Arthur Clarke: The Stroke Of The Sun

SOMEONE else should be telling this story — someone who understands the funny kind of football they play down in South America. Back in Moscow, Idaho, we grab the ball and run with it. In the small but prosperous republic which I’ll call Perivia, they kick it around with their feet. And that is nothing to what they do to the umpire.

One of the first things I learned when I got to Perivia, after various distressing adventures in the less democratic parts of South America, was that last year’s match had been lost owing to the knavish dishonesty of the referee. He had, it seemed, penalized most of the players on the team, disallowing a goal, and generally made sure that the best side wouldn’t win.

This diatribe made me quite homesick, but remembering where I was, I merely commented, “You should have paid him more money.”

“We did,” was the bitter reply, “but the Panagurans got at him later.”

“Too bad,” I answered. “It’s hard nowadays to find an honest man who stays bought.”

The customs inspector who’d just taken my last hundred-dollar bill had the grace to blush beneath his stubble as he waved me across the border.

The next few weeks were tough, but presently I was back in what I prefer to call the agricultural machinery business. The last thing I had time to bother about was football; I knew that my expensive imports were going to be used at any moment, and wanted to make sure that this time my profits went with me when I left the country.

Even so, I could hardly ignore the excitement as the day for the return match drew nearer. For one thing, it interfered with business. I’d go to a conference, arranged with great difficulty and expense at a safe hotel, and half of the time everyone would be talking about football.

“Gentlemen!” I'd protest “Our next consignment of rotary drills is being unloaded tomorrow, and unless we get that permit from the Minister of Agriculture, some busybody may open the cases and then . . .”

“Don’t worry, my boy,” General Sierra or Colonel Pedro would answer airily, “that’s already taken care of. Leave it to the Army.”

I KNEW better than to retort “Which army?” and for the next ten minutes I'd have to listen to arguments about football tactics and the best way of dealing with recalcitrant referees.

It was then that Don Hernando Dias’ name came up for the first time. I knew of him as one of the country’s leading industrialists, but he had an equal reputation as playboy, racing-car driver and scientific dilettante. It surprised me to learn that he was one of us, for he was also a favorite of President Ruiz. Naturally Fd never met him; he had to be very particular about his friends, and there were few people who cared to meet me unless they had to.

I suspected that something was happening when I took my place in the football stadium on that memorable day. If you think I had no wish to be there, you are quite correct. But Colonel Pedro had given me a ticket and it was unhealthy to hurt his feelings by not using it

There had been a slight delay in admitting the spectators; the police had done their best, but it takes time to search a hundred thousand people for concealed firearms. The visiting team had insisted on this, to the great indignation of the locals. The protests faded swiftly enough, however, as the artillery accumulated at the checkpoints.

Then a sweating band played the two national anthems, the teams were presented to El Presidente and his lady, and the Cardinal blessed everybody.

While we were waiting, I examined the program, a beautifully produced affair that had been given to me by the lieutenant. It was tabloid-sized, printed on art paper, and bound in metal foil that gleamed like silver. You could see your face in it, and I noticed a number of ladies using it to make last -minute repairs and adjustments. I also noticed that this “Special Victory Souvenir Issue” had been paid for by an impressive list of subscribers, headed by Don Hernando, who had himself, it seemed, presented fifty thousand free copies to our gallant fighting men.

If this was a bid for popularity, it seemed a rather naive one. And surely President Ruiz wouldn’t let half his army be bottled up in this stadium for the best part of an afternoon . . .

These reflections were interrupted by the roar of the enormous crowd as play started. For the first ten minutes, it was a pretty open game and I don’t think there were more than three fights. The Perivians just missed one goal; the ball was headed out so neatly that the frantic applause from the Panaguran supporters (who had a special police guard and a fortified section of the stadium all to themselves) went quite unbooed. I began to feel disappointed. Why, if you changed the shape of the ball, this might be a good-natured Idaho game.

UP HERE was no real work for the Red Cross until nearly half-time, when three Perivians and two Panagurans (or it may have been the other way round) fused together in a magnificent melee from which only one survivor emerged under his own power. The casualties were carted off amid much pandemonium and there was a short break while replacements were brought up.

This started the first major incident: the Perivians complained that the other side’s wounded were shamming so that fresh reserves could be poured in. But the referee was adamant, the new men came on, and the background noise dropped to just below the threshold of pain as the game resumed.

The Panagurans promptly scored, and though none of my neighbors actually committed suicide, several seemed close to it The transfusion of new blood had apparently pepped up the visitors, and things looked bad for the home team. Their opponents were passing the ball with such skill that the Perivian defenses were as porous as a sieve. At this rate, I told myself, the ref can afford to be honest; his side will win anyway. And to give him his due, I’d seen no sign of any obvious bias so far.

I didn’t have long to wait. A last-minute rally by the home team blocked a threatened attack on their goal, and a mighty kick by one of the defenders sent the ball rocketing toward the other end of the field. Before it had reached the apex of its flight, the piercing shriek of the referee’s whistle brought the game to a halt. There was a brief consultation between ref and captains; the crowd was roaring its disapproval.

“What’s happening now?” I asked plaintively.

“The ref says our man was offside.”

“But how can he be? He’s on top of his own goal!”

“Shush!” said the lieutenant, obviously unwilling to waste time enlightening my ignorance. I don’t shush easily, but this time I let it go and tried to work things out for myself. It seemed that the ref had awarded the Panagurans a free kick at our goal, and I could understand the way everybody felt about it.

The ball soared through the air in a beautiful parabola, nicked the post — and cannoned in. A mighty roar of anguish rose from the crowd, then died abruptly to a silence that was even more impressive. It was as if a great animal had been wounded — and was biding the time for its revenge.

Despite the heat pouring down from the not-far-from-vertical sun, I felt a sudden chill as if a cold wind had swept past me. Not for all the wealth of the Incas would I have changed places with the man sweating out there on the field in his bulletproof vest.

WE were two down, but there was still hope — a lot could happen before the end of the game. The Perivians were on their mettle now, playing with almost demonic intensity, like men who had accepted a challenge and were going to show that they could beat it.