Across the whole of the True Valhallan Federation, where hand built stone walls have stood for generations casting black, cragged shadows on their leeward sides that run across the snowswept landscapes like veins in brilliant quartz, or in the towns and cities where civilisation rises vertically from the sea, clinging perilously to the cliffs and rocks and huddling together for safety as if the next gust of wind could topple the lot, there is one constant: football stadiums.
There is a versatile idiom in Valhallan football, popular with commentators, pundits, and ‘arl arses in pubs alike, that ‘corner flags have long memories.’
Sometimes, this is used to describe a resurgence in a player’s previously lacklustre form. Other times, it gets rolled out when history appears to be repeating itself either tactically or in terms of results on the pitch. Usually, however, it is used to describe the spirit of the football stadium itself. The genius loci. The air of history that sits so tangibly thick in the air that you could cut out a slice and take it home almost as easily as souvenir hunters do with hallowed turf after pitch invasions on momentous occasions. The sense of embodied emotion that pervades these places where the beautiful game is played.
Decades after outpourings of grief or explosions of confetti, the concourses and terraces can still be said to ring with the echoes and reverberations of past triumphs and failures. From modern arenas that dominate the skyline for miles around, illuminating the night sky with their floodlights and attracting fans like moths in their thousands, to the smallest of community hubs, where family fun days and three bar heaters in changing rooms are the norm, each take their place at the centre of their local culture. Like totems and shrines, these modern-day cathedrals of worship stand like memento gloria, testament and gospel combined, oases of warmth and light against the drama of the driving wind and sleet outside.
Well worn handrails lead to and from the areas of interest. Turnstiles clang and clank the same way they have done centuries, or else they beep and swing open like portents of a future that is fast approaching. Polished concrete runs rougher towards the edges, where slightly fewer pairs of feet have worn down the floor to the mirror-like surface that exists elsewhere. Every mark tells a story, from the notches on the back of the plastic seats where generations of season ticket holder have used their house keys to carve nervously into them during moments of high tension, to the palimpsests and scars left behind by redeveloped or rebuilt stands. Chips of paint. A drifting piece of litter. A timeless embodiment of phenomenon. Hewn from the landscape itself, these dens and hives of pride and spirit are alive with the sense of place that they inhabit. The people draw from the land, and the stadiums draw from both.
This haptic feedback turns into aural hallucination in an empty stadium, where the lines of seats spell out initials and nicknames of teams and clubs set around a pristine field of green, as pregnant with promise and anticipation as the sheets of snow blanketing the ground outside. Close your eyes, and you tap into the stories. They’re all right there. Close your eyes. Reach out. Taste them. The goals, the relegations, the triumphs, and the agonies. Smell the half time refreshments. A bag of chips. A spilt beer, dripping apologetically down the steps into the discarded coats of the fans in front of you. Chew your way around the stadium. The stadium remembers. It knows you. Whatever you want, it understands. You couldn’t surprise it even if you tried. It has seen it all. Even the new ones. Through decades of league campaigns, endless cup matches, and infinite goals, these four corner flags are part of history. And now, standing there, so are you.
Outside, ghosts pepper the landscape. The memories and actions of those who first cast their eyes over the oceans to the east and west, the south, and even further north, are never far from the surface, whether their intentions be exploration, conquest, or later, diplomatic. Inside, the ghosts perform a different dance. Below the jinking lights of the aurora as it skips between the constellations, the attackers and strikers stride and turn amongst the defenders. The penalty spot glints and shines like the northern star above it. Crowds bellow with roars that seem to soak into the timbers and steels themselves, to be released back into the atmosphere at will. Communities rise, fall, and join together as one. Towns are united. Towns are divided. Heroes become villains and pariahs become idols.
The past isn’t a different country; it’s alive.
The stadiums know. The people, collectively, remember. The corner flags have long memories.
Which is just as well, because your average football fan has a memory like a fish. Stoic, strong individuals, who could stand in an empty stadium and sense everything just described as clear as the light of the dawn that will last a month, turn into jibbering idiots when a misplaced pass becomes a bone of contention. A hat trick in the last game is forgotten as soon as a penalty is missed. A tackle. A poorly controlled pass. This week’s record transfer is next week’s fraud. The beautiful game, run by and for a bunch of fools, too emotional and rash to apply reason to their thoughts. Just a bunch of idiots in warpaint trying to tap into the praxis on the pitch, synapses firing off loose electrical currents left right and centre and howling primal calls of fellowship. Bedlam. Tribal. Judgmental. Forgetful.
And yet, sometimes, that wasn’t their fault.
The Nasjonale Stadion was full to the brim with Valhallans who had never seen their national team play a competitive fixture. A few lucky ticket holders had been there before, a handful more had heard first hand stories from friends or family who had, but the majority, the vast majority, had never seen the famous dark blue jerseys arranged in anger. Not with their own eyes.
A hum of anticipation had built before the game, building through the day as the stadium got steadily busier and busier. It was been used for Latitude Cup finals in the intervening years, but there was a sense that the old girl was finally coming to life. Cobwebs were being dusted. New passageways opened. This was how things used to be. The stadium stretched, wheezed, and eased back into life as an international venue carefully, and gently. For the first time in a generation, the away section was cordoned off, a wide berth given over to the Cassadaiguan visitors, centrally located in the south east corner of the ground, right where a perimeter of OO could keep them under careful watch.
The pomp. The circumstance. The flags. The distinguished visitors. Every bit of brass burnished to a shine, and banners waving in white, blue, and green. The floodlights above rendering the black beyond into a void as dark as any. Even the northern star was hidden by their glare, every bulb changed and checked ahead of the game. This was it. This was going to be a night to remember.
The crowd had sung the national anthem enthusiastically, despite its relative youth, and then fell back into a buzz of anticipation.
“Now what?” they seemed to say. Not so much short on memory as completely inexperienced.
And then the kick-off.
Feverish yelling accompanied the kick, as Eisenhauer passed it back to Pallasmaa, and the television cameras whirred and spun, following the pageantry and broadcasting it to what would have been an obsessed nation, an intrigued Rushmore, and a curious Multiverse beyond that.
And then, the fever chilled.
Cassadaigua scored. Two minutes on the clock.
The crowd fell silent. Was this how it used to be? Was this how it was going to be? A handful of visiting fans celebrated and cheered, although not too enthusiastically. A friendly against an unranked nation was hardly the event for them as it was for the home side.
A quarter of an hour later, it was two.
The banners started to lower. People looked confused at each other. What happened to the Terns? The Terns. Now ranked.... nearly three-hundredth in the multiverse?! Some nervous laughter as possession was instantly lost again. Eura and Brenecia were two of the next three matches.
A manager held his head in his hands.
The stadium remembered. This wouldn’t be the first defeat for the Terns on home soil. But it would be the first watched in person by Secretary General Orion Lund. If the crowd had short memories, his was non-existent. Strikers? Defenders? It was all Urszcsar to him. But he recognised booing when he heard it.
The Terns were yet to get the ball to their striker in the opposition box, and the Dagans had a third before half time.
A smattering of boos rang out. Some were shushed by embarrassed onlookers. The rest were allowed to hang in the air. A nervous manager looked up at the box of dignitaries, and noticed as the unmistakable silhouette of the Secretary General stood up and made to leave.
“Sir, you’re leaving?” asked an aide, shocked and looking up form their clipboard.
“I’ve been seen. I don’t understand what I’m looking at anyway.”
“But... the Sporting Directive?” continued the aide, “The people will be expecting to see your reaction to the game.”
“So then this is my reaction,” grumbled the old man in response.
“Listen, sir,” the aide stammered, “the crowd are booing.”
Lund looked around. A minute to go until half time, and the Terns were defending for their life again. Some substitutes were warming up on the opposite touchline. Clearly, there would be changes at half time. But Lund wasn’t looking at them. Instead, he cast his eye around the stadium, picking out with his beady eyes the members of the OO and their associates, carefully keeping tabs on the crowd. He noticed the new security measures, the cameras and the spotlights, their lenses reflecting the lights the stadium like stars. He glanced at ‘K’mander’ Knudsen, still in his seat, and exchanged half a wry smile with him.
The aide looked to Lund for a response.
“Let them boo,” he said with a smile, and then disappeared into the dark of a corridor that had seen many things before, but never this. Not revolution.
The Terns were back, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. A restless crowd stirred uneasily in their seats. Scarves were clutched. Programmes fiddled with. The half time whistle blew, and half the stadium left for the less embarrassing confines of the concourse. Better to pay over the odds for a hot dog than attempt to talk through those forty-five minutes of deflation with their fellow fan.
The corner flags would remember, though they’d wish they hadn’t.
