Only One Team In Tallinn
It's cold.
But then again, it's to be expected. It's usually cold in Tallinn.
The weather doesn't seem to be affecting the men on the pitch, however. They're in shorts and tee shirts, all eleven of them, running a circuit around the stadium's grounds while wearing the same sports uniform. Their exercise keeps them warm, and they're Scotsmen, so the weather doesn't bother them because they're used to chilly conditions.
Scotland himself watches with pride from the sidelines, stamping his feet in an attempt to warm up. He doesn't often travel to the Baltic states and he'd naturally assumed, due to Estonia's location in continental Europe, that it would be a little bit warmer than his native Highlands. Perhaps his decision to pack flowery beach trunks isn't the greatest wardrobe choice he's ever made, but he did bring along a fur coat when Wales nagged him to, so he isn't quite an icicle yet.
He checks his watch.
The game is an hour away, and his team will have to cease training very soon. The spectators are due to begin entering the stadium, waving their flags and cheering on their national team. Scotland smiles, excited. He wants to win this game as much as his people, because if he does, he'll be one step closer to winning the World Cup. He'll be even with England then. For the first time ever, the Scottish team could well bring home the trophy.
Scotland dips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out his lighter, bringing it to the cigarette already protruding from his mouth. He lets out a sigh of contentment when he receives that familiar nicotine high, watching the thin stream of smoke form patterns against the sky. He's half-surprised that his lighter can still produce a flame, considering the icy nip in the air.
His contentment is short-lived, however, because something quick and violent suddenly jabs his shoulder.
Celtic anger rising in his veins, Scotland whirls around to see who it is prodding him, yelling, "D'you mind?"
"No," the assailant says, simply. "I would like to know why you and your football team have decided to invade my capital city's stadium."
Taken aback, Scotland stares at the chap before answering. It's a man with wiry glasses and short blond hair, his fringe meticulously arranged to fall over his forehead. His accent is undoubtedly one of an Eastern-European, though his English is extremely good. Scotland recognises the man as the representative of Estonia; he saw a photograph of him once in Russia's house, along with his neighbour Latvia.
"Pleased t' meet you, too," Scotland says, amused. He holds out a hand. "I'm Scotland, but everyone calls me Scot—"
"Yes, yes; I know who you are," Estonia snaps, clearly irritated. "I asked you a highly important question and I would therefore appreciate an answer."
"Our match is scheduled for today," Scotland says. He takes his cigarette from his mouth and lowers it; it would be rude to blow smoke in Estonia's face, even if Estonia is being quite confrontational.
"Indeed it is," Estonia replies, "but it's scheduled for later, in the evening. You have no business being here right now."
Confused, Scotland tilts his head to one side. "We changed the kick-off time, remember? It was moved to just after lunch."
"I didn't agree with that decision," Estonia insists, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We play later, or we don't play at all. My team would be much more comfortable with an afternoon match so I see no reason to change the timetable." He tilts his head, confused, and looks at Scotland's legs. "Why are you wearing women's shorts?"
"They're beach trunks," Scotland explains quickly. "And anyway, you cannae just choose not to follow official rules whenever you feel like it. The kick-off time was changed, end of."
"I am following official rules," Estonia sniffs. "The game was intended to take place in the afternoon and—"
"—and then that was changed," Scotland finishes. "We've an hour 'til the game commences, you eejit; go get your team ready!"
Estonia shakes his head. "I didn't bring them."
"You didn't bring your team?" Scotland asks, shocked. "Why not?"
"They refuse to play," Estonia says. He folds his arms and smirks. "What do you say to that, Mr. Beach-Trunks?"
Taking a quick glance at his own team, Scotland contemplates the threat. He watches his players; some are still jogging, some are stretching, some are taking a moment to sip from their water-bottles and some are chatting about formations. The team coaches are muttering to each other at one end of the pitch while the team administrators are in a heated debate at the other. The one thing they all have in common, however, is the desire to come out victorious.
Aware that Estonia is watching him, expectantly waiting for an answer, Scotland checks his watch again. It isn't long now until the audience starts arriving; he thinks of all the Scottish supporters that will turn up, expecting their country's team to be successful. He grins and looks back at the man before him.
"Well?" Estonia asks. "What do you say?"
"I say," Scotland says, grin expanding, "that means I win by default, aye?"
There is a delicious moment of silence. Estonia's eyes widen behind his glasses as the realisation of what he's done strikes him. He takes a step back, hands curling into fists, and mutters, "Curses."
Notes:
On 9 October 1996, the national football (to Americans, soccer!) team for Scotland was scheduled to play against Estonia for a Football World Cup qualifying match. The match was set to take place in Tallinn, the Estonian capital city. When Scotland's team arrived to train at the stadium, they found the stadium's lighting inadequate, and requested that the game be rescheduled from evening to midday, so the stadium would have natural lighting. FIFA officials agreed. However, the Estonian team didn't agree with this decision, and therefore didn't show up to the game. The Scottish fans present at the stadium therefore began to sing "There's Only One Team In Tallinn," a chant famous in Scottish football today.