by Lazar Lagin
Something unheard-of in the history of football had happened, something that could not be explained by any law of nature: twenty-two brightly coloured balls dropped from somewhere above in the sky and rolled down the field. They were all made of top-grain morocco leather.
“Outrageous! Hooliganism! Who did this?” the fans shouted.
The culprit should have certainly been taken away and even handed over to the militia, but no one could discover who he was. Only three people of the hundred thousand — Hottabych and his two young friends — knew who was responsible.
“See what you’ve gone and done?” Volka whispered. “You’ve stopped the game and prevented the Shaiba team from making a sure point!”
However, Volka was not especially displeased at the team’s misfortune, for he was a Zubilo fan.
“I wanted to improve things,” Hottabych whispered guiltily. “I thought it would be much better if each player could play with his own ball as much as he wanted to, instead of shoving and chasing around like mad on such a great big field.”
“Golly! I don’t know what to do with you!” Volka cried in despair and pulled the old man down. He hurriedly explained the basic rules of football to him. “It’s a shame that the Zubilo team has to play opposite the sun now, because after they change places in the second half it won’t be in anyone’s eyes any more. This way, the Shaiba players have a terrific advantage, and for no good reason at all,” he concluded emphatically, hoping Hottabych would bear his words in mind.
“Yes, it really is unfair,” the old man agreed. Whereupon the sun immediately disappeared behind a little cloud and stayed there till the end of the game.
Meanwhile, the extra balls had been taken off the field, the umpire totalled up the time wasted, and the game was resumed.
After Volka’s explanation, Hottabych began to follow the course of the match with ever-increasing interest. The Shaiba players, who had lost a sure point because of the twenty-two balls, were nervous and were playing badly. The old man felt guilty and was conscience-stricken.
HOTTABYCH ENTERS THE GAME
Thus, the sympathies of Volka Kostylkov and Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab were fatally divided. When the first beamed with pleasure (and this happened every time a Shaiba player missed the other team’s goal), the old man became darker than a cloud. However, when the Zubilo forwards missed the Shaiba goal, the reaction was reversed. Hottabych would burst out in happy laughter and Volka would become terribly angry.
“I don’t see what’s so funny about it, Hottabych. Why, they nearly made a point!”
“’Nearly’ doesn’t count, my dear boy,” Hottabych would answer.
Hottabych, who was witnessing a football game for the first time in his life, did not know there was such a thing as a fan. He had regarded Volka’s concern about the sun being in the Zubilo’s eyes as the boy’s desire for fair play. Neither he nor Volka suspected that he had suddenly become a fan, too. Volka was so engrossed in what was happening on the field that he paid not the slightest attention to anything else — and this forgetfulness of his caused all the unusual events which took place at the stadium that day.
It all began during a very tense moment, when the Zubilo forwards were approaching the Shaiba goal and Volka bent over to Hottabych’s ear, whispering hotly:
“Hottabych, dear, please make the Shaiba goal a little wider when the Zubilo men kick the ball.” The old man frowned.
“Of what good will this be to the Shaiba team?”
“Why should you worry about them? It’s good for the Zubilo team.”
The old man said nothing. Once again the Zubilo players missed. Two or three minutes later a happy Shaiba player kicked the ball into the Zubilo goal, to the approving yells of the Shaiba fans.
“Yegor, please don’t laugh, but I’m ready to swear the goal post’s on the Shaiba’s side,” the Zubilo goalie said to one of the spare players when the game had passed over to the far end of the field.
“Wha-a-at?”
“You see, when they kicked the ball, the right goal post… upon my sacred word of honour … the right goal post… moved about a half a yard away and let the ball pass. I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Have you taken your temperature?” the spare player asked.
“Why?”
“You sure must have a high fever!”
“Humph!” the goalie spat and stood tensely in the goal.
The Shaiba players were out-manoeuvring the defence and were fast approaching the Zubilo goal.
Barn! The second goal in three minutes! And it had not been the Zubilo goalie’s fault either time. He was fighting like a tiger. But what could he do? At the moment the ball was hit, the cross-bar rose of its own accord, just high enough to let it pass through, brushing the tips of his fingers.
Whom could he complain to? Who would ever believe him? The goalie felt scared and forlorn, just like a little boy who finds himself in the middle of a forest at night.
“See that?” he asked Yegor in a hopeless voice. “I th-th-th-ink I did,” the spare player stuttered. “But you c-c-c-an’t tell anyone, n-n-no one will ever b-b-believe you.” “That’s just it, no one’ll believe me,” the goalie agreed sadly. Just then, a quiet scandal was taking place in the North Section. A moment before the second goal, Volka noticed the old man furtively yank a hair from his beard.
“What did he do that for?” he wondered uneasily, still unaware of the storm gathering over the field. However, even this thought did not come to Volka immediately.
The game was going so badly for the Zubilo team that he had no time to think of the old man.
But soon everything became perfectly clear.
The first half of the game was nearing an end, and it seemed that Luck had finally turned its face towards the Zubilo team, The ball was now on the Shaiba side of the field. The Zubilo men were ploughing up the earth, as the saying goes, and soon their best forward kicked the ball with tremendous force into the top corner of the Shaiba goal.
All one hundred thousand fans jumped to their feet. This sure goal was to give the team its first point. Volka and Zhenya, two ardent Zubilo fans, winked happily to each other, but immediately groaned with disappointment: it was a sure goal, but the ball smacked against the cross-bar so loudly that the sound echoed all over the stadium.
This sound was echoed by a loud wail from the Shaiba goalie:
the lowered cross-bar had fouled a goal, but it had knocked him smartly on the head.
Now Volka understood all and was terrified.
“Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab,” he said in a shaking voice. “What’s this I see? You know both Zhenya and I are Zubilo fans, and here you are, against us! You’re a Shaiba fan!”
“Alas, O blessed one, it is so!” the old man replied unhappily.
“Didn’t I save you from imprisonment in the clay vessel?” Volka continued bitterly.
“This is as true as the fact that it is now day and that there is a great future ahead of you,” Hottabych replied in a barely audible voice.
“Then why are you helping the Shaiba team instead of the Zubilo team?”
“Alas, I have no power over my actions,” Hottabych answered sadly, as large tears streamed down his wrinkled face. “I want the Shaiba team to win.”
THE SITUATION BECOMES MORE TENSE
“Just wait, nothing good will come of it!” Volka threatened.
“Be that as it may.”
That very moment the Zubilo goalie slipped on an extremely dry spot and let the third ball into the goal.
“Oh, so that’s how it is! You won’t listen to reason, will you? All right then!” Volka jumped onto the bench and shouted, pointing to Hottabych:
“Listen; everyone! He’s been helping the Shaiba team all the time!”
“Who’s helping them? The umpire? What do you mean?” people began to shout.
“No, not the umpire! What has he to do with it? It’s this old man here who’s helping them… Leave me alon
e!”
These last words were addressed to Zhenya, who was tugging at his sleeve nervously. Zhenya realized that no good would come of Volka’s quarrel with Hottabych. But Volka would not stop, though no one took his words seriously.
“So you say the old man is shifting the goal posts from over here, in the North Section?” People roared with laughter. “Ha, ha, ha! He probably has a special gimmick in his pocket to regulate the goals at a distance. Maybe he even tossed all those balls into the field?”
“Sure, it was him,” Volka agreed readily, calling forth a new wave of laughter.
“I bet he was also responsible for the earthquake in Chile ! Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha!”
“No, he wasn’t responsible for that.” Volka was an honest boy. “An earthquake is the result of a catastrophic shifting of soil. Especially in Chile . And he was just recently released from a vessel.”
A middle-aged man sitting behind Volka entered the conversation. Volka knew him, since they lived in the same house. He was the one who had named his cat Homych in honour of the famous goalie.
“Keep your shirt on, and don’t make a fool of yourself,” the man said kindly, when the laughter had died down a bit. “Stop talking nonsense and bothering us. The way things are now, it’s bad enough without you adding your bit.” (He was also a Zubilo fan.)
And true enough, there were still eleven long minutes left till the end of the first time, but the score was already 14:0 in favour of the Shaiba team.
Strange things kept happening to the Zubilo players. They seemed to have forgotten how to play: their tackling was amazingly feeble and stupid. The men kept falling; it was as if they had just learned how to walk.
And then the defence began to act queerly. Those old football lions began to shy away in fright as soon as they saw the ball approaching, as if it were a bomb about to explode.
Oh, how miserable our young friends were! Just think: they had explained the rules of soccer to Hottabych to their own misfortune! What were they to do? How were they to help the unfortunate Zubilo players see justice restored? And what should they do with Hottabych? Even a scandal had proved useless. How could they at least distract the old Genie’s attention from the field on which this unique sports tragedy was unfolding?
Zhenya found the answer. He stuck a copy of Soviet Sports into Hottabych’s hand, saying, “Here, read the paper and see what a wonderful team you’re disgracing in the eyes of the nation!” He pointed towards the heading: “An Up-and-Coming Team.” Hottabych read aloud:
“The Zubilo team has improved considerably during the current season. In their last game in Kuibyshev against the local ‘Krylya Sovetov’ — team they demonstrated their… That’s interesting!” he said and buried his nose in the paper.
The boys grinned at each other. No sooner had Hottabych begun to read, than the Zubilo men came to life. Their forwards immediately proved that the article in Soviet Sports had all the facts straight. A great roar coming from tens of thousands of excited throats accompanied nearly every kick. In a few seconds the game was on the Shaiba half of the field. One kick followed another in quick succession. Those Zubilo players were really good!
A few more moments, and they would finally be able to score.
“Aha!” Volka’s neighbour shouted behind his back. “See?! What did I say! They’ll show those Shaiba imbeciles a thing or two…”
Ah, how much better it would have been for all concerned if he had curbed his joy. He should not have nudged Hottabych in the side with such a triumphant look on his face, as if every man on the Zubilo team was his own favourite son, or at least his favourite pupil!
Hottabych started, tore his eyes from the paper, and took in the field at a glance. He sized up the situation like an expert and handed the paper back to Zhenya, who accepted it with a long face.
“I’ll finish reading it later,” the old man said. He hurriedly yanked a hair from his beard, and the Zubilo team’s unexplainable and disgraceful sufferings began anew.
15:0! 16:0! 18:0! 23:0!
The ball flew into the Zubilo goal on an average of once every 40 seconds.
But what had happened to the goalie? Why did he clutch at the side-post and wail “Mamma!” every time the ball was kicked into the goal? Why did he suddenly walk to the side with a thoughtful expression on his face — and for no apparent reason at all — and this at a most decisive moment, in the middle of a heated tangle right in front of the goal?
“Shame! It’s outrageous! What’s the matter with you!” the fans shouted from all sides. But he, the famous goalie, the pride of his country, staggered out of the goal and off to a side every time the opposite team closed in.
“What’s the matter with you? Have you gone crazy?” the spare player croaked.
And the goalie moaned in reply:
“I sure have. Someone seems to be pulling me. I try to hold my ground, but something keeps pushing me out of the goal.
When I want to turn towards the ball, that same something presses me toward the goal-post so hard that I can’t tear myself away.”
“Things are really bad!”
“Couldn’t be worse!”
The situation was so extraordinary that there was not a person present at the stadium, including the ticket collectors, militia men and food vendors, who was not taking the strange events to heart and discussing them loudly.
There was only one fan among the thousands who, though suffering keenly, was remarkably silent. This was an amazingly uncommunicative man of about fifty-five, grey-haired, tall and lanky, with a long, yellowish stony face. His face was equally stony during an unimportant game and during the finals, when a successful kick decides the champion of the year. He was always equally dour, straightlaced and immobile.
This day he was in his usual seat, which was right in front of Hottabych. As he was a Zubilo fan, one can well imagine the anguish in his sunken, bony chest. However, only the shifting of his eyes and the barely discernible movements of his head indicated that he was far from indifferent to the events taking place on the field. He apparently had a bad heart, and had to take good care of himself, for any amount of emotion might have produced grave results. However, even as he felt around with a practised gesture for his box of sugar and his bottle of medicine and dropped the medicine onto a bit of sugar, without ever tearing his eyes from the game, his face remained as immobile as if he were staring into space.
When the score became 23:0 it nearly finished him. He opened his thin pale lips and squeaked in a wooden voice:
“They could at least sell mineral water here!”
Hottabych, whose soul was singing joyfully at the unheard-of success of the Shaiba team, was more willing than ever to do people favours.
Upon hearing the words of his phlegmatic neighbour, he snapped his fingers softly. The man suddenly saw that he was holding a glass of ice-cold mineral water which had appeared from nowhere.
Anyone else in his place would have been astounded, or, at any rate, would have looked around at the people sitting to all sides of him. But this man merely raised the frosted glass to his lips with the same stony expression. However, he did not even take a sip: the poor Zubilo players were about to get the twenty-fourth ball kicked into their goal. He sat frozen to the spot with his glass raised and Zhenya, who was still frantically searching for a way to save the disgraced team, snatched the mineral water from him and dashed it onto Hottabych’s beard.
“What treachery! What vile treachery!” the old Genie gasped and began feverishly yanking out one hair after another. Instead of the clear crystal tinkling, the boys were happy to hear a dull sound like that of a tightly pulled piece of string.
“And isn’t it treachery to help the Shaiba players?” Volka asked acidly. “You’d better keep mum.”
Meanwhile, just as had happened after the fourteenth goal, the revived Zubilo players once again tore through the forward and defence lines of the Shaiba team and raced the ball towards their goal.
The Sh
aiba defence had become unkeyed from their long idleness and could not collect their wits quickly to ward off the unexpected danger. Their goalie was really something to look at. There he sat on the grass, shelling melon seeds.
Choking, he jumped to his feet, but the Zubilo players had already kicked the ball straight towards the centre of the unprotected goal.
Just then, to the great torment of our young friends, they heard a clear crystal tinkling. Yes, Hottabych had finally been able to find a dry hair in his beard.
Oh, Zhenya, Zhenya! Where was your keen eye and sure hand? Why didn’t you take good aim? The Zubilo team was as good as dead now!
“Hottabych! Dear, sweet Hottabych! Let the Zubilo players score at least once!” Volka wailed.
But Hottabych pretended to hear nothing. The ball, which was flying straight at the centre of the goal, suddenly swerved to the left and hit against the post with such force that it flew back across the whole field, careful to avoid the Zubilo players in its way, as though it was alive. Then it rolled softly into the long-suffering Zubilo goal!
“24:0!”
This was an amazing score, considering that the teams were equal.
Volka lost his temper completely.
“I demand — no, I order you to stop this mockery immediately!” he hissed. “Otherwise, I’ll never be friends with you again! You have your choice: the Shaiba team or me!”
“Why, you’re a football fan yourself. Can’t you understand my feelings?” the old man pleaded, but he sensed from Volka’s expression that this time their friendship might really end. And so, he whispered back, “I await your further orders.”
“The Zubilo team isn’t to blame that you’re a Shaiba fan. You’ve made them the laughing-stock of the country. Make it so that everyone should see they’re not to blame for losing.”
“I hear and I obey, O young goalie of my soul!”
No sooner had the umpire’s whistle died down, announcing the end of the first time, than the entire Zubilo team began to sneeze and cough for all it was worth.
