The news that England would be playing Croatia that evening spread through the stadium like wildfire. Within minutes every conversation had become football-related. Flags appeared from nowhere. Scarves materialised. Predictions were made with complete confidence and almost no evidence.
Granite attempted to continue updating the standings. Nobody listened. Glyph attempted to explain a tactical diagram involving arrows, circles and what appeared to be a decorative swan. Nobody listened. Even the elephant shrew referees appeared distracted.
By half past two, groups of gerbils had gathered around every available surface. Match previews were being conducted. Expert analysis was being offered. Vast quantities of speculation filled the air.
Most of it was nonsense.
A debate about likely scorelines lasted nearly forty minutes and ended only when participants became distracted by an argument about mascot design. The inflatable banana was present throughout and appeared to be gaining influence.
At three o’clock Gadget unveiled what she described as a Match Preparation Centre. This turned out to be six chairs, a blackboard and a complicated chart showing possible outcomes. Nobody understood the chart. Not even Gadget. Nevertheless it attracted considerable interest. Soon dozens of gerbils were studying it intensely while reaching completely contradictory conclusions.
By four o’clock the excitement had become self-sustaining. The crowd was now cheering things that had not yet happened.
Several practice celebrations were held. One group rehearsed what they intended to do if England won. Another rehearsed what they intended to do if Croatia won. A third rehearsed what they intended to do if something particularly interesting occurred involving a corner flag.
Gubbins spent the afternoon composing a special pre-match musical performance. Reports suggested it involved three triangles. The reports were later revised upwards.
As the afternoon wore on, concentration became impossible. Training sessions achieved very little. Committee meetings achieved less. The official standings remained exactly where Granite had left them because every time she attempted to update them, someone interrupted with a fresh prediction.
By six o’clock the atmosphere resembled that of a major final. The fact that kick-off was still three hours away seemed irrelevant. The giant screen had been cleaned. Flags had been arranged. Seats had been claimed. Emergency snacks had been stockpiled.
One particularly enthusiastic supporter had painted “COME ON ENGLAND” on a banner so large that it accidentally obscured part of Group F. Nobody minded.
As dusk began to approach, the stadium hummed with anticipation. The players scheduled to take part in the next Gerbil World Cup match eventually gave up trying to train and joined the spectators instead.
Football, everyone agreed, was about to happen.
Not Gerbil World Cup football.
Real football.
Which, for reasons nobody could adequately explain, was somehow even more exciting.
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