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Stories

The Match

by ALI PIG

This has to be the worst pitch I've ever played on I think to myself and laugh. Not really funny but absurd enough to keep my spirits up and my mind focused on this match. The ball comes to me, a thirty yard pass from Hermann Meyer, a rock solid midfield maestro with such vision to carve open the opponents defences in a moment. Hermann will make a great international one of these days. This could be it. There can't be more than a minute to go and its two-all. I race past the England right back, skipping over his crude attempt at winning the ball, his heavy, brown leather boots whistling past my ankles. Just trying to keep control of the ball as it bobbles and bounces over this terrible surface is barely possible but I promised Dieter we would win this game for him and so I go on. Dieter, good friend Dieter. Good brother Dieter. Why did God have to take him when he was so young? And in such pain. Will I ever forget the agony on his face as he fought for those last wheezing, coughing breaths that scorched his throat and burned his lungs? Seventeen years old, not even in the prime of his life and now he's gone. His last words as I held him in my arms were not pleas for mercy or redemption. He did not ask for forgiveness. Nor did he ask why? As the life ran out of his tortured body he looked at me and said Score for me. Score the goal that wins, for me. And what could I say? Nothing! I cradled Dieter in my arms and felt him slip away. He would have played today too. When the Captain was picking his team, Dieter's name was first on the sheet but the Captain did not know that less than half a kilometer from where he was making his plans, the bullet from an unknown assassin's gun had felled my brother. We were walking side by side, talking about how good the England team would be and what formation they would use and we laughed at how much like excited little children we were at the prospect of playing, as brothers, against England. And then, Dieter stopped laughing. It never occurred to me that anything bad had happened. He just stopped. Then he bent forward clutching his stomach and coughing. Even then I thought he must have been laughing too hard. Then he sank to his knees and that was when I saw the blood. Straight away I knew he was shot. I quickly looked around but I could not see the shooter and then I called for help. Dieter was lying on his back now, breathing in short sharp breathes and he was shaking all over. I tried to tear off his coat to get to the wounds, oblivious of the crowd that was forming around us. I finally got the coat off and though I hate myself for letting Dieter see me do this, I reeled back in shock and horror at the sight of his torn and burning flesh and the blood that poured like a river, out of the wound and over his belly and down to the ground. I don't know how long I sat there, I was in shock. All I can remember was the look on Dieter's face as the life drained out of him and the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to help my little brother. I was shaken out of my trance by a man who had fought his way through the crowd shouting I'm a doctor. He got to Dieter, took one look at the hole in his stomach and I could have sworn I heard him say under his breath But we need a priest. I held Dieter in my arms, trying to comfort him, trying to be brave for him but it was no use. Tears rained from my eyes as I watched my kid brother go from me. The most talented footballer, the most beautiful kid ever, the best brother and best friend in the world was dying in my arms and there was nothing I could do but cry. And then he said those words. And then he said no more. The very next day we were due to play England and the Captain said he would understand if I didn't want to play but I told him I had to, for Dieter. The whole team were going to do it for Dieter. So I played, we played. And here I am running past the England right back and into the box with a minute to go and only the keeper to beat. I line up my shot, I know where it's going, low and hard, bottom left corner. I go to shoot. Whack. My legs are taken away from me. The world turns upside down for a moment and then I hit the ground, spinning and turning until I come to a stop. There are cries for a penalty but there's no referee to take such decisions, we have to decide for ourselves but there can be no denying it. This is the most blatent foul ever committed on the field of play. The arguments die down and we get our penalty. Hermann, our nominated penalty taker has the ball and is placing it where he thinks the spot would be. The English players accept his estimation and the keeper gets ready. Hermann calls to me, For Dieter! And then he walks toward me. He cups my face in his hands and says it again, For Dieter! And I realise what he means. I step up to take the kick. There is silence. I scrutinise the goalkeeper and in his face I see no hate. All I see is another man, like all of us on this pitch today, who just wants to play football. This storm in which we have all been caught has not just been forgotten for a day, it has be recognised for what it is. And instead of hate I feel hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe we can triumph together and end this madness forever. I take my run up and strike the ball, not with the hate for the English but with the love for my brother. The ball flies towards the goal. The keeper dives. The ball passes his flailing hands by mere centimeters. It's going in. It's going in. For Dieter! Later that night we sing carols and share wine and cigarettes and between us, both German and Englishman, there is a sense of camaraderie. Yesterday we were divided by a war which none of us can explain and today we are united by a game of football. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe the generals will see what can be achieved by men and call a halt to the killing. Maybe we can find peace and a way to live together. Or maybe we will return to the trenches and pretend this game never took place. Who knows? But tonight, as we celebrate Christmas in no mans land, the clear night sky God's black canvass on which he paints his brilliant stars, anything is possible. I hope we make the right choice.

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