AN: I've always enjoyed historical Hetalia oneshots, and when I read about the 1950 FIFA World Cup it was just to tempting not to write a little drabble thing. I'm not a huge sports fanatic, so excuse any miswrites. Also, Alfred's opinions on soccer (or football, whatever you want to call it) simply reflect that of the country at the time and not mine. Soccer happens to be my favorite sport to watch next to horseback riding.
Pairings: None, but I guess a little USUK if you squint.
Alfred wasn't one for soccer (or football as Arthur so vehemently corrected him every time that he opened his mouth— every time), but he had agreed to join the countries' viewing of the FIFA World Cup this year. Granted, this entailed lots of teasing, because of his... semiprofessional team.
Well, that was pushing it. One of his players drove a hearse for a funeral parlor, and others were dishwashers on the side. But, that wasn't his fault that the team wasn't paid enough to be full time players! Soccer was stupid. If they wanted a real sport, they'd pick up a good old baseball or a pigskin.
Okay, so this wasn't exactly his jam, but he was still decked out in his team colors: red, white, and blue, naturally. After all, they had qualified, and that had to count for something.
Anyway, it also meant a very drunk England, the media-proclaimed "Kings of Football (Soccer)". Alfred would be the first to tell you, "King of Football" did not entail a good drinker. Neither did 3-1 odds of winning the whole damn thing.
Currently, Alfred was sitting on the floor, back resting against England's nice couch (that he wouldn't let Alfred plop down on no matter how many times he asked), surrounded by Spain, both Italys, France, the "King of Football", and some other nations that he really didn't care to mention. They were all taking jabs at his expense as a pre-game ritual.
"Ha! Do you know the bastardo lost 11-0 to Norway?" Southern Italy was chatting with his brother.
"Ahh, no. Ve~ I did not realize that you could lose by 11 points."
"This'll be a fucking bloodbath."
Oh right. He forgot to mention something. Today, 1950 FIFA World Cup Brazil, he was going to play good old England. Yay. Now he'd hear more of his morose mutterings about how he should have never become independent, because his sports teams were a mess. That would inevitably lead into an argument about taking out the 'u' in favorite and color, somehow.
Spain piped up, attempting to console Alfred and effectively breaking his train of thought, "Amigo do not feel bad about being eliminated-"
"The game hasn't even started." Alfred groused, interrupting the Spanish nation, still a little bit bitter about his previous loss. "Will all of you stop making fun of me! Not cool." The various nations in the room stopped whispering to one another and gave him a look that said something along the lines of: you made your bed now sleep in it.
"Shut up! You bloody wankers! The match's starting!" England's voice broke through the mutters that had picked back up again. Alfred pouted at the Englishman, he totally knew that England would be playing America in Group 2. He had planned it as some sort of awful revenge. "You ready to lose, Yank?"
"Not a chance old man!" Alfred stuck his tongue out childishly. Oh gosh, his pride was going to kill him.
"Care to put your money where your mouth is?"
"Bring it." Shut up you idiot!
England put his hand out to shake and stated the terms, "Whoever loses has to spend the rest of the Cup doing what the other person wants."
Don't agree, don't agree, don't agree- "Deal."
Alfred spaced out through the usual blathering that occurred before a game actually started, only paying attention (and shooting up with his right hand over his heart) for the national anthem.
Finally, the players got on the field and the match started for real. Within minutes his heart was racing as an English forward took a shot at his goal, but thankfully hit a post. Then, that happened 5 more times within the first 12 minutes, and Alfred was sure that he was going to lose miserably; any form of hope erased at the complete lack of possession his team had of the ball.
By the 26th minute he was sure that the one time that his team had come third in the World Cup was a fluke. Or maybe some of England's 'magic'. Of course, that had been many years ago with different players.
His grip on the pillow, that he'd stolen from the couch sometime after the English team's 4th shot on goal, as the Americans finally had a shot to score.
Come on! At least one goal! Don't make this a shutout.
Unsurprisingly, they missed.
He watched as England's team made three more shots at his goal, missing each one, and wondered how he wasn't losing by now.
Then his chance came. Somewhere around the 35th minute, his team had a rare moment of possession. Alfred glanced at England, he seemed unperturbed with his head lolled back and mouth curved into a slight smirk. Bastard. Absolute bastard.
"Mon ami look! The American's taking a long shot."
At the Frenchman's comment Alfred's eyes snapped back to the screen. It was, uh, what's his name, er, oh right Bahr. He had kicked the ball from about 25 yards, and it was sailing straight at the goal, which that also meant straight into the goalie's hands. That is, until that other guy who was standing there (Gaetjens or something) dove head first and knocked it off course.
For a moment Alfred, and the cameras, were unsure of where exactly the ball went. And then it hit him: it made it into the back of the net, and he jumped up screaming, "USA, USA, WHOOO!" No one else indulged in his celebration, choosing instead to drop their jaws and stop breathing, "In your face you freaking Limey!" (Ignore that he'd stolen that from Tony).
"Lucky shot," was all the stunned Englishman could say meekly.
The rest of the game was kind of a blur. It involved a lot of cheering, whooping, and at one point England had grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into a wall, complaining about the fact that one of his players had pulled a sketchy tackle.
"Do you see that git! He fucking grabbed my player's legs! That should be a penalty kick!" He was wailing right in Alfred's ears after getting drunk sometime in the second half.
"Dude, it was outside the penalty box. Listen to the refs!"
The British nation collapsed sobbing after the referees ruled that the free kick, that had been rewarded instead, hadn't crossed the goal line, "I'm gonna be the laughingstock of the world!"
Thus, the game finished without a hitch for the USA (and many hitches for the English for obvious reason), and in no time the nations were filing out the door.
"Angleterre! That was embarrassing even for me, I can't imagine how it feels to be you!" France threw the comment over his shoulder on the way out, receiving only an illegible garble in response. Granted, that was only one of the insults that England received, as everyone seemed happy that the "best team in the world" had been taken down a few pegs.
Alfred was the last one to leave, because he'd wanted to see all of the taunts directed at England, and a teensy tiny little part of him also wanted to make sure that he wasn't going to pass out, wasted, on his couch.
"Just in case you didn't realize it, you lost the bet." Alright, so he also wanted to throw in a bit of a jab himself, "football tomorrow? And I mean real football."
"Go away," came the gruff reply.
"Aww, come on, don't be a sore loser."
"Go away," England repeated, this time with a little more gusto.
"Seven in the morning. Don't be late," was Alfred's cheeky response.
His glee only grew tenfold when England lost to Spain days later, effectively eliminating the favorite for the win from the competition. Alfred, of course, would never let him live that down.
AN: Yeah. This is a true story. Everything is based on facts from a very reliable source (Wikipedia; jk it really did happen). England was the favorite to win the first cup after the World Cups hiatus for WW2, (in fact, by most, they were considered the best team in the world) but they were eliminated in the first round because of the amateur Americans (and the Spanish, but that's not the point of this story). Fun fact: every newspaper that covered sports was reporting the news except, surprisingly, England and America. Anyway, the more you know.