The Tunnel Situation
The match between Tunnel and Paraguay had been scheduled for two o’clock. By half past one the stadium was already full. This surprised everyone, including the gerbils who had filled it.
“Why,” said Granite, studying the stands with her clipboard, “is there this much interest in Paraguay?”
“There isn’t,” said Gadget.
Granite looked at the flags. The flags were not Paraguayan. The flags were, as far as anyone could tell, representations of tunnels. Several were simply brown. One appeared to be a tube with a dot at each end, which Glyph described as “capturing the essence.”
“They’ve come for Tunnel,” said Gadget.
Granite wrote this down. It didn’t help.
Nobody knew who played for Tunnel. The squad list had been submitted on time, in the correct format, and contained seventeen names that Gazetteer described as “entirely plausible.” The players had arrived quietly, warmed up without incident, and communicated in a way that suggested complete confidence in their identity as a team.
Whether any of them were actually from Tunnel was, technically, unknowable. This had not diminished support. If anything it had increased it.
Gusto had positioned herself at the tunnel mouth — the actual tunnel, the players’ entrance — and spent twenty minutes contemplating the philosophical situation before deciding it was security-adjacent and remaining there anyway.
The elephant shrews took the pitch at five to two. They looked, if anything, more cautious than usual. The match had been flagged internally as presenting “a moderate risk of becoming something else.” The risk assessment had not anticipated the crowd.
The whistle blew.
For eleven minutes, football happened. Reasonable football. Paraguay moved with purpose. Tunnel moved with what could only be described as conviction. The crowd roared for every Tunnel touch regardless of quality. A misplaced pass drew a standing ovation. A throw-in produced scenes.
Then Paraguay scored.
The stadium fell briefly silent. Then a sound began. Low at first. Tun-nel. Tun-nel. Tun-nel.
Glory appeared on the running track, costume wobbling, leading the chant with both arms. The inflatable banana, which had been ostentatiously neutral all morning, made a decision and began bobbing in the Tunnel end.
Six minutes later, Tunnel equalised. The scorer had not meant to score. The ball had struck her ear at a surprising angle and ricocheted past the goalkeeper while she was looking at something else. She seemed as startled as anyone.
The stadium detonated.
In the forty-first minute, the elephant shrew referee blew her whistle and pointed at the penalty spot.
Everything stopped. Nobody was entirely sure what had happened. Replays were demanded. The replays showed seventeen gerbils, considerable movement, and a moment of contact that Glyph described as “ambiguous” and Gazette immediately published as “OUTRAGE.”
The elephant shrew stood at the spot and looked at the crowd. The crowd looked back. The banana was motionless. Even Glory had stopped moving. The elephant shrew pointed at the spot again, with slightly more emphasis.
Paraguay scored the penalty. Tunnel, trailing again, pressed forward with the air of a team that had genuinely nothing to lose because they weren’t entirely sure what they had to begin with.
The final whistle went. 2-1 to Paraguay.
Then the Tunnel supporters began to applaud. Slowly at first, then with increasing warmth, until the whole stadium was applauding a team that had lost a group stage match while most of their supporters couldn’t have identified their home city. Because Tunnel didn’t have a home city. Tunnel had a name, and a squad, and seventeen minutes of excellent football, and that was enough.
Granite updated the standings. Under Tunnel she wrote the points total, then paused, then added a small star. She wasn’t sure why. It seemed correct.
The elephant shrews filed off the pitch. One paused at the tunnel mouth, looked at Gusto, and appeared to consider saying something.
She didn’t. But it was close.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/the-tunnel-situation