Milan

            by Sam Finn

 

            “If you lose, you have failed your country.  If you win, you will have given hope to thousands.”  An old man with hair the color of rusty iron paced quickly in front of uniformed men. 

            “They will attack from the first minute.  You must contain them.  All of your courage, your strength, and your training must be used to defend.  Stay in formation.”

            His men nodded silently, white knuckles gripping the splintering wooden bench beneath them.

            “When they advance too far, you will strike back immediately.  Support your captain from the wings; he will be the only man committed to the attack.  Milan will need all the help you can give him.”

            Milan smiled, contorting the scar on his cheek that he had received in their last clash.  He was the shortest man in the room, with broad shoulders and a crooked nose.  Rising to his feet, he offered his hand to the old man but was instead embraced.  Tears fell softly from wrinkled eyes as the squad looked on with affection.  They separated, and Milan moved to the open door, turning at the threshold to meet the eyes of his comrades.

            “We’ll do…just fine.”

            He strode purposefully down the low-ceilinged corridor with his head held high, and the rest of the uniformed men filed after with stooped necks.  He rubbed his sweaty palms together as he walked.  Breaths came in quick, ragged gasps, however hard he tried to calm down.  The men did not hear them though, nor did they see the frown on his face.  To them he was perfect, and they dismissed his quivering calves as a result of the cold air.

            Milan soon reached the end of the passage and paused at the open door.  He clenched his eyes shut to the white light that shone down but its brilliance was inescapable.  His eyes adjusted after a few moments of staring at the ground and the stadium came into focus.

            Rain scythed through the black night before him, illuminated as it fell by the harsh spotlights.  It stung when it struck Milan’s flesh and he shuddered at its touch; the rain of Crodania was perpetually fouled by dark factories spewing darker smoke.  The Crodanians in the stands were unfazed by what was an expected vileness in their lives.  They roared their anger and their hatred at Milan, and when they ran out of breath they threw batteries.

            Tonight was the last World Cup playoff qualifier for both Crodania and Milan’s homeland of Arboc.  The countries were unfriendly neighbors, bitterly poor, and had a smaller combined population than that of Odesa, the nearest metropolis. Not only would the winning team bring honor to their country (something in particularly short supply in Crodania) but millions of dollars from FIFA for television rights in the finals.  As both tiny nations’ currencies were worth little more than the paper it was printed on, American dollars were greatly in demand.

            But money would only do so much.  A place in the World Cup Finals, amongst the greatest, richest countries in the world, was its own reward.  It would give that country pride, hope, and a cause to unify behind.

            Milan was woken from his reverie when the young midfielder behind him clapped him on the shoulder.

            “Cheer up, captain,” he said, smiling.

            Milan smiled back with uneasy eyes and a furrowed brow.  Satisfied, the young midfielder moved past him toward the pitch with a bounce in his step and Milan followed slowly.  A stone causeway carried them over a shallow moat and through a gap in the barbed wire fence encircling the field.  The fence was trampled inward in several places.

            The pitch itself was beautiful.  Perfectly manicured blades of grass stood sharply at attention, and the acid rain gave it an oddly pleasing sheen.  Over it, crisp white lines ran the length of the field, eventually intersecting in orderly right angles that glared with cleanliness.  The referee conferred with his linesman in the midfield circle and motioned Milan over when he saw him.  The linesman fled to their halves and Milan saw that the Crodanian captain had been standing behind them.  Towering above Milan and the referee, Ivan Stojkov had the appearance of a gargoyle hewn hastily from the worst quality of stone.

            “Now I don’t want anything like the last game,” the referee began with a guarded look toward Stojkov.  “You’re lucky to be over the ban already.  If I had been on the pitch that day, you would be out of the international game for some time.”

            “It healed, didn’t it?”  Stojkov smirked as Milan’s fingers moved involuntarily to the scar on his cheek.

            The referee ignored him and flipped a coin into the air, Milan calling heads just before it hit the ground.  Shining merrily from the ground, the coin showed the seal of FIFA, and Milan told the referee that he would take the kickoff.  Stojkov turned his back dismissively and returned to his side.

            “I can’t wish you good luck,” the referee smiled sympathetically before walking away.

            Left alone with the ball at his feet, Milan watched the Crodanians get in position.  Their formation was top heavy with attackers and had only three defenders, relying heavily on the implacable Stojkov at center-back to anchor their famous “Iron Curtain” defense.

            Milan turned back to his side.  The young midfield was trotting briskly to join him for the kickoff.  From the bench, the old coach peered at Milan from under an old umbrella and mouthed “good luck” to him when their eyes met.

            But now the referee had a whistle in his mouth and there was no time to reply.

            “Tweeeeeeeeeet,” it screamed, and the game began.

            The Crodanian forwards barreled after the live ball that had been softly tapped to Milan’s feet.  He stood rigid as they approached them and only flipped the ball away as he was shouldered to the ground.  Clods of dirt from their cleats flew up in his face as he watched them thunder by.  The crowd shrieked their approval.

            Milan levered himself out of the cold, wet grass with his palms and stood up to watch the play near his goal.  The Crodanians were throwing forward men with a bloodthirsty audacity that left the Arbocali back four battered and Milan alone in midfield with Stojkov.  The Crodanian jogged easily behind him and cursed at every missed corner.  There were many of them.  For half an hour, the Crodanians laid siege to the Arbocali area and hurled their bodies through the air at every lofted cross.  Most of the time they were intercepted by the increasingly bruised Arbocali fullbacks but some had to get through.  The balls came rocketing off feet, knees and heads toward goal but were saved every time by the rabid Arbocali keeper.  He was playing the game of his life and no wonder: his blood boiled with the amphetamine shots that he had given himself before the game.

            After half an hour and a particularly daring grab, the keeper hurled the ball over the teeming mass toward midfield.  Milan and Stojkov reacted immediately, racing furiously at the airborne missile and rising as one to meet it with their heads.  About a foot above Milan, Stojkov threw a fierce elbow into his face and struck the ball sharply to a teammate.  Play continued without pause but Milan stayed on the ground for a while

Blood seeped slowly from his nose and collected in small pools on his white jersey.  His split lip pulsed painfully as he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth to see if he had lost any.  He hadn’t, but when he got up the ref blew his whistle

            “A player must leave the field of play when he has an open wound or bloodied uniform.”

            The young midfielder responded angrily.  “But you didn’t book that Crodanian when he smashed Milan’s nose!”

            “I couldn’t see anything from my position, but rest assured that the assistant referee would have flagged if he had seen a foul.”

            By the sideline, the linesman in question was standing with his back to the confrontation, eyeing the crow nervously.  The young midfielder laughed bitterly.

            Not saying a word, Milan walked to the bench as play restarted.  His coach had thrown down his umbrella in anger and his rusty-iron hair had already wilted in the rain.  He handed Milan a new shirt and dabbed the blood from his face with a towel.

            “You have to do something out there.  The men look to you for strength and you give them nothing but fear.  Go.”

            The ball had just gone out of bounds and Milan returned to the field on the throw in.  Nothing important happened in the remaining fifteen minutes of the half and the Arbocalians spent a gloomy ten minutes in the locker room, mechanically nodding to their coach’s well intentioned but ultimately depressing pep talk.

            The new half started where the last had left off, and Milan was once again left near the midfield arc with the looming Stojkov.  He watched the Crodanians stroke the ball about the goal, and watched their barrage of shots.  He watched their rough tackles, their shirt tugs, their cocky smiles.  And, as the ball made its way towards the top of the box, he watched the young midfielder streak between surprised villains to lash the ball up field.

            Stojkov got there first, but Milan launched a vicious slide tackle, cleats up, and upended the startled defender.  The last defender.  Milan seized the now loose ball and sprinted downfield.  He threw himself forward in strides longer than his short legs should have covered and leaned forward in anticipation.  As Milan entered the goal box, the keeper charged and threw himself at Milan’s knees but Milan was in no mood to be tackled.  He vaulted the diving keeper and slammed the ball into the empty net with a ferocious kick.

            The spectators were displeased.  Very displeased.  Their rumbling erupted in howls of anger and the front rows poured toward the field.  They ran through the shallow moat and knocked down the feeble fences.  Rushing at Milan with blood in their eyes, they failed to notice the helicopter that had arrived above the stadium.

            RATTATTTATATATATATATTATATATATATATATATATAT!!!!!!!!!

            A lone paratrooper in a mustard yellow suit landed heavily in front of Milan, launching a salvo of machine gun fire into the ground in front of him.  The crowd halted at the warning shots and retreated in wonder when they recognized the famed visage.  Gold-rimmed glasses framed piercing eyes above a toothy grin, grinning at what no one could tell.  One hand held his favorite AK-47 and the other a large American flag.  He winked at the stunned Milan and turned to the stunned crowd.

            “You know guys, the people around you are probably not going to say you are assholes because it's not cool to do it, so I'm gonna say it for them. You guys are being assholes.”  They nodded in sober agreement.  Teel turned back to Milan.

            “I was on my way to my son’s baseball tournament in Serbia and decided to stop by along the way.  You know, my son is to catching what Stan Musial was to first base.”

            Milan nodded mutely. Everyone knew about General Teel’s prodigy son.  Steve Teel!  Milan shook his head in amazement.  This was the man who had challenged Stalinist Berkeley school board members, thrown calculators out the window, mocked CAS out of existence, and become the greatest general in United States history!

            “Asia for the Asians,” Teel cried joyfully in an Indiana twang, completely out of context.

            While Teel gleefully chanted, Stojkov snuck around his periphery vision and started to strangle Milan.  But Teel saw; he always does.

            “Eat flag, commie bastard,” Teel roared, and threw his flag like a javelin straight through Stojkov’s gaping mouth.

            “Domo arigato, Teel-san,” Milan said.

            “You’re welcome!  Let’s chalk that one up to the Truman Doctrine.  You know, I bet all your country needs to get out of this economic slump is some pump priming.  It basically solves everything.  Anyway, we should get going, my son’s tournament starts in a few hours.”

            A rope ladder was tossed down from the helicopter.  Teel, Milan, the rest of the team, and the coach got on.

            “Smoke that Patrick Henry,” Teel said in satisfaction, and they flew on to the tournament.

 

 

Author's note:  Although I enjoyed writing that ending, I only did it because I couldn't think of one that made sense.  I'll try to update it soon with a better one.