A Writer’s Notebook
No. 48, April
2014
James Watson
Friends and contributors
CRIMEA EDITION/NOT… WHY
CAN’T THEY SETTLE IT ON THE SOCCER FIELD?
‘What we must avoid at all costs,’ team
supervisor Mr. Boychuk announces, ‘is any sense of…revenge against Russia and
the Russians. Sport is all too often used to repay old scores.’
Team coach Vera Sorokin dares to interrupt. ‘I think my girls understand
that, Mr. Boychuk. They will play hard and fair, fair and hard, whoever the
opposition is.’
‘Thank you, Miss Sorokin. However, it has to
be admitted that the Russian squad may prove to be out of our league in terms
of skill and experience. We must not resort to tactics that will bring the
national side into disrepute. We must prove ourselves.’ He pauses, stares from
face to face. ‘And that means we must, if necessary, prove ourselves good
losers.’
This is more than Natasha can stand, as it
is for a few others in the team, including the captain, Galina. The voice of a
Kaltsov rises above the rest: ‘We don’t intend to lose, Mr. Boychuk. We’re on
home territory, and the people of Ukraine are right behind us.’
Sensing
their strength in unity, the whole team shout their support, driving Boychuk
into an apologetic silence. ‘Of course, naturally…we pray for victory.’…
The
Russians are big, most of them as tense as the Ukys, and unsmiling.
‘If they call you names,’ Vera Sorokin had
warned, ‘ignore them. Self-control is everything. Lose your rag and you’ll lose
the match.’
The lines
break; captains meet at the centre-spot. The referee tosses a coin. We are
playing into the wind. Ten minutes into the game and Natasha has done a lot of
running but has scarcely added to her first touch of the ball. The Rus are
good. Their passing suggests a team that has played together often. For the
last two minutes, none of the Ukys has managed to hold on to the ball.
Squad
captain Galina is calling: ‘Hold on to it, control it!’ To Natasha, who has
strayed well in to her own half, she commands: ‘Stay up!’
In the
crowd, Grandma Kaltsov has risen to her feet and is waving her umbrella and
fuming as she sees her granddaughter hacked down from behind. ‘Damned Rus,
treacherous dogs – they deserve a thrashing, the lot of them!’
As Natasha
skids on to her chest, the packed crowd in the Odessa stadium leaps up and down
in a war dance of rage: ‘Red card, red card!’
The kick
went straight into the back of Natasha’s knee. And here it comes, the sledging,
the verbal tactic that seeks to drain away a player’s self-confidence. ‘How’s
it feel? – pigtail! Khokhol!’
Natasha
gets up, with a helping hand from centre-back Svetlana, who is about to worsen
the situation with a swift denunciation of this Rusky in particular and Rus in
general, until Natasha pleads, ‘Don’t!’
It’s been
a bad enough knock for Vera to call for Valentina the physio to come on to the
pitch, but Natasha shakes her head. No need for treatment. She limps a few
paces, feels better. It’s agony, but she nods, waves away Valentina.
‘You’re a
hero as well as a star, eh?’ comes the same voice.
The
referee steps in. ‘One more word from you,’ she warns the Rus defender, ‘and
you’ll be back down the tunnel.’
The
Russian defender who brought Natasha to ground takes a few paces towards her
own goal. Loud enough for those around her to hear, but just out of earshot of
the referee, she declaims, ‘Bunch of Nazis!’
It is a
chilling accusation because there is no reason in it. Natasha is as curious to
know why this young Russian, her own age, in the 21st century,
chooses a term of insult so inappropriate; yet employs it with such passion.
There is a
skirmish, the attackers and defenders so close together that the ball becomes
invisible. One defender falls, one attacker falls. A poor shot, spinning wide
of the goal, hits a defender. The Ukraine goalie goes one way, the ball the
other, trickling between the posts.
Ukraine
nil, Russia one.
Some
divine justice! Natasha stares wildly at the heavens. I’m fouled from behind.
We’re called Nazis and now fate makes things worse with a sloppy goal.
Sensing
the imminent crash of morale, Galina races into the goal, picks the ball out of
the net and sprints back to the centre spot. She turns on the team, but stays
calm: ‘Don’t bunch, we lost formation there, letting them push us out of
midfield. So remember Vera’s game plan.’
The crowd
is roaring for the Ukys to get a grip; roaring and cheering, chanting and
chorusing. Their Mexican wave out-does the Black Sea in an autumn storm. Their
cheers seem to be coming from beyond the ground, from the city; sweeping across
the great Steppe, thundering down from the Carpathians, foaming along Ukraine’s
mighty rivers.
Stand
still, Natasha has told herself, and they’ll get you. Big Mouth wants my scalp.
So keep moving: weaving, thrusting, seeking out space. The tactic pays off.
Natasha has latched on to a pass from Galina that has split the Russian
defence.
This is
the moment: it may never return. She has steadied herself. Defenders encircle
her on three sides, blocking off a route to goal; so she swivels on one heel,
dragging the ball around with her. She steps on it, stops. The defenders lunge,
but this is the best back-heel in the history of soccer.
The ball
shoots through the legs of the advancing goalie. Natasha is in the air, and the
ball is in the net. She flies, she soars, and the team is piling on her in the
goalmouth with screams of triumph.
How did I do it? Easy. Just put it down to
sheer genius; and by eating my fruit and veg like a good girl.
There are
appeals for off-side and protestations by the Rus when the referee blows for a
goal. It’s official: Ukraine 1, Russia 1.
Not a
second to lose: emulating her captain, Natasha sprints back with the ball to
the centre-spot, plonks it down, challenges the Rus: ‘Bring it on, Comrades!’
With
Natasha’s goal, matters at least on this pitch have become equal. It has become
a level playing ground between two peoples; Ukraine, historically the perpetual
victim, Russia the perpetual oppressor.
Never
again!
Corners
are where shirts get tugged and torn. Natasha sees the ball hovering above the
penalty area. Three bodies leap, including hers, and one arm, in the melee,
drags her back so forcefully her shirt sleeve tears at the shoulder. True, the
gesture neutralises Natasha. Keeps her on the ground as it was intended to do,
but the attention she is getting is so focused that it is too focused. No one
has been covering Masha who darts in behind the ruck. It is the sweetest of
headers.
This is no
miracle, but it is treated as such by the crowd: Ukraine 2, Russia 1.
All at
once there is fighting. Masha’s leap has carried her over the shoulders of two
defenders, forcing both of them off balance, one to measure her length on the
scuffed mud of the goalmouth, the other to twist her knee.
The sight
of the ball drifting into the back of the Russian net turns normal, sensible,
highly trained athletes into warriors surprised by a night attack and desperate
to make up for their negligence.
Arms
raised and swinging, hands thrusting, bodies colliding, accompanied by yell and
screech, bluster and threat, create such a confusion that it is impossible for
the referee or her assistants on the touchlines to figure out who started the
war, who decided to escalate it and who is perpetuating it.
Vera
Sorokin is bellowing from the manager’s dugout. The manager of the Russian team
is also bellowing, first at the referee and then at her players, then at Vera,
who bellows back.
It is with
relief all round, and not a moment too soon, that the referee separates the
combatants. She gives them an ear-stinging rebuke. No one is booked, no one
dismissed. But the teams are left in little doubt that if tempers flare up
again the result will not be one red card or several but banishment of both
teams to the changing-room.
Natasha
emerges from the incident with a shiner. Her right eye is already puffing up,
and throbbing. She has no idea who tore her shirt. No idea who elbowed her in
the eye.
Less than
five minutes later, the whistle goes for half time. As she walks off, feeling
numb and just slightly groggy, Natasha is joined by Big Mouth, who seems in a
jovial mood. ‘Sorry about that.’ She puts a friendly arm around Natasha’s
shoulder. ‘Fair game, eh, Tasha?’
At least
she remembers my name. Funny old world. Natasha returns the compliment, rests
her hand on Big Mouth’s shoulder. ‘The
game’s not perfect,’ she says, ‘but it’s got to be fairer than life – right?’
‘Fairer? I
don’t know. But it’s better!’
Edited extract from FAIR GAME: THE STEPS OF ODESSA (Spire Publications
paperback; and Kindle edition).
Editor’s note:
For
the second issue in a row we have to apologise for the absence of Ned Baslow’s
amazingly popular correspondence. His sojourn in Fuengirola has resulted in an
extended stay in order to recruit what he refers to as ‘fandango dancers’ for
the Wickerstaff-cum-Fernhaven late summer festival, a perfect complement he
believes to the top show, ‘The Spectacles of Don Quixote’.
