Side Quest 6: The Beautiful Game

June 2018
Cpt. Jack Haddock

Every four years, countries come together, to stand apart; to buy their tickets and never once sit in their seat.

Yes, it's that one event every four years, where the world comes to a standstill, eyes fixed on a single round object, be it on the field, on television, or on the computer screen. When everything stops, and revolves around a stadium.

Yes, it's the World Cup.

The ATF may be a transnational organisation, but that does not mean we don't take sides in soccer. The past month, fellow soldiers and close comrades who fight alongside each other in daily life, now face each other down, on opposite sides of the pitch. Everyone returns to their original loyalties; even those from countries not playing in the final tournament have found a team to root for.

Every other day, across the installation, everyone gathers at the nearest screen, and for two whole hours, they stand there, cheering their lungs out, to bleed their colours, and to leave everything on the field, in the pub, or on the street. Bets are made, winners enjoying not only their monetary gains, but the satisfaction that they were right; losers vent their disappointment at the pub, gathering with like-minded supporters of their team.

That's the way it has been for the past month. Joys, anger and sorrows, blood, sweat and tears, all culminating in the next ninety minutes. It's the final match between England and Spain, where the best of the best will be crowned the champions of the world. Tensions are high, supporters and non-fans just basking in the excitement alike are crowded around screens, awaiting the kick-off with great anticipation.

I'm with Astrid, a can of Coke in my hands. Brazil had been booted off in the semi-finals, much to my father's shock and disappointment; he had been a staunch Brazilian supporter. ("They represent the best of South American football!") I never shared his love for football, but I enjoyed observing others watch the game; it is an interesting show of emotional highs and lows.

Astrid, however, is less equivocal. And that is why I am sitting next to her, dragged into this claustrophobic crowd. She is dressed in a knee-length camouflage-print cargo skirt and combat boots; proudly donning a replica England football jersey, she has replaced her normal red-and-gold headband for a white strip of cloth, painted with the traditional red cross seen on the English flag.

The pub is divided neatly in half, the drinks bar serving as the dividing border; one side in red and white, and the other in yellow and red.

And I am awkwardly stuck in the middle. The younger bartenders are visibly nervous of the growing crowd; there's no telling when a brawl could break out between the two opposing factions.

After what seemed like forever, the whistle finally goes off.

At that moment, in some stadium in America, twenty-two grown men begin jostling for a ball. The hopes of a nation pinned on each and every one of them, they play on.

Every time the ball comes close, pings off the goal post, or becomes firmly lodged in the goalkeepers' hands, moans of disappointment and cheers of relief echo throughout the pub. Roars of disdain at perceived foul play and painful tackles sound out at irregular intervals; once in a while, there is an occasional exclamation, "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT REFEREE DOING? !"

Observing Astrid, I watch her range of expressions, as she pours out her heart and soul, cheering madly for her home team. I smile and enjoy the view, of men and women giving it their all in supporting their team of choice.

The players come off at half time, at a score of 0-0. The match had been tense, with a few close calls, but the teams held their own. I return to my drink, and Astrid takes a seat next to me, a little disappointed at the lack of goals, and maybe nervous about the next 45 minutes of the match. We swap a couple of comments on the game; I may not follow it much, but I do know quite a bit about football itself.

The second half begins soon after. The players go at it again, chasing after the ball, passing it about the pitch, looking for opportunities.

Finally in the dying minutes of the match, an English striker hits home. The bar goes up in a deafening roar.

"GOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL!"

Fellow Englishmen and women leap off their chairs in joy, some of the spilling their beers onto the tables, knocking over their glasses in joy. The bartenders are visibly irritated by the mess, but they hold their cool.

The final whistle blows, and the place just explodes. I am nearly choked as Astrid pulls me into a spine-crushing bear hug, screaming in ecstasy at the English victory. The fans are singing loudly the songs of their country in happiness, celebrating their World Cup win. The French supporters can only shrug and smile in defeat; well, there's always next time. Handshakes are offered and drinks are treated, as everyone settles down in the aftermath.

Looking all around me, I realise something; even though we all once took different sides, we're now all under one organisation. Under the ATF, we've let go of our political loyalties, fighting as one universal body. We now stand together as one, no matter which teams we may support off the battlefield.

The World Cup is special that way. Because, in the end, no matter who wins, we all will remember how divided we stood; united in football.

Toothless

Twenty-two fully-matured male humans, eleven on each side, on a large patch of grass. All chasing after one ball. The apparent objective is to kick it into the net on either side. One human, dressed differently from the others, makes irritating high-pitched noises and flashes coloured cards at the others if he's not happy. And every four years, they go crazy watching it happen. Cocking my brow, I watch their antics in mild disgust from the roof I am resting on. Can't they just each go find their own ball, instead of fighting over one?

I sniff haughtily, returning to nap in the warm sun.

Humans. I'll never understand them.