TO EACH HIS OWN GLORYThe bleachers of the City’s Sports Complex were packed. City Club fans with their aqua banners had pompously been calling themselves the Crystal Legion. In spite of the seriousness of the team’s disadvantage, in the beginning of the game, the crowd was loud and wild. Later on, they were completely silent, seeming to fear that if they as much as opened their mouths, their hearts and souls would escape. Tension mounted as time passed. Nearing halftime the score still remained zero x zero. Everyone knew how dangerous it would be for City Club if the team didn’t score in the first forty-five minutes. If that happened the visiting team would change their tactics for the second half. They’d up their defenses, guarantee a tie, and take home the Loner’s Trophy. CC had to win to keep the trophy at home where it belonged, and that is why tension grew as the spectators silently watched the clock.
During the first half, the visiting team came close to scoring a goal. It was really close. Around forty minutes into the game. Thank God, Pilungo saved the day. The referee, well known for his shady calls, called a penalty against Captain during an obviously clean play. There’s no way it was a penalty, but in spite of the crowd’s yelling and booing “Robber Ref!” and in spite of CC’s protests from the players, especially their captain, Commander, the referee held his position, explaining “When I call a penalty, it is a penalty.”
Until that point, the ref had seemed impartial, letting the game flow, especially in the centerfield. Yet, as soon as the ball came close to CC’s goalpost, he showed his true colors. He clearly favored the visiting team and wanted their victory. “Whoever complains will be expelled,” he threatened fingering the red card to intimidate Captain and Commander, and then hurrying to set up the ball for the penalty shot.
The stadium was hushed in expectation as spectators crossed their fingers, and some even covered their eyes in agony. No one wanted to witness a goal against CC.
Finally the ref whistled.
Running fast, the player kicking for the penalty approached the ball and shot the ball low into the left corner, almost touching the goalpost. Agile as a cat, in an almost impossible move, Pilungo sprang into action, caught the ball, and hugged it to the ground as if he and the ball had fused and become indivisible.
The outburst from the stands was incredible with crystalline fans’ deafening roar of “P for Pilungo, P – El Paradon!” People yelled not only in praise of Pilungo’s talent, but in relief that the ref’s unfair decision was null and void.
Fantastic as it was, that outburst was not the peak of excitement. That was yet to come.
Forty-one minutes into the game, at the exact moment that the judge entered the gate to the CSC, there was an even louder explosion when I slammed in a powerful goal that nearly ripped out the back of the net. I felt the bliss of retribution in the depths of my soul. It’s too bad that the judge didn’t get to appreciate the beauty of my play. He missed it by only a few seconds.
What followed happened fast, starting with the cloud of dust his car stirred up as it came to a halt in front of the CSC’s monumental entranceway. Flushed, nervous and hurried, the judge got out of his car. In an attempt to stop him, Champion met him with a wide smile and open arms.
“Your honor, what a pleasure it is that you came to join us. Come this way to the VIP section where your seat is reserved.”
“I didn’t come to watch a soccer game. I came to capture a fugitive.”
Champion didn’t even have a chance to try to dissuade the judge, who zoomed off. Completely ignoring the revered athlete, Judge disappeared into the stadium. He had hardly set his foot in the stadium when he saw the crowd rise, cheering and applauding.
“I knew that the people of the City would support my decision,” he concluded, disoriented by the noise and believing that the applause once again was for him.
Though Judge had expected total support for my capture, the display of emotion surprised him. The crowd's enthusiasm was even greater than on the day of the inauguration of the Forum. Judge believed that this was truly love of Justice made manifest. The crowd surely knew how to show their approval of his strict discipline in executing the law. Confident in his fanatic certainty, he waved to the shouting spectators, believing that their applause was their way of showing gratitude.
In the mind of Judge, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Sure of the population’s support, he approached Chief of Police.
“Arrest Calunga! Carry him over here on your shoulders so that he can serve as an example for others.
Though the order seemed strange, Chief of Police did exactly what he had been told. He walked onto the field, crossed it, faced me, and without a single word, lifted me onto his shoulders, and headed back from where he had come.
It was spectacular.
The spectators went crazy and doubled their applause. Who would have imagined that Chief of Police was such a passionate CC fan? Who would have imagined that an authority figure would forget all of the rules and invade the field to commemorate a goal?
As misled as Judge, Chief of Police also believed that the applause was for him, for the courage he demonstrated taking on a prison fugitive without his patrol car and without any backup. His pride swelled as he crossed the field with the prisoner on his shoulders. “From now on, no detainee in the Maximum Security Prison will attempt an escape,” he mused to himself.
In their reserved seats in the Tribune of Honor, my parents’ hearts filled with emotion as they watched the scene before them. My mother cried tears of joy, recalling the prediction the old, white-bearded man made on the night of my birth: “He will be carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.” She looked to the heavens and thanked God for granting her this sublime moment. Nothing could have pleased her more than seeing her dear son being “carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.”
With each step that Chief of Police took, the roar of the crystalline crowd increased. As he passed, the crowd’s delirium grew and so did Chief’s pride. Wanting to prolong his glory, he decided to carry the fugitive across the stadium again.
Naturally, my mother’s heart was about to burst. For the second time, she watched me being paraded and cheered. When we passed the Tribune of Honor, she was absolutely radiant. Her eyes were lit up and her tears shone, reflecting sunlight.
Every once in awhile, carrying my weight on his shoulders, Chief of Police lost his balance. Fatigued, he tripped varying his pace with short then long steps in one direction and then another. Here and there, he’d straighten up, trying to raise me higher for all to see.
“A lesson like this one will never be forgotten,” he reasoned. “After this, no one will ever try to escape the Maximum Security Prison again.”
The fanatic cheering was ceaseless as spectators called out my name. The bleachers trembled.
When Chief of Police finally reached the other side of the field and headed in the direction of the exit gate, the ref blew his whistle.
The first half of the game was over.
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