Author's Note: Abuse of references to assorted football-related films, use of football songs and chants, as well as stereotypes of various national teams. If that offends you, well, don't go to a footy game. XD Also, if any of you are curious as to what Gilbert & Co. look like in their home kits, try this link:
http:// img248. imageshack. us/ img248/ 4407/ anglogermaniafinal. png
(Delete all the spaces in the above URL. If that doesn't work, click on my profile page - there's a direct link to the image there.)
Addendum on 8 Jan 2010 - scroll all the way down for lyrics of a certain football chant!
Of Family, Friends and Football
Part Seven: The Beautiful Game – First Half of It, Anyway
Ludwig was pleasantly surprised that Gilbert had the sense to pick a good time for today's match. Practically everyone would be busy watching their own favourite football clubs' games, so this particular football game did not attract much attention. Arthur had also made a similar comment this morning; he had been concerned that this odd little game of theirs might cause an uproar back home if his people found out he was playing with Germans, bearing in mind the traditional English-German football rivalry. Personally Ludwig never considered himself having an actual football rivalry with Arthur, but it would be another story if his football team had to play against the Oranje.
Speaking of other nations, while the locals were uninterested, quite a number of his European colleagues and friends somehow turned up to see the game. He had spotted Roderich and Elizaveta earlier in the parking lot; the big patch of shining blond there at the terrace had to be the five Nordics; the suspicious feline-covered lump was probably Heracles, and there were more nations coming in to watch the game. Oddly enough, most of them were wearing jerseys of their national teams, perhaps thinking it would fit the atmosphere.
It certainly seemed that the match would start off without any incidents, although there was a bit of a ruckus earlier this morning when Francis insisted that a few of his troops from his half of the Franco-German Brigade, armed with portable Mistral surface-to-air missiles, attend the game. Ludwig had mentally cursed his brother for the ridiculous phone conversation with Feliciano last night. (Gilbert even wanted to blog about it 'for psy-war purposes' but Ludwig confiscated his laptop for the night, a move supported by Arthur, who was afraid that Gilbert would end up blogging their game strategy due to his misguided confidence in his self-declared awesomeness.) Fortunately, he managed to convince the Frenchman that no, the Luftwaffe would not be performing any air strikes during the match.
He thought that it was quite a waste how Gilbert would fully utilise his talents for his hobbies or his current (and usually inane) interests such as this match, but refused to do the same for other things like official duties or even simple household chores. When Ludwig had mentioned this to Arthur, the Englishman said that it was probably because Gilbert had been treating this football match like war, and Gilbert took war very seriously.
Ludwig then found himself wondering if he could somehow convince Gilbert that weeding the garden was just another kind of war. Still entertaining the thought, he walked to the other end of the pitch to join his two teammates, who seemed to be in deep discussion.
--x--
Gilbert eyed the spectators at the terrace. It almost felt like an actual exhibition match of sorts, with all the nations showing up. "Shouldn't we officiate this or something?" he asked.
Arthur snorted. "Officiate how? It's a sorry excuse for a footy game to settle an argument!"
The verbal jab was either ignored or more likely, totally lost on Gilbert. "I don't know, maybe you could give a short speech or something before the game starts. Or say a prayer. Don't you have those patron saints – George? Yeah, him and Paul, John and Ringo-"
"Them's the Beatles, idiot."
"Same thing. Heh, I didn't expect a crowd," Gilbert said, still scanning the terraces for familiar faces. "I bet they knew about the game and came today because they read my blog!" he added in excitement.
"Oh, that blog of yours."
"What, don't you read my blog anymore?"
"I check it occasionally, but there was one point I stopped reading it for a while after that time you posted pictures of the stuff in your brother's closet," Arthur said, shuddering. "And people say I'm a pervert?"
"Ha! I remember that post. I can't believe that neat freak organises all that BDSM gear in alphabetical order with colour-coded boxes and everything!" Gilbert frowned for a moment. "Strange, I can't remember West yelling at me for that. I guess he must have missed reading that entry about his closet – oh yeah, he was at some boring summit somewhere."
"What's this about closets?" Ludwig asked curiously when he joined them, only managing to catch the final bits of conversation.
"Nothing!" Gilbert said, grinning innocently. "So how's my brick shithouse little brother feeling today? Ready to kick those losers all over the place, West?"
"Brick shithouse?"
"It's one of Arthur's weird English compliments," Gilbert said confidently. "Just like when he says that I have the charisma of a Tesco Value ready meal. That probably means something like I'm awesome, right Arthur?"
"Right," Arthur said, his face perfectly expressionless. "Now put this on," he added, handing a red armband to Gilbert.
"Pull your left sock up, your shinguard is showing," Ludwig pointed out while Arthur absently tucked the label sticking out of Gilbert's collar back in.
"Fine, fine, now will you two OCD freaks stop mothering me?" Gilbert grumbled as he put on the armband marking him as the captain of the team, then yanked his sock up.
"So are we sticking to the original plan?" Ludwig asked.
"Yes. I don't care what Feliciano said about that cater-whatsit last night, we're still not changing tactics," Arthur insisted. "Oh, here's another thing for you. Well, not actually for you," he said to their captain. He reached into his pocket and handed Gilbert another item. "It's for your bird."
Gilbert stared at Arthur's gift. "Awesome!" he exclaimed. "Now the little guy's got a jersey too!" He cackled and reached for the little yellow chick perched on his head.
Ludwig stared at the small football jersey; it was a perfect miniature copy of Gilbert's own, down to the ridiculously tiny embroidery of his brother's complex coat of arms. "This is a very good replica," he said in admiration of Arthur's skills with a needle.
Arthur shrugged nonchalantly, but his cheeks were a tell-tale pink. "I had some spare time this morning."
The little chick looked somewhat pleased wearing its new outfit, chirping happily to show its approval before it hopped back on Gilbert's head. "Awesome," Gilbert repeated with a grin, before giving Arthur a bone-crushing hug.
"Aaaack."
"Oops," Gilbert said, loosening his hold a little. "Ooh, there's little Feli. I gotta show him this!"
--x--
Feliciano carefully tied the white cloth to the pole and then lifted the makeshift flag to examine his handiwork. "Ve, that should do nicely!" he said to himself, pleased. Now he had some means of cheering for his friends. He was already wearing the Azzurri jersey and had made some delicious pasta to eat at half-time to show his support for Lovino and his brother's teammates, but he also wanted to cheer for the other side – well, they were his friends too, weren't they? Especially Ludwig, who was so nice to him. He was too afraid to wave any of their flags – not even tiny ones, since Lovino would throw a fit and might threaten him to a permanent pasta withdrawal again – so he decided that he would wave a white flag instead, since he was good at that. Besides, Ludwig's team were all dressed in white anyway, right? And if Lovino asked him why was he waving a white flag, he could just say he was just practising or drying out his laundry.
"Hey, little Feli!" Gilbert said enthusiastically, appearing out of nowhere. He picked up the startled younger man by the waist and literally swung him around in greeting. Feliciano, who was well-used to this from not only Gilbert but quite a number of other people, merely submitted to this with a smile and a cheerful "Ve~!"
"Get your dirty hands off my brother, you not-so-macho other potato bastard!" Lovino screeched some distance away, but Francis (bless that French loser, but that doesn't mean I'll take it easy on him, Gilbert thought) distracted the Italian by chasing after him for a grope, thus forcing him to seek refuge behind Antonio.
Gilbert set a slightly dizzy Feliciano back down. "Want to see something really cool?" He carefully reached for his pet bird and showed it to the younger man. The bird cheeped several times in greeting before it hopped around in a circle on Gilbert's outstretched palm, showing off its new jersey.
"Wow, your pet birdie's wearing a jersey just like yours!"
"Yeah, isn't it awesome? Oh, I can't bring the little guy on the pitch, so can you take care of him for me while I'm playing?"
"Sure!"
"By the way, what's with the white flag?"
"I'm gonna wave it around and cheer for Ludwig and you and Arthur! I wanted to make some pasta for you too, but Lovi wouldn't let me." Feliciano hoped that Gilbert would not be offended, but surely he would understand, wouldn't he?
Gilbert merely grinned. "Naah, don't worry too much about the pasta. Did you bring a camera? No? Okay, I'm gonna lend you mine. Take some good pictures of the game for me, all right?"
"I'll do my best!" he vowed, giving a salute.
"Argh, you're so fuckin' cute," Gilbert cooed, briefly pinching the Italian's cheeks.
"Eliza's here too. Maybe you can ask her to take some pictures of the game for you too!" Feliciano said helpfully.
"What, her? She's not that into football. I bet she's only here because she wants to see cute boys in shorts – but that's okay since I'm awesome and cute in shorts!" Gilbert smirked. "Now let's see – where is that brother of mine? West needs to come and say hi to you too! Just to piss your brother off!"
Feliciano was not quite sure how to respond to that, so he just beamed.
--x--
"Hellfire and buggery," Arthur exclaimed, "not them!" He groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"Who?" Ludwig asked. Arthur merely raised one hand, pointed in reply and resumed covering his face before giving another weak groan.
Ludwig looked in the direction the man pointed to and saw two figures looking for a decent spot to watch the match; one was dressed in a blue football jersey, the other in a green one. "Your brothers?" Seeing Arthur nod, he added, "Well that's nice, coming all the way here to cheer for you."
Arthur stabbed a one-eyed look at him from between splayed fingers. "Think again," the Englishman grumbled.
"They're... not here to cheer for you?"
Right on cue, the brother in blue jersey must have noticed both of them, since he stood up and shouted, "Can ye hear the English sing? No, cannie hear a fuckin' thing!" before he was yanked down and forced to take a seat by his green-clad sibling, who grumbled loudly on how the game had not even started for him to start yelling that tune.
Arthur winced. "Oh, that Scottish bastard's definitely not here to cheer for me. Ireland maybe, but I think he's here mostly because he hates Francis' guts for that handball. Otherwise he'd be chanting 'stand up if you hate England' at the top of his lungs. Hmm, Wales isn't here... probably back home minding the shop."
"Oh. Your brothers can't be all that bad... can they?"
"Did Gilbert throw rocks at you when you were a little boy? Really big ones?"
"No?"
"Jab you with pointy sticks? Set your hair on fire before kicking you around?"
"No."
"Trust me on this one, then. Compared to my brothers, yours is a bloody saint."
Well, Arthur had a point. Gilbert may drove him crazy, but at least the man rooted for him at all international events. Gilbert also had never bullied him in his childhood. Rather, back then his elder brother basically beat the Welfenspeise out of anyone who even looked at him funny.
He smiled. No wonder Arthur did not mind Gilbert all that much; the Englishman must have been more than used to ridiculous brother-related antics.
"What's so funny?" Arthur asked suspiciously.
"Oh, nothing."
--x--
While the players were quite ready to start the game, the referee for the match, Arthur opined, was another story.
"Aren't you going to change?"
"Change?" Vash raised an eyebrow.
"Well, it's not really proper for a referee to be on the pitch like that," Arthur said, staring at Vash's current outfit. "I mean, you're almost ready to go with the black jersey and the whistle around your neck, but the jeans and shoes–"
"Who said anything about me going on the pitch?" Vash interrupted.
Arthur stared at him in confusion. "How are you going to do the refereeing then?"
"From right here. Do you seriously think that I need to run around chasing after you lot, not when I have this?" he said, lifting a SIG SG550-1 Sniper out from its factory case and began to assemble it. "A good rifle and scope is all I need to keep an eye on things on the pitch. Unless you have any objections?" he said, eyeing the Englishman.
"No! None at all!" Arthur said nervously, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
"Good."
--x--
So there they were on the pitch, him and Gilbert decked out in their white and black Adidas kits and Predator boots, while Arthur was in his white kit and X-Pro boots courtesy of Umbro. Ludwig was somewhat amused to find that both Francis and Antonio were also wearing Adidas gear. Lovino however, wore a pair of football boots from Lotto's Zhero Gravity range, loudly insisting that he refused to wear 'anything made by that potato bastard'. No one had the heart to tell him that the rest of his kit was from Puma, a German firm. (Not yet, anyway. Gilbert saved that lovely piece of information for use later. Psychological warfare demanded it.)
Arthur and Francis were already arguing, to no one's surprise. Francis had greeted him by calling a football hooligan, and predictably the whole thing had gone downhill from there.
"Do you want to wait until the game, or do you want to make one with me now?" Arthur snarled. "I would be more than happy to skip the whole playing football thing and just kill you this instant."
Francis laughed mockingly. "But Arthur! I'm your big brother! How could you even think of committing fratricide?"
"You are not my 'big brother', you bastard. And even if you were, killing you would only amount to pesticide at the most!"
"Aha! So you do acknowledge that I am your big brother after all!"
Arthur would have lunged for Francis' neck and strangled him there and then if it were not for Vash, who fired a warning shot into the air.
"No funny business before the match!" Vash hissed. It was hard not to listen to a no-nonsense Swiss referee who was armed with a sniper rifle, especially when said Swiss referee would be more than perfectly delighted to use it.
"So," Francis asked cautiously, "how does this whole refereeing business with the gun work?"
"A warning shot is equivalent to a caution or yellow card," Vash explained. "I'll blow the whistle only to award free kicks, penalties, pausing the game if necessary, and stopping the game."
"No verbal reminders?" Antonio asked. Vash merely snorted in the negative.
"What about second yellow cards or red cards?" Ludwig inquired.
"Well, I'll still shoot, obviously. But the offender will be leaving the pitch in a box. Call it a permanent send-off."
Six people collectively gulped, making a rather loud and unpleasant noise.
"Whose bright idea was it to get a referee again?" Francis hissed in an undertone.
Five people glared at Antonio, who merely smiled and shrugged.
"Anyway, the usual Laws of the Game apply," Vash continued, "except there's no offside, since it'd be silly with just the six of you and no linesmen, plus we have those extra rules you drew up in that meeting of yours. All right, captains, get over here for the coin toss."
Gilbert and Antonio approached Vash; Gilbert's loud whoop of excitement a moment later showed he won the toss. The team had discussed earlier on which end of the pitch they wanted to play on first, and thankfully Gilbert stuck to the plan.
Vash nodded. "All right. I want a clean game, got that? I'll be at the stands watching everything you do."
"Yes, let the dog see the rabbit. Shall we, then?" Arthur said, leaving his teammates to walk to their positions on the pitch with their brains clamouring, what does he mean, let the dog see the rabbit?
Vash walked back to the stands and made himself as comfortable as possible, lying down on his stomach at the upper terrace. He rested his sniper rifle on the readied tripod, mentally noted the time and put his whistle to his lips. Satisfied that the players from each side were all in their half of the field, he took one last look and then blew hard on the whistle.
Kick-off began with Antonio passing the ball to Lovino, who immediately raced to the goal. Gilbert challenged the Italian for the ball, forcing Lovino to hastily flick it back to Antonio. Arthur however, managed to intercept the pass and cleared the ball out of the penalty box, kicking the ball in a high pass over the heads of the other team, while Gilbert scrambled back up the field to receive it. He ran on and took a shot at the goal, but Francis was there to save the wild attempt.
It was not meant to be a serious scoring attempt anyway, since the whole thing was more of an exercise to quickly get the team used to the pitch and settle into a rhythm, and all of them on the field knew it. The match would only get more exciting later on.
Gilbert, Arthur and Ludwig had all agreed that regardless of what style the other team would be playing, they would be on the defensive for the first half of the game, with the occasional long ball for some goal-scoring opportunities for Gilbert. Gilbert had the necessary speed and height for a striker, but due to being out of practice for so long he was a bit lacking in the precision required for successful finishing. Still, he never got tired of trying – all that sheer bloody-mindedness, Ludwig thought – and they hoped that his persistence would pay off with a goal or two.
Arthur lacked height but made up for it with his good technical skills, making him a suitable midfielder and playmaker, almost an equal match for Antonio. As for Ludwig, Arthur commented that Germans have always been rather masochistic when it came to football with all that will and perseverance under pressure. And like the man and his brother had mentioned, Ludwig was built like a brick shithouse, so he was perfect as defender-cum-goalkeeper. "Besides," Gilbert had added with a smirk, "Lovino just wants to kick that ball into your face, so let's give him the opportunity!"
So far their chosen strategy seemed to be the correct one; regardless of the ridiculous phone conversation last night, the other side was definitely not playing a defensive game. Since Ludwig and his teammates were not aiming to score in the first half, they were somehow able to cope with Lovino and Antonio's combined attacks, although there were occasions where Arthur was forced to clear the ball long into the other half of the pitch, simply in order to get out of a dangerous spot.
The threat of Vash and his rifle certainly had an effect on the players on the pitch. Any sly gamesmanship – exaggerating contact, diving and such – to force the other team to be reluctant to intervene with fouls or to be unsure as to what they can do went out the window, since a bullet was an excellent deterrent for such unsportsmanlike behaviour.
Everyone basically behaved for a while; even Gilbert, who played dirty on automatic. Still, with most of the players being whom they were, namely, a bunch of crazy and stubborn bastards, there was only so much fair play they could take – fifteen minutes' worth, to be exact – before their true natures told their good sense to put a sock in it.
Out of the six players on the field, only Ludwig, Arthur and Antonio were spared the terror of one of Vash's warning shots-cum-yellow cards so far in the first thirty minutes. Lovino was the first to commit an offence when Gilbert cleanly challenged him for the ball. Arthur thought it was for diving, while Ludwig thought it was due to his potty mouth – Vash did not like any swearing if his sister were around, and swearing was something Lovino engaged in very frequently and loudly; the bullet Vash fired whizzed just an inch from his head, causing the Italian to jump in the opposite direction and cling in terror to a confused (yet very pleased) Antonio for a good ten seconds.
Alas, the opportunity presented to score a goal was wasted, as Gilbert was too busy laughing at the panic-stricken Italian to take advantage of the situation. However, Gilbert's amusement, as well as a bit off his messy fringe, was literally cut short as two minutes later he was next to receive a caution for a late tackle on Antonio. That particular shot caused both him and the Spaniard to cling to each other, frozen in fear-tinged surprise.
Francis had received one for winking at Vash's sister after making an impressive one-handed save when Gilbert attempted a wild shot at the goal; the Swiss had shot the bloom off the rose stalk the Frenchman held in his free hand. At first Francis seemed as if he wanted to say more than a few nasty words in protest, but wisely reconsidered since he did not want to risk receiving a second caution for dissent and be sent off the field permanently, not with that evil look on Vash's face. (When Ludwig asked about the incident later, Vash simply said the Frenchman was simply time-wasting. No one felt like arguing.)
The crowd was also rather sporting, with many of the nations present cheering for both sides. Arthur's Irish sibling was more sympathetic to their team then Ludwig had expected, shouting wildly whenever there was an attempt to score one past Francis, although Ludwig wished that he would quit yelling, "If it weren't for the English you'd be a Kraut!" every time Francis made a goal kick. (Gilbert on the other hand, had found his 'You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse!' chant sung to She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain rather funny.) As for the Scottish brother – well, his accent was hard to figure out, but Ludwig guessed that whatever he was shouting was not supportive in nature, judging from some of Arthur's more murderous expressions.
The Englishman had been doing rather well so far, but likely some of his brother's more vicious insults had got to him as he was beginning to show some signs of frustration or stress, Ludwig could not say for sure. Whatever it was, the man lost his composure and pulled on Antonio's jersey when he tried to tackle the Spaniard for the ball, and Vash blew his whistle to award a direct free kick.
Arthur wisely chose not to question Vash's decision. 'Sorry,' he mouthed with a rueful expression to Ludwig, who simply shrugged and gave a thumbs-up sign. Things like that happened in football. No point mulling over it, he had to be ready for the direct free kick. Due to the short distance to the goal, it was likely that the other side would make a direct attempt at scoring. Both Arthur and Gilbert moved the required length away for the free kick, while Antonio and Lovino lined up near the ball.
Who would take the free kick? Antonio? Or Lovino? Ludwig narrowed his eyes.
Oh hell, with that evil smile on his face, it just had to be Lovino.
The Italian shot forward and blasted the ball with all his might with the laces of his boot, sending the ball straight just past Ludwig's head. The German barely managed to bring his hands up in time to catch the ball.
Dear god in heaven, that Italian brat could kick. Even with gloves on, his fingers hurt, and his teeth were rattling.
"That's it, you brick shithouse!" Gilbert said proudly. The crowd roared in appreciation of a good save, as well as in amusement for his brother's unfortunately loud comment.
Ludwig groaned from the pain and the ridiculous remark. One of these days he should have a talk with Arthur and ask the man to quit using some of his more interesting English phrases around Gilbert, who clearly had no idea what they meant, much less how to use them.
A scowling Lovino mouthed something at him before the Italian ran further up the pitch. Ludwig could not tell what it was, but there was probably a 'potato bastard' in it somewhere. He took a deep breath, exhaled and then kicked the ball back into play.
Then Vash blew his whistle, indicating the end of the first half of the match.
Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief, a gesture mimicked by Arthur. Gilbert however, merely grinned before he ran to Ludwig and tackled the younger man down in an enthusiastic hug.
"Gaah! Get off!"
Gilbert ignored him. "West! That was an awesome save! Ha, I knew getting you to play goalkeeper was a great idea! Wait – of course it was a great idea, it was mine!"
Thankfully, Arthur tugged his brother away. "Come on Gilbert, the last thing we need is for you to injure our goalie. We still need to play in the second half!"
"Oh yeah, the second half. Heh heh, things ought to get more interesting then."
"Easy for you to say," Arthur grumbled. "You didn't have to do a shitload of clearing because somebody wasn't where he was supposed to be."
"You were good at it, so why worry? We got this far, didn't we?"
Ludwig silently agreed with Gilbert. They did get this far. Somehow, they had survived the first half and maintained a scoreless draw. He looked forward to the second half, when the team would change tactics.
Like Gilbert said, it would get more interesting.
Additional notes:
i. Oranje – nickname of the national football team of the Netherlands.
ii. Franco-German Brigade (FGB) - Made up of French and German troops, the FGB (now part of the Eurocorps) is stationed in various places in Germany as well as near Strasbourg, France.
iii. Welfenspeise – a vanilla-flavoured German pudding.
iv. Umbro is an English sportswear manufacturer, Lotto is Italian, while Adidas and Puma are both German. I bet Lovi doesn't notice these things. XD
v. Things will pick up in the second half! More attacks, and more ridiculous antics!
vi. Because quite a number of people asked for it, what Ireland's singing at the match. To be sung to the tune of She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain:
You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse,
You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse,
You can stick your Eiffel Tower, you can stick your Eiffel Tower,
You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse, SIDEWAYS!
(Actual football chant used at most matches vs France. Best if done in a group, with emphasis on volume on 'Sideways!' I told you all the footy songs I know are mostly rude, didn't I?)