They agreed not to practice the next morning, to save their energy for the afternoon match. As the hour approached, they all gathered in the Rats' tent, going over last-minute plans and munching cookies sent by Tully's mother. Troy had disappeared, with a promise to be back in time to walk to the field with them.
"Be sure and get all the water you can," Spencer warned. "In a professional match there are no rest periods, except for halftime –"
"No time-outs?" Tully exclaimed.
"– but here we break regularly for water," Spencer continued. "Still, this will probably be a much longer match than we've played so far. We don't want to forfeit on account of sun stroke."
"Well, with Troy or without him," Moffitt said, checking his watch, "we'll be late if we don't go now."
They started out for the field behind the supply tent, slowly gathering a crowd of on-lookers as they went. The camp seemed to be abuzz with talk of the coming match, and by the time they reached their destination, it seemed as if everyone not on duty had turned out to watch. Tully was gratified to see Hitch's face slowly turn beet-red, as he realized what his bad mood of a few days before had brought on.
The four men who had issued the challenge met them at the edge of the field, the red-haired ringleader stepping forward to take charge.
"Spencer, what are you doing with them?" He asked in surprise.
"It was a stupid argument, Turner," Spencer replied, somewhat annoyed, "and this is an idiotic way of resolving it, challenging them to a game they don't know how to play. Didn't seem fair, so I thought I'd even it up."
Turner huffed in disbelief, and then nodded a guarded greeting at Moffitt. "Sergeant."
"Private," Moffitt returned with a raised eyebrow, secretly pleased that his presence seemed to have thrown the competition off just a bit. They clearly hadn't expected Hitch to secure British assistance. "Are we ready to begin?"
"Hang on a minute!" called a voice from nearby. Pushing his way through the crowd, Troy appeared at last, flanked by a slightly older gentleman in a British uniform, with a whistle on a cord around his neck.
"All set?" he asked. "It's about time to go."
"Where have you been?" Moffitt asked. "We thought you'd decided to disown us."
"Nah, not for this," Troy said with a grin, then gestured to his companion. "Gentlemen, I believe I have found an impartial referee – or umpire or whatever you call them in this game. This is Reverend Michael Warren, camp chaplain."
"Referee?" Turner exclaimed, only just beating several of the other players to it.
"Of course. You didn't expect to settle regulatory disputes in such an important match by secret ballot, did you?" the chaplain said calmly.
"Uh, no offense," Tully said, "but aren't you just a little biased, seeing that you're English and everything?"
"I was born in Somerset," Warren allowed. "My father is English. But my mother grew up in Idaho. And I used to coach our team in church league at home, so I know how the game is played."
Tully nodded. Yup, that was about as impartial as they were going to get here.
"All right, then. Barring any objections, we'll use the usual camp rules for this match: forty minutes of play, two-minute breaks every ten minutes for water, all other rules to international standards." He paused, but there was no dissention. "Shall we play on, then, lads?" Warren took possession of the ball from a by-stander and headed for the center of the field, while three men from each side followed him and Tully and his counterpart headed for their goals.
The men of the Anglo/American team had agreed that Moffitt should represent them at the kickoff, owing to his advantages over Hitch in experience and over Spencer in size. He expected their opponents to send their ringleader out, and was surprised to see Turner take up a position further back on the field, while another man, smaller with close-cropped brown hair, stepped up to the center spot. Compounding Moffitt's astonishment, the younger man amiably extended his hand.
"Hello, Sergeant," the man said. "Name's Mitch Hooper."
"Jack Moffitt," he replied, accepting the handshake.
"Good game to you." Hooper stepped back to make room as the chaplain set the ball on the ground between them.
"Thank you; to you, as well." Moffitt was beginning to feel a little silly; if these fellows were so dead-set on putting the Americans in their presumed place, what was this one doing?
The answer was immediately apparent. Warren said, "Here we go!" and blew a long, loud blast on his whistle. Before Moffitt was even able to register what had happened, Hooper had dashed past him with the ball, and his two teammates nearly mowed Moffitt down following.
Turning to give chase, Moffitt could see Hitch and Spencer trying to intercept the drive, while Tully stood down by the goal, looking slightly stunned as the stampede headed his way. Hitch was bowled over completely, but Spencer managed to get the ball away from Hooper, only to lose it to Turner before his teammates could come to his aid.
Tully, seeing the British team charging toward him unimpeded, swallowed hard and stepped reluctantly forward to meet them, trying to cover all three at once. Turner reached the area in front of the goal and aimed for the space to Tully's left, and the Kentuckian said a quick prayer and dived.
Seeing Tully land on the hard-packed sand with the ball firmly in his grasp, Hitch let out a cheer. "Way to go, Tully!"
"Come on, Hitch," Moffitt urged as he reached the American's side, grabbing his arm and heading toward the opponent's goal.
Gaining his feet, Tully dropkicked the ball to the far end of the field, as close to his teammates as he could.
And so it went. By the last water break, after thirty minutes of play, the Rats and Spencer hadn't yet managed to score, but the all-British team had only gotten past Tully twice. They weren't going easy on their less-experienced opponents, either; Hitch was a particularly favorite target for shoving or tripping, whenever Reverend Warren seemed to be looking the other way. Tully was covered with sand from head to toe, and his teammates weren't much better.
"Well," Hitch sighed in disgust, as they gathered around Troy for water, "I'm getting to use that penalty-shot practice, anyway. Too bad I can't manage to get it into the goal."
"Never mind," Moffitt said encouragingly, "we're really doing much better than I expected."
"Gee, thanks, Sarge." Tully took another swallow from the canteen, then passed it to Spencer.
"Look, the way I see it, you've got two goals here." Seeing the looks he was getting for his inadvertent pun, Troy grinned and shook his head. "Besides the two on the field. Keep them from scoring, which means harassing them any time they get near your goal; and find a way to score a couple yourselves."
Moffitt raised an eyebrow. "Well, that would seem to be a statement of the obvious, Troy. Or did you have in mind a way of doing that?"
"Actually, I've been watching them, and I think I've got something…"