returned to their chores. Without waiting for a breath the children’s choir reasserted their dominance.
Frohe Weihnacht! Frohe Weihnacht! Frohe Weihnacht! Frohe Weihnacht!
And so on, and before long Vachel’s famous Canon rang throughout the arena, supported softly by rather angelic vocals. At the same time on the ground varicolored lights came alive on the fir trees, and the villagers set to work placing stars on their rightful perches as behind them their homes were transformed.
The delightful little buildings were roiling: pieces were twisting and turning, their walls changing color, and their foundations expanding. Suddenly they began to rise into the air, and took the impression of stone and stained glass structures: their roofs opened to birth grand faux-marble domes.
Before long the imitation cathedrals had grown to near stadium-height: the villagers spun and admired their grandiosity. Flocks of robed priests and cross-stamped knights flew onto the fields, holding bibles and swords aloft and shouting silent praise to the heavens. The spotlights dimmed: the trees lit the proceedings. The grandiose Christianization of Svandary finally concluded with another flood of fireworks, blinking red and green to uproarious applause.
Without seams the song morphed into its successor, the fastest and most blood-pounding of the ceremonies so far. Trickling electric guitar announced the arrival of yet more knights, which themselves heralded hordes of workmen, dressed in medieval clothing and clutching hammers and picks. But that was far from the main attraction.
Massive stony walls erupted from the grounds, engulfing the entire central market and obscuring the fountain. Upon these walls came alive exquisite façades of stained glass and glittering crosses: the villagers below fell to their knees: the Vordic Empire had entered its medieval stage.
The lights vanished. Silence reigned. After a few moments, a deep, brassy voice broke open the quiet:
Meine Damen und Herren, willkommen in Schvalzland!
The proclamation touched off Erzader’s indelible Rhapsodie in Blau, which fluttered to life amongst the rising white lights and rapidly changing farmlands below. Almost too quickly, the cobblestone streets flipped to reveal concrete roads, and the vast cathedral spires shaved their embellishments and sprouted long, steel-framed windows.
The villagers began lifting patches of grass and grain and hauling them offstage, only to be replaced by soot-marked workers in long leather gloves and black boots. In the few remaining spaces between the cathedral-skyscrapers, smokestacks rose, spewing black fog into the air to titillate the crowds. Some of the towers adopted the blackened brickwork of factories: most, however, unmistakably resembled highrises, or else tenement buildings. All the while Erzader’s pulsating fusion of classical styles and modern jazz danced above the proceedings like a pleasure-god.
Before long all the facets of modernity have arrived: the Minckers with their long overcoats, top hats, and monocles; the jazz musicians hauling clunky instruments; the camera crews with their skeletal machinery; and ever greater hordes of workers.
In the last few minutes of the music the central cathedral, as yet unchanged, suddenly slid open, revealing gradually an infernal network of cables and struts inside its belly. As the faux-stone slabs retracted back into the ground, the new structure was illuminated clearer and clearer: an empty launching platform.
Fireworks and applause shook the bones of the stadium: the brass exploded in every eardrum: the workers below chanted in unison as they approached the center. The final trumpet-blasts announced the end of the modernization, and the workers began running.
Erzader’s masterwork crumbled away and was rebuilt with violin and electronica: the postmodern age had begun.
The whole scene came alive with neon: billboards lofted atop the skyscrapers; sidewalks invaded by boisterous storefronts; streets glowing and pulsing with yellow and white light; rainbows shining through the river. Atop one tower, a massive sign arose and screamed Grimmstrom, the iconic home of Svandish film, the largest of its kind in Ordis.
In the center of all this, workers clothed in the modern equipment of Svandish industry whipped up a flurry of sparks at the base of the launch site, and piece by piece a vast rocket was assembled; components pulled upwards in the wiry framework and fastened top-to-bottom. As the song climaxed the final orange engines were welded like wings to the side of the projectile. The countdown began, projected around the stadium on nearly all its screens.
Zehn! Neun! Acht! Sieben! Sechs! Fünf! Vier! Drei! Zwei! Eins!
Thunderous cascades of white fireworks gushed forth from the rafters and a snowfall of white crystals burst and fluttered down onto the crowds. The tip of the rocket glowed clean. Across the ceiling: a vast white flower outlined in starkly-bright lights, so harsh that those in the uppermost seats squinted to shield their eyes. The falling snowflakes popped and twinkled in the newfound radiance, and for a moment the silence was absolute. Then, in whisper-song;
Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
Morgens Sie grüßen süß mich.
Klein und weiß,
Hell und rein,
Sie sehen fröhlich mit mir aus.
Schneeblüte, sprießen Sie stark und stolz,
Stark und stolz und ständig.
Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
Segnen Sie ewig die Heimat!
And with that final shivering Heimat, the ceremony was over.
