A REMAKABLE
CONQUEST
"...uma vitória, bem posta e correta, avançando com lentidão e estilo..."
"...a well deserved victory, achieved slowly and with style..."
Eça de Queirós
Chapter 9 - THE CONDEMNATION
During the construction of the CSC, the first area ready was the field.
Thick
Green.
A carpet of hope.
While older men worked raising the bleachers, the younger ones kicked around a ball on the giant field that was emerging. I was one of the regulars and a few times, Champion stopped to join in and check out my moves. He knew the sport well and was always on the lookout
for promising young players.
“What’s your name?”
“Calunga.”
“With a K or a C?” he kidded.
“With a C.
“Great. There’s a place for you on the team then.
I’m serious. This is an invitation. What do you say?”
Without blinking, I said yes.
“So let’s go,” he said.
We went.
At the CC clubhouse, I met my teammates, the coach’s assistant and the masseur. The first to approach me was Pilungo. Judging from his body type, I guessed that he was an offensive player. A strong young man of medium height, he was not your stereotype goalie.
When I saw him play, I was amazed at his skill. He defended against high shots as well as to grounders. As I got to know him, I learned he was someone you could trust. He was innocently friendly and enchanted by life. We became good friends, and from contact with him I learned an
important lesson: that our happiness in life depends on the friendships we make.
The other athletes were also good company to be in. Excellent soccer players, they gave me their complete support and helped me to find my place on the team. Soon I was confident, and in a short time, I was the star center forward. My goals made our fans go wild and, backed by Pilungo’s great defense, guaranteed our victories.
CC’s regime for practice was tough and demanding to the point of exhaustion. We exercised twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays because Champion wanted the team in top physical condition and ready to perform its best at all times. After the physical conditioning and tactical practices, we’d finish each session with a swim in the Lake because, according to Champion, its clean water recuperated our forces and helped to heal any pulled muscles. No one doubted this idea.
Champion’s beliefs about the waters, however, were much deeper. He believed that the water of the Lake had a supernatural, miraculous power. He professed that a swim in the Lake refreshed the mind, washed the soul, and protected people from surrounding dangers.
These were his sincere beliefs, based on true faith, which was no surprise since sincerity and truthfulness were integral parts of his character.
As for me, well I always followed his recommendation and went for the swim after practices, but it was more for my own pleasure than for the healing properties of the water. At first, I didn’t share his beliefs, but with time I changed my mind. I became a true believer after an inexplicable, fatal decision on my part.
After practice one Tuesday, I skipped the protective ritual. I wasn’t questioning Champion’s authority or acting out of disobedience; I simply wanted to get home earlier that day.
“Outta here, Pilungo?” I suggested.
“Sure,” my friend replied.
We left together and headed to the street where we both lived.
On the way home, we both felt the odd sensation of being followed. We noticed a man whose face we’d never seen behind us. At first discreet, he kept quite a distance between us. Later, he sped up approaching us. The farther we got from the center of town, the more deserted the
streets became. He started to provoke us, staring at each from head to toe. Suddenly he started insulting both of us, especially Pilungo.
I yelled for the guy to leave us alone because in the City we liked to respect visitors, even if they didn’t deserve it.
“So, you think that I don’t deserve your respect?” he challenged.
“That’s not it at all,” I added calmly. “You didn’t get my point. You do deserve respect, not only mine, but that of the whole City.
My explanation didn’t satisfy him. He said that it was just a crock and that I was a wimp.
“Looks like I’m the only man in your precious City, and I’m going to beat the hell out of you and this poor excuse of a goalie!” Like a maniac, he jumped on Pilungo and started pounding him.
War had begun.
Basically, we had two choices: to run or to fight. Without thinking, we simply tried to detain the aggressor. I may have exaggerated a little bit, and while trying to hold him down, socked him in the chest hard enough for him to lose his breath, and gave him a capoeira kick that got his mouth and nose. Picking up broomstick like piece of wood from the ground, I finished him off with a couple of smacks on the back. The unlucky bastard fell and fainted. During the fight, I hadn’t stopped to think that I am strong as a tank, nor did I try to control my punches. It was impossible after listening to that stranger insult the City and our people.
People appeared from nowhere, and took him to the emergency room in City Hospital. There, thank God, he was treated and declared out of danger. Completely immobilized in casts, with four broken ribs, a few missing teeth and a broken nose, he would think twice before provoking anybody in the future.
Moments later, I was face to face with Judge.
I told the magistrate exactly what had happened, including all of the details. I didn’t leave anything out. The judge listened to me patiently without interrupting.
When I finished, he began.
During his long discourse, fair words flowed. Judge was humane and just. He spoke of parallels and precedents. On one hand, the facts weighed in my favor. On the other hand, they could lead to my condemnation. On one plate of the scales, he placed my clean past, my good qualities, and my peaceful nature along with the unfair provocation of the stranger and my need for self defense.
On the other plate, he placed the exaggerated violence of my reaction, and quickly it descended against me.
“You used unnecessary violence,” Judge declared. “You could have taken the life of your fellow man. Justice does not desire death of the offender, but hopes for his recuperation and reintegration in society.”
After speaking, he looked through the Penal Code, turning pages and consulting different articles in the thick volume.
The atmosphere became solemnly silent. Expectation weighed on us like lead.
Respectfully, Judge closed his book and began to speak again. This time his words were directed not at me, but at all present. Hesitatingly, his low voice hammered in my mind.
“... and for this reason, in accordance with the Code, the defendant Calunga is condemned to nine days of reclusion. The sentence is to be carried out at the Maximum Security Prison, starting at the time of his arrival.
Upon hearing the sentence, I felt my legs tremble. My hands were pins and needles and my vision faded out.
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