(OOC: This is a pastiche of "Soccer in Sun and Shadow," by Eduardo Galeano. The lines in quotation marks about goalkeepers, Lilliputians, robots, and the last paragraph, are direct quotes from the translation. Everything else is intended to be in a similar, if much more tongue-in-cheek, spirit.)
Hello, it is I, Ígnîgo Xôjálá of the Lâlâxüçe Crier! You may remember me from
World Cup 90, in which I had the honor of interviewing Ms. Junia McCue, who is a Challengers' Cup winner who also happens to be a real-life Bigtopian, well technically a Zwangzugian who belongs to the Bigtopian ethnicity, but I mean, they're persecuted and oppressed throughout the multiverse, her story really
should be a sign of the superlative talent that only hardship and bigotry can forge. With Arlington City off to another impressive international campaign, I decided to spend a season in Zwangzug and learn how the beautiful game shines through in many different cities.
MollaIt is the first week of the season. Namiri Independent have finished last for five consecutive seasons. In other parts of the world this would be an impossibility; they would have been relegated, replaced by a new group of strivers ready to make their mark on the top flight. But here, just as the economic safety net does what it can to make sure no one falls through the cracks, the stultifying repetition continues in the first and only division.
It is August in Sharag, in the temperate rainforest. Today is an extremely typical 58 degrees. The vicissitudes of a convulsing planet have not imperiled Sector 32 Park, or perhaps they just have their head in the dirt.
Gangambika Molla is from the Junba sub-ethnic group of Namiri. She is bulky and not fleet. Elsewhere, more desperate places where people truly struggle to make ends meet, you might call her a poacher. This metaphor has never caught on in Namiri, where wildlife protection is strictly enforced. Independent pride themselves on being flexible, on being willing to experiment and try new things up front, in contrast to their relentlessly defensive neighbors in Guariday. This is somewhat of an exaggeration--if they were really as innovative as they claim, perhaps they would not have finished last for five consecutive seasons. But nevertheless, in minute 23, Molla receives a pass from Umanath Todarmal, then slams it into the side of the net. It is a new season, Independent lead, and anything is possible.
(They will promptly concede two to the Twineur Bugs. It could also be a long season.)
MarcusRachel Shapiro is an angry Bear. The only woman in the baseball Zebras' starting rotation, she throws a blazing fastball, and is known to support the Liberal Conservative Party because she cares about the welfare of bears and zebras in the wild as well. Fans in the capital adore her, and make "bear claws" when she gets a strikeout. Even though her international career is likely over, she will probably play a couple more seasons for Zwischen, even if no one is watching. It is early September, and the baseball divisional races are coming to a head, probably, though not recorded in detail anymore.
The Nepharan and Verdean presses have commented on the dissimilarities between pitching and goalkeeping. Like they do with everything else, Zwangzugians have nodded sagely as if they understood what was going on and then promptly proceeded to demonstrate that they have no idea what they're talking about. Zwangzugians are remarkably phlegmatic baseball fans; if their starting pitcher has a defecatory performance, well, maybe the manager overused them earlier in the season. And individual wins/losses are not a very useful statistic, anyway. And relief pitchers are bound to collapse every once in a while, it comes with the territory. Yeah, it may be frustrating to have four days of doing nothing and waiting for redemption--but then, what the team does in those four days can't be your fault. Zwangzug is a great place to be a pitcher, and pitchers love to represent the Zebras just like the batters do.
Zwangzugians, on the other hand, are terrified at the burdens of the "martyr, pay-all, penitent, or punching bag." The nation is comprised of both those who relish "the immensity of the empty net," and those, well-meaning but perhaps misguided, who would rather look like fools than subject their comrades to such anguish. In the long run--history has run wild in even this idyllic place, too many times to count--it is the former masochists who have carried the day, but in the capital the old ways still prosper. Pitchers, Zwischen will boast proudly, but goalkeepers, never.
So Ephesian control the midfield, dominating possession, whimsically outscoring the opposition while resolutely not drawing fouls. Youngster Stephen Marcus, from his bald head and wise strategems, could be mistaken for a much older player. He even scores against the run of play, which is slightly astonishing, since Ephesian know no other way than relentlessly controlling the run of play and pushing forward--but he knows not to overexert himself, and when Thalia Strave-Carp taps him a pass, he converts it. He scores a hat trick, and Ephesian defeat FTC United 5-1.
DeweyEvan Dewey came of age surrounded by footballing royalty--Trebuchet Cham's midfield sporting such talents as Gabriel Lapierre, Nancy Puyo-Sachar, and even the golden Testículo herself, Kayla Haugen. But uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, and Dewey seems to have wilted in their shadow. Now, in the unsparing spotlight of trying to rebound from the ninth-place finish, there is no question that when he succeeds--or fails--everyone will know.
It's 2-2 against FTC United. Catarina Malmquist grazes Dewey, and his maroon shirt ripples in the wind; he decides to tumble to the grass, see how the dome on top of Stabb Field looks from this angle, slow down the pace of play. The referee has little appreciation for this performance, and the home fans express their criticism. Are they merely disappointed he got caught, or trying to signal their moral rectitude? Are they attentive enough to even notice he was simulating, or are they so shortsighted that even the referee, whose job it is to have their eyesight disdained by all and sundry, must inform them of Dewey's misdeed?
Sourly, he reacts to this by being absent from the next few minutes of attack, buildup, back-and-forth. Then, an opening; Toni Paolis loses possesion, and Dewey takes control, dribbles forward, is nearly caught offside by Pia Leykauf, shakes her free, and scores.
"How does she make you feel?" I ask, later, when Cham hold on to win.
"Her?" Dewey echoes.
"She. Her.
Ella."
He squints. "Is this some kind of--"
"The
ball," I hastily explain. "The football, that you dance with, adore, caress, woo. Are you not her devoted companion?"
"Um," says Dewey. "I dunno how your league does it, but like--we have women playing? Alongside us? They're people? It's a little bit weird to anthropomorphize the ball, is all."
ImamuraIt is early October, it is the Days of Awe--the sweet new year, the somber times of repentance and atonement--and perhaps no one is quite sure what year it is or how the calendars align, but in Trink, they know it is Matchday Seven and they are returning home to face the defending champions, coming off the backs of a heavy defeat away in Keppal. Trink fans are testy, and why shouldn't they be? Just because they were born here, in this labyrinth of bureaucracies, does not change the fact that their ancestors were driven on the winds of persecution and terror, fleeing bombs that blocked out the sky or tyrants that turned the horizon to ash. Trink, in forty seasons, have never won the 1./, and it is unjust given all the talent that has passed through the Kyogijo Concord; it is only to be expected, because their heritage has told them that glory is not to be expected, not here.
Ryota Imamura glowers, and why shouldn't he? He is a World Cup champion, one of twenty-six names carved into history, an immortal alphabet. And yet, he is not; Kate DiMarini, in her prudence, in her shameful conservatism, refused to take advantage of the expanded rosters unless it was
truly necessary, unless something
too disruptive happens. And this is Zwangzug, chilly utopia above the clouds and above the fray, nothing
too terrible ever happens here. Imamura is a winner without effort, a legend without honor, and he resents it, even here.
It is 1-1 in the fifty-third minute, when Masaru Yanai sends it out of play. Meredith Ryland takes another booming throw-in, hoping to place it at the feet of Chester Hildegard, but Imamura gets there first, shaking off Ryland and Cynthia Fairfax-Hazy, and scores. The fans blow their horns and thump their drums and chant their inexhaustible parodies, and even here, beneath the noise, there is harmony.
Lanza-HayesBassabook enter the eighth matchday at the top of the table, having most recently put up four against Cham and continuing to rack up goals from all corners. They come home to take on Keppal Cosmos, and for the first half, the battle is one of midfield possession. Jude McWaler and Julia MacEacharna, both of whom played on the university all-star team that competed in the Brevity Cup and the Mihaly Invitational before making the leap to the full side, are scintillating, back-and-forth, forth-and-back. Is it any coincidence that they are both Bigtopians? MacEacharna, the jovial tenor saxophonist, not always the most conducive to her managers' mind-numbing and tedious routines, still full of play in every sense of the word. And McWaler, runner-up in the university championship with Glune Institute of Natural Sciences, who almost-but-not-quite equalized in minute 90+8 of the Eagles' Cup final, at a young age already used to being second-best, but unprotesting, ready to make his own name--even a tragic one--beyond the shadows of the national team's predecessors.
(According to most of the fans I have spoken with, it
is a coincidence, and Bigtopian-Zwangzugians are no more gifted nor oppressed nor spectacular nor mistreated than their Peridune- and Ianix- and Namirite- compatriots. But that doesn't make for an Important Moralizing Narrative, come on, guys.)
That's the first half. In the second half, Bassabook are a bit more in control, the ball lingering longer in Keppal's half. The Keppal fans adore Ketevan Igreli too much to make
her a scapegoat, of course, but she does not have the elegant understatement that is easy to take for granted elsewhere; when she throws herself forward, getting her extremities to the ball, it's hard to miss. So she does against Tutilo Rimbert and Kelly Dervi-Raish in turn. It is Bassabook's David Lanza-Hayes, who has a dapper mustache and a stout right foot, who breaks the tie, sending it into the corner in the 83rd minute. That this uninspiring, untroubled, Peridune fellow's hyphenated name--Bassabook can't even do conservatism right!--will be written in the scoreline as the only thing of note to transpire during the match is of course wildly unjust, but there you have it.
Harber-KunIt is early November, it is matchday ten, it is Dwayne, in Vordex, in the south of the country. Vordex is part of the region that, historically, used the Cyrillic alphabet, but like so many other things they have become standardized, fallen in line, local life and culture snuffed out. The transit systems that are supposed to be kind to the planet, preserving its future, are at the same time heralds of a depressing monotony. Of course, even though Dwayne does not compare to most of the metropoli I have visited, it is still the sixth-largest city in Vordex District, and the local train network links it up to Elmax and Snoub and from there, everywhere else. It is very possible that, beyond my itinerary, there are towns that are smaller still, keeping to their old ways, resplendent in diversity even if the capital does not deign to notice.
This is the smallest stadium I will visit, and every seat is taken. Rovers United, of course, are used to this, prudently managing their budgets with no expectation of high-flying salaries. Their name conjures up absurdity, whimsy, but can they truly be as playful as that suggests? Forget history and their caprices; this team must travel much more than any other, and so, they must train, relentlessly and regimentedly, just to make up for all the exhaustion caused by travel. How can they take in the joy of all these small towns, never mind pleasing the fans, when they are running uphill just to keep up with their bodies?
Yet they strive nonetheless, and if they are only a middling side--well, in a league like this, perversely, even a middling side can go far. They enter matchday ten far from middling; they are second, between Bassabook and Arlington, who are playing out a one-all draw. Here, in Dwayne, the Rovers take on Namiri Forest, and even if the fans in piddling Vordex don't know or care who any of them are, the Rovers are conjurers who make something out of nothing; they have decided that those cheers, that excitement, is for them.
The World Cup 85 generation is gone, and rightly so; it has been eleven seasons, Quincy Dulk-Fough has seized glory with the national team, Rowan Singh can recede into memory along with all the others. Newcomer Saroj Kinnar, despite her name, is as cosmopolitan as any and has fit right in here (not unlike Rowan Singh, as a matter of fact, though she may be more pious than he was snarky). Sheila Harber-Kun is neither tall nor lithe, but she puts the ball where she wants it to go. "Lilliputians can change speed and accelerate brusquely without falling because they aren't built like skyscrapers." Zwangzugians, of course, know all about skyscrapers, even in "small" towns like Dwayne. And I
think the Lilliputians might be another persecuted ethnicity, like the Bigtopians, but Harber-Kun does not answer my questions about it, after the game, which I think is slightly rude. But in minute 26, she scores, and against a team like Forest, it's all the Rovers need.
WaughIt is matchday thirteen, it is the beginning of December in Twineur, "city of snow angels"--the dustings are not enough to cancel school, though they have caused a few delays on the local trains, or perhaps that's just a convenient excuse for the endless bureaucratic mishaps that inevitably result in delays. Twineur are returning home in high spirits, having defeated table-topping Bassabook at Pacific Field, and now take on the Old Boys' archrivals. But momentum is a fickle illusion; the visitors lead 1-0 at the half.
Six minutes after the restart, Neil Morris crosses to Valerie Waugh. From a distance, the rules seem stringent: "use your feet, don't use your hands, unless you're the sort of miscreant who lives outside the ordinary rules." But this is an oversimplification: great players control the ball with their entire body, head and shoulders knees and toes, chests, using their teammates for support or sharing it with them in an infinite give-and-take, unwilling to interrupt their performance for such mundane considerations as the location of the net. Waugh is not showy, nor is she used to having domestic teammates who can supply a partner for a double act, so she instead scoots towards goal, the ball trailing in her wake like a misshapen shadow. She rolls it across herself hurriedly, not giving the referee time or space to question how it's done, and then, when it looks almost as if she might be caught in the act, guiltily discharges it out of John Boomhower's reach, for a second goal. Melanie Quantico scores in added time, and the match finishes 3-0.
"What is your relationship like with him?" I ask Waugh, later.
"What?"
"Do you tease him, cajole him, tickle him, angrily punch him? How do you coax him to do your bidding?"
"Excuse me?"
"The ball," I say, "the football, which you control so brilliantly, so magnificently. Women can play football too, right? Don't you, like, perceive him as the object of your affection?"
Waugh stares at me as if doubting my multilingualism. "Okay, first of all, I'm a lesbian..."
MungwaiiThe captaincy is an honor for any team, of course, and in this nation it is no exception, the cloth armband demarcating a leader who speaks for the side and leads by example. It is a position of responsibility, often entrusted to a long-tenured player. In the early days of the national team, the captain took on many of a manager's typical responsibilities, and seniority was highly valued--only someone who'd been around from the beginning and understood how and why things were done could be worthy of leadership.
Yet, it is not as simple as a reward for excellence. Much has been made of the fact that superlative players do not always make the best managers; if the game comes naturally to you, so effortless that you don't need or want to put it into words, how can you communicate that to lesser mortals? Can a superstar's ego speak with the voice of eleven? And, in an insular league known--politely--for going its own way and doing its own thing--can an outsider claim to represent the country's most typical city?
For all those reasons, Meldi'ita Mungwaii, the (extremely) long-tenured Turorian striker, might seem an odd choice to wear the armband for the blue and gold. And yet, his very longevity makes him impossible to overlook; he's been here since Season 33, when he arrived at Laura Petrell's side to play alongside such names as Riley Kivrin and my pal McCue. At 46, he's still chasing 100 goals with the national team, and if he's good enough for the third-in-the-world Eels, well, he's good enough for Arlington City, captaincy and all.
On Matchday Fourteen, Bassabook, who had been leading on goal difference, are being held to a draw with their archrivals. On the west side in the FTC, Arlington are tied 1-1 with the home Oxen. And in minute 86, the indomitable Mungwaii redirects a free kick into the goal. Arlington are first outright, and despite fighting on two fronts with the Challengers' Cup, they will lead the rest of the way.
Bright-LemmoxSpenson and Bassabook enter Matchday Seventeen tied for second, with Bassabook ahead by one goal of differential. They face each other in the Stelladome, in Fulpog.
I do not like it here very much. We should be under the sun, or at least the clouds, not this unnatural dome. And it's not even located in the city itself; for a country that preens over its public transit, shouldn't these monotonous-looking suburbs have been properly incorporated into the city proper by now, allowed to grow and change and take on their own identity rather than these boring eyesores? "Soccer gets mass-produced, and it comes out colder than a freezer and as merciless as a meat grinder: soccer for robots." As much as the locals boast of their cyborg-run automation, I cannot help but think that there is no true football here, and they only reason the humans do not understand what has been lost is because they never had it in the first place.
The Old Boys and Suburbians are tied after ninety minutes. In the first minute of stoppage time, Luo Chuan, the Yue playmaker, takes possession. She's alert and sees an opening, but Cody Himplang-Sois, Bassabook's left back, moves to cut her off. Luo, more confident in distribution, dribbles backward, and sends it over to Keegan Bright-Lemmox, who redirects it in. 3-2 Spenson, who move into second. And if the fans' chants have been mechanical, dronelike--well, wordless screaming is the same in every language.
Jairo-CibolThe Bug House is a welcome change of pace from the Stelladome, if only in the literal sense--Twineur are known for their fast pace and disdain for dawdling. But in another sense, most of the stadiums here, from insignificant Dwayne to high-tech Fulpog, are similar. Not what they have in common, but what they don't have. The naming rights have not been auctioned off; fields are given names either in honor of the club or extremely generic titles or other impenetrable allusions, rather than sponsored. You will not find ads alongside the edge of the stands. The jerseys--even the gaudily colorful ones--don't sport logos.
I would like to think it's something pure, something that hearkens back to a time before commercial sponsorship infiltrated the game. It's not, of course; as far back as Zwangzug's football history goes, capitalism's depredations are far older. Am I expecting an impossible standard? The World Cup was introduced by Ariddia, who are as communistic as you can get. Then again, the modern Champions' League carries on from UICA's Champions' Cup, which was originally the "TakilQuip Champions' Cup" after its sponsors from absurdly mercantilistic Paripana. Who, nevertheless, insisted that stadium names be non-corporate even if kits were govered in garish advertisements. No matter where you look, there are inconsistencies and hypocrisies everywhere.
Twineur go up 2-0 in the 22nd minute, via Mickey Eldo-Matti. Right off the restart, Kyle Jairo-Cibol dribbles all the way to the Rovers' goal, and just like that--blink and you'll miss it--it's 3-0. By the end of the half it'll be 4-0. The second half is a good deal closer, though the Bugs hang on to win 5-2.
ChuchupakI have heard it said that those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. But I don't think this is true. History does not always repeat itself; often, it can go wrong in new and exciting ways. As often, even those who remember it are at no advantage; they can get lost in nostalgia, reliving their glory days, while different kind of oppression take place around them. The people experiencing the cruelty and violence of history don't have time or energy to brag about how they know this happened before because they read it in a book.
Arlington City and Excelsior Slogda are both teams that have had impressively prolific streaks in their history--Slogda's rather more distant. The fans in Arlington like to humblebrag about how they've memorized all this history. Today they witness a brilliant exhibition, a goal for the highlight reels. In minute 13, visiting midfielder Oleksii Braun-Mikol passes to Rada Chuchupak, who shoots from the edge of the box; the ball seems to still be rising as it crosss the line. Slogda fans exult. The home fans sulk. And then the referee rules it offsides, thanks to an inadvertent trap from the flukish Fairfax-Hazy.
Two minutes later, Chuchupak is in the exact same position when she receives the ball, but the Arlington defenders are far enough back that she is indubitably onsides. She sprints to the edge of the box, again, shoots, again, the ball sails on its inexorable trajectory, again, Slogda take the lead, rightfully. Against the weight of such performances, even champions must succumb.
KuriakoseThere are no true derbies in Zwangzug. By a true derby, I mean an intense, passionate rivalry between two clubs in the same local area, preferably the same city. It is not enough to love your club; you must hate the opposition, rejoice at their defeat--particularly at your feet, but also at the feet of any third party, domestic or foreign. A club from the same region whom you would be happy to see beat out an unknown is not a true derby rival (unless you are engaging in the unconscionable sin of coëfficientspeak).
I suspect, but cannot prove, that such true derbies are more common in societies where inequity and injustice have had longer to fester. An underclass who target their ire where they should, at the overlords who reign above them, are dangerous. An underclass who channel their vitriol at their neighbors, divided by language or religion or ethnicity or fractal-jagged borders on a map, can be controlled. Even if the elites have disdain for the sport of the common people, on some level they know they must let these rivalries serve as social safety valves, because the alternative is worse.
The cultural distance between Bassabook and 102d is immense--Descriptive, conservative piety in one corner, Algebraic, quick-witted skepticism in another. But the geographic distance between them is almost as stark; this would not qualify as a derby, no matter how little the fans think of each other.
The two Namirite clubs are not in the same city, either. Forest play in Guariday; Independent, in Sharag. Neither are they motivated by such resentment, although at times you will see flickers of it between Forest and the rest of the world. Winning the Champions' League seems to have tempered their spirits a bit; it's one thing to bemoan how no one understands indigenous issues or system karela when you're in the middle of nowhere. It's another to attend fancy ceremonies where Meghna Imomenba is regaled as the best in the world at her position, and then come back and try to whine about how no one understands you.
Despite their different tactical pretensions, Forest and Independent understand each other as well as anyone can. They can tell the difference between Jojie and Swash people, and between the Jorvelki dissidents who came southwest during the Consolidation and Græntfjallers who made a wrong turn at the interregional customs. And even when the rest of the country is earnestly mimicking their green aspirations, Guariday fans know the difference between trusting in shiny new technologies to atone for you and truly going back to the trees. Sharag fans might not appreciate it, but they understand it, too.
Forest are, as always, resolutely defensive, preferring to pass the ball around in their own territory. But against a side as abject as Independent, what this consists of is "their own territory" becoming an increasingly large proportion of the field every fifteen minutes or so, until finally, at the 84th minute, Senbi Kuriakose's defensive support is far enough forward there's no use trying to pass it back to them, so he has no recourse left but to score the match's only goal.
MarkovaAlmost all of the vacancies on the senior national team, when the World Cup 93 cycle got underway in force, were for midfielders. Players like Yoonjung Lin, who captained the university all-star team, or Gretchen Hargrave, who won the university championship with Lynn Ragnailt's Engdahl Institute, haven't had the chance to get called up yet, just because they happen to play the wrong position.
Sveta Markova was the third-choice striker on a one-striker team, and even her college rivals lost out to Marcus of Ephesian. But not being quite as good as Stephen Marcus doesn't make you a poor player, and Markova has found a home in Canbix. Unlike the musically-charming MacEacharna, Markova is a more physically aggressive player, who draws plenty of fouls; she makes up for it by being clinical on set pieces, on the rare occasions when the Muses are the more well-behaved side.
In the seventh minute, Joey McPasies-Greo of 102d brings down Brianna Marva-Crest in the box. Markova steps up for the penalty, and does not miss. But it's still early. Only as the game wears on does McPasies-Greo's foul appear, in retrospect, to be increasingly decisive in the game's result. How is this fair? He did nothing wrong when Nina Irving and Waugh were having their back-and-forth, when Helen Pimbura was taking goal kicks. Why should he be retroactively assigned more and more of the blame?
Like many Zwangzugians, he has a hyphenated name. His father and mother were born Isaiah McPasies and Juniper Greo, respectively. Even though the latter surname doesn't have the stereotypical leading particle, she is just as Bigtopian as her husband. Is Joey ever mistaken for multicultural, a blend of oppressor and oppressee who could not possibly understand each other, instead of being wholly, fully himself, entirely Bigtopian and entirely Zwangzugian, all the way through?
ManophetIt's a game of two halves, they say, but never is that more true than in the FTC. Two gargantuan cities, pressed up against each other by coincidence or malfeasance, reveling in their differences. The west side looks down upon the east, but not literally--the skyscrapers are taller in the east, while the west has slightly more old-fashioned architecture amid the urban density. And both of them, on ocasion, join forces to boo and hiss at the rest of the country for wanting to awkwardly retcon away the stupid musical theater jokes in their history.
They should, by all rights, be rivals. This would be a true derby in the sense I've defined it above--the potent combination of local proximity and linguistic/class-based tensions couldn't be riper. And indeed, the baseball teams have just such a rivalry; the Mustangs' rivals from the east side have changed their nickname so many times over their history that the only way to consistently identify them--unless you want to annoy the awkward retconners and talk directly about "Bangkok"--is as "the Mustangs' rivals from the east side." What humiliation more abject than to have even a name denied you, except that granted by the shadow of the powerful?
And yet, in this unchanging franchise system, the Fraternal Twin Cities have been forced to share a single football club between them. Population-wise, this is already disproportionate and unfair. How much less fair, then, to the downtrodden folk of the east side! It is their fans, after all, who more desperately need an identity, a passion, a dream in which to pour all their thwarted individual hopes--to have that co-opted by the gentrifiers out west must be the most galling of insults.
Yet here, the fans at the Palloci Pagoda Park (okay, so there's a little bit of corporate sponsorship, it's complicated) actually seem to be enjoying themselves. True, for the matches they host, they make a point of inscrutable Algebraic chants, declaring that this is
their stadium--but the Eglantine Park locals do just the same with Descriptive, and no one seems to mind. Trailing 1-0 early in the second half, Catarina Malmquist dribbles forward, and sets up Sayan Manophet. He dribbles past Trink's Yehuda Ben-Eli, shoots, equalizes, and for a moment you could believe that this really is FTC United.
McHoughtonIt's the middle of May, and in Craton, there are occasionally chilly winds, but it's still pleasant. Excelsior Slogda don't have much to play for, save perhaps ensuring they consign Namiri Independent to the basement, yet again. Sporting Esper, for their part, are confirmed fourteenth.
Why are they here, these fans? The ones who took the train down from Hapra are no doubt pleased to represent Slogda as a cohesive district. But nobody's going to claim that Craton or Hope City are citadels of emotion, metropoli so full of agony and glory that they need eleven icons to represent them in the quest for catharsis week after week.
Perhaps they are sophisticated aesthetes, thrilled to witness Emeli Vilbertsdóttir's procession up and down the field. Or perhaps this is simply a fun way to spend a weekend afternoon with the family. I say afternoon--there are probably people watching this online in many random time zones, fans with no connection to Zwangzug but who are intrigued by this thing called global football, taking in this association which somehow has stumbled into the multiverse's elite. What do they know of Jeremiah McHoughton--Big Lad, forceful, grateful to have found a place where his physicality is an asset, yet nevertheless wary of going too far and stepping outside boundaries visible and otherwise, of using his energies against the system?
What do
I know of him, other than that he vindicates my theories about how the world works? All ravens are black, all effervescent superstars are Bigtopian--but even if a red-breasted robin and a mediocre performance like that of Arnkatla Janssen-Ro might provide indirect corroboration, no one with an unbiased gaze would use this as evidence. The corvidae paradox.
But today, at least, McHoughton is everything I will him to be and more--sweating as he dribbles up the left flank, making fools of Slogda's crowded defense, putting Esper on the board, mouth draped open in unrestrained celebration.
KynesFor all the time Rosamund Kynes spends on the bench injured, she should make a great manager someday. For now, she manages to babble excitedly after scoring the winning goal against Cham. Together with Trink's loss to Namiri Forest, it moves Keppal Cosmos into second place--still some distance behind Arlington, but they'll take the seeding. "Look, we were seventh last season, fourteenth before that, I think we're moving in the right direction, you know?" She grins. "Obviously it's dangerous to extrapolate, but that's the fans' job. Me, I get beat up tying my own cleats, so why not live dangerously?"
Beside her, Jude McWaler nods enthusiastically. "I was happy to be signed by a club that wasn't necessarily the strongest before--being able to contribute now means I feel like I'm a part of it, not just being carried by others." For a moment it's difficult to tell who is the rookie and who the bruised old-timer; the same hope echoes in both their voices. Coming second in a major tournament carries with it the sting of losing the final and wondering what might have been; coming second in a league, at least for Keppal, is an achievement to celebrate, while still looking ahead.
Zwangzug's national team are, inexplicably, the World Cup champions. Arlington are Challengers' Cup winners, ten seasons after they first won that trophy, and the 1./ is--at least briefly--officially heralded as the best league in the multiverse. Before I came here, I would never have believed it. This place? A would-be socialist utopia, where the people are stupid, idealistic enough to believe all that claptrap they say about diversity? Without oppression, without a grinding and unrelenting narrative to arise from, how can genius flourish? But I've spent a season here, now...
"...and I've finally learned to accept myself for who I am: a beggar for good soccer. I go about the world, hand outstretched, and in the stadiums I plead: "A pretty move, for the love of [Margaret]." And when good soccer happens, I give thanks for the miracle and I don't give a damn which team or country performs it."
Arlington City: Challengers' Cup 13 champions
GK: Harper Norwich
DF: Meredith Ryland, Cynthia Fairfax-Hazy, Jenna Kowalski
MF: Milo Tien, Chester Hildegard, Elijah Voltar-Arconi, Austin Childres
FW: Tabitha Kridel, Meldi'ita Mungwaii (c), Joiya McTarrell
Manager: Cameron Raleigh
Pos/Team Pld W D L GF GA GD Pts
1 Arlington City 30 20 6 4 50 21 +29 23
2 Keppal Cosmos 30 16 7 7 47 29 +18 19.5
3 Eintracht Trink 30 16 6 8 57 40 +17 19
4 Spenson Suburbia 30 16 5 9 47 37 +10 18.5
5 Bassabook Old Boys 30 15 4 11 54 46 +8 17
6 Ephesian FC 30 14 4 12 66 55 +11 16
7 Rovers United 30 12 8 10 43 42 +1 16
8 Namiri Forest 30 14 4 12 21 27 −6 16
9 Twineur Bugs 30 13 4 13 48 46 +2 15
10 Canbix Muses 30 11 8 11 30 31 −1 15
11 Trebuchet Cham 30 11 7 12 55 58 −3 14.5
12 FTC United 30 11 5 14 35 41 −6 13.5
13 102d Jr.s 30 9 7 14 30 39 −9 12.5
14 Sporting Esper 30 8 5 17 24 39 −15 10.5
15 Excelsior Slogda 30 3 9 18 14 41 −27 7.5
16 Namiri Independent 30 4 5 21 28 57 −29 6.5
Cereal CupFirst RoundArlington City 5–2 Trebuchet Cham
Ephesian FC 2–0 Canbix Muses
Eintracht Trink 2–2 FTC United
Spenson Suburbia 0–1 Rovers United
Namiri Forest 3–1 102d Jr.s
Bassabook Old Boys 2–1 Sporting Esper
Keppal Cosmos 1–0 Excelsior Slogda
Twineur Bugs 1–1 Namiri Independent
Second RoundArlington City 3–3 Ephesian FC
Namiri Forest 3–1 Bassabook Old Boys
Rovers United 1–0 Keppal Cosmos
Eintracht Trink 2–2 Twineur Bugs
FTC United 1–0 Namiri Independent
Sporting Esper 1–0 Spenson Suburbia
Excelsior Slogda 0–0 Canbix Muses
102d Jr.s 2–2 Trebuchet Cham
Third RoundRovers United 0–0 Namiri Forest
FTC United 1–0 Arlington City
Ephesian FC 3–2 Eintracht Trink
Keppal Cosmos 1–0 Sporting Esper
Twineur Bugs 3–1 Bassabook Old Boys
Namiri Independent 1–0 Excelsior Slogda
Canbix Muses 2–0 102d Jr.s
Trebuchet Cham 4–2 Spenson Suburbia
Fourth RoundNamiri Forest 1–3 Ephesian FC
FTC United 3–0 Rovers United
Twineur Bugs 2–0 Keppal Cosmos
Canbix Muses 0–1 Arlington City
Namiri Independent 2–3 Trebuchet Cham
Sporting Esper 4–4 Eintracht Trink
Bassabook Old Boys 1–0 Excelsior Slogda
102d Jr.s 4–0 Spenson Suburbia
Ephesian FC and FTC United both finish with 3.5 points and a goal difference of +5. Because Ephesian qualify to the IFCF and FTC United do not, the latter are granted automatic qualification to the VCI; however, for purposes of the prestigious Cereal Cup championship, a one-game playoff was held at a neutral site, the result being:
Ephesian FC 2–0 FTC United
March MayhemFirst RoundJefhed College 1–1 Stiglex University (1–2 AET)
St. Deedrag University 3–2 Pittman University
Snowden College 2–0 Elizur Mountain College
College of Twake 0–3 Engdahl Institute
Stoal Institute of Science 0–1 Geeccles University
Parmel District University 1–0 Newtown Institute
Glune Institute of Natural Sciences 1–2 Mandelbrot University
College of Bronc 0–2 College of the Riverside
Maddon College 2–3 Taravin College
Klerked College 1–1 University of 102d (2–1 AET)
Henssen Institute 3–0 Liulevi University
Heisenberg University 2–3 Edison College
AIU 4–3 Leblanc Universite
Shanbock University 2–5 University of Homler
Zwangzug University of Science 1–1 University of Greater Zwangzug (1–3 AET)
Ozcheb University 1–0 Wawen College
Orling College 0–0 Scholl College (0–0 AET) (3–4 pen.)
Bryce College 2–1 102d Polyteknik
University of Dauclem 0–2 Bulkeley College
Zwangzug National University 1–2 Hassench College
Lanius University 2–2 Westfield College (4–2 AET)
Brench 1–0 Sapper Tech
Ronquebuck University 2–1 Culver College
University of Naspe 1–1 Erewhon University (1–2 AET)
Ashthorn College 2–0 Zwangzug University
University of Jeatt--Kindtown 4–1 Freund College
University of Twineur 2–3 University of Ponderosa
Fleinhardt College 2–0 University of Jeatt--Lucina
DU 0–1 Modal College
Mursbayley College 1–1 Minong College (1–1 AET) (4–5 pen.)
University of Sinako 1–0 Frammard College
Neume College 2–0 Universitaet Schwandt
Second RoundStiglex University 3–3 St. Deedrag University (3–3 AET) (2–3 pen.)
Snowden College 0–1 Engdahl Institute
Geeccles University 3–3 Parmel District University (3–3 AET) (4–5 pen.)
Mandelbrot University 0–1 College of the Riverside
Taravin College 1–1 Klerked College (2–2 AET) (3–4 pen.)
Henssen Institute 2–1 Edison College
AIU 3–0 University of Homler
University of Greater Zwangzug 0–0 Ozcheb University (0–1 AET)
Scholl College 0–1 Bryce College
Bulkeley College 2–1 Hassench College
Lanius University 2–0 Brench
Ronquebuck University 0–0 Erewhon University (0–0 AET) (6–5 pen.)
Ashthorn College 2–3 University of Jeatt--Kindtown
University of Ponderosa 2–1 Fleinhardt College
Modal College 0–0 Minong College (0–1 AET)
University of Sinako 1–2 Neume College
Third RoundSt. Deedrag University 2–0 Engdahl Institute
Parmel District University 0–3 College of the Riverside
Klerked College 0–1 Henssen Institute
AIU 0–3 Ozcheb University
Bryce College 3–3 Bulkeley College (3–4 AET)
Lanius University 3–0 Ronquebuck University
University of Jeatt--Kindtown 4–3 University of Ponderosa
Minong College 1–1 Neume College (2–1 AET)
Fourth RoundSt. Deedrag University 0–1 College of the Riverside
Henssen Institute 1–0 Ozcheb University
Bulkeley College 0–1 Lanius University
University of Jeatt--Kindtown 2–2 Minong College (2–2 AET) (0–3 pen.)
SemifinalsCollege of the Riverside 1–1 Henssen Institute (1–2 AET)
Lanius University 0–0 Minong College (1–0 AET)
Third-Place PlayoffCollege of the Riverside 1–3 Minong College
FinalHenssen Institute 3–2 Lanius University
Zwangzug (ZWZ) qualifiers
IFCF Champions League: Arlington City, Keppal Cosmos, Eintracht Trink, Spenson Suburbia
IFCF Challengers Cup: Bassabook Old Boys, Ephesian FC, Rovers United
FFI League of Victors: Arlington City, Keppal Cosmos
FFI Confederations' Trophy: Eintracht Trink
VCIAPP: FTC United (ZWZ)
IUCC: Henssen Institute (1), Lanius University (3), Minong College (-3), College of the Riverside (-5)
*Engdahl Institute (as defending champions): (-5)
Zwangzug (ZWZ) final site bids
FFI Confederations' Trophy: Kyogijo Concord (capacity unknown)
The stadium is known for its slightly garish rainbow gradient of seat colors. Trink is a contentious city whose fans' major rivalry is with the nearby (non-sporting) city of Danhy, who they decry as elitist oppressors in comparison to Trink's downtrodden rabble (which, given the socialist economy in Zwangzug, is not a fair comparison). Their favorite board game is Hanabi, and the stadium staff will spare no expense at sensory-overloading you with fireworks after the game.