The first actual football match of the Gerbil World Cup was not a triumph of sporting excellence. It was, however, extremely memorable.
The stadium was packed. Every seat was occupied. Several seats appeared to be occupied twice. Flags fluttered from railings and barriers. Whistles shrieked from every direction. Somewhere in the crowd an inflatable banana bobbed above the spectators after somebody had heard a rumour that human football supporters considered such things essential. Nobody knew whether this was true. Nobody knew where the banana had come from. By this point, nobody was prepared to ask.
At the centre of the pitch, the elephant shrew referees stood in a perfectly straight line. They looked calm, authoritative and entirely in control of events. This lasted until the whistle blew.
Every gerbil on the field charged directly at the ball.
For several seconds it vanished completely beneath a rapidly moving sphere of fur, tails and determination. The crowd roared its approval. The commentators abandoned all pretence of objectivity and began shouting contradictory descriptions of the action. The referees attempted to identify who had possession and immediately discovered that possession appeared to belong to everyone simultaneously.
The furry mass rolled twenty yards downfield. A paw emerged. Then a tail. Then Gadget appeared carrying the ball in both paws. The nearest referee blew her whistle so hard she nearly fell over. “That’s not allowed!”
Gadget stopped and looked genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”
The match paused while officials consulted the rule book. The consultation took some time because nobody could remember who had written most of the rules. During this discussion, Gubbins accidentally scored. Nobody noticed.
For almost three minutes the stadium’s attention remained fixed on the debate surrounding ball-carrying while Gubbins wandered away from the goal looking mildly surprised by recent events. It was only when someone happened to glance at the scoreboard that questions began to arise. A replay was demanded.
The replay revealed that Gubbins had not actually kicked the ball. She had tripped over it, bounced off two teammates, collided with a corner flag, spun through half a circle and somehow propelled the ball into the net using a part of her anatomy not generally associated with football technique. The crowd considered this magnificent. The goal stood.
By half-time nobody was entirely certain which team was winning. Granite had begun compiling statistical analyses on a clipboard. Glyph had produced three tactical diagrams and was halfway through a fourth. Geography had wandered onto the pitch with measuring equipment because she had become concerned about the precision of the touchline markings. Gadget was attempting to construct a video assistant referee system using six magnifying glasses, a biscuit tin and what she described as “advanced optical principles”.
The elephant shrew referees held an emergency meeting. Their expressions suggested that the meeting was not going well.
The second half somehow became even more chaotic. Whether this represented an improvement depended entirely upon one’s definition of football.
When the final whistle finally sounded, the crowd erupted. Players celebrated enthusiastically despite some uncertainty regarding the result. Officials looked exhausted. One elephant shrew sat down and stared into the middle distance as though reconsidering several life choices.
Later that evening the official match report was released. It recorded one goal, forty-seven arguments, twelve unscheduled pitch invasions and one inflatable banana. Under the heading Understanding of Football Laws, the report simply stated: Under review.
The Gerbil World Cup was officially underway. From an organisational perspective, this was perhaps unfortunate. From the perspective of everyone watching, it was perfect. Even if no-one was entirely certain which country had actually won.
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