Maybe I need a challenge right now.”
“Or a crowning achievement?” the American said, and grinned.
CHAPTER 34
“ T RY TO IMAGINE the World Series, the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, and the Democratic and Republican Conventions all rolled into one great event,” wrote Mickey Trevor Jr. in the popular American magazine
Sports Illustrated
.
Then you have some small idea of the power and glory of the World Cup.
Next imagine Rio de Janeiro, where soccer may be more important than sex and the samba, and the World Cup makes Mardi Gras seem like a Girl Scout jamboree.
That’s where the World Cup final will be played.
And now think of the two teams matched in that final: heavy favorite Brazil, three-time previous winner of the cup, whose lineage is as impressive as the New York Yankees—and upstart, unheralded, pipsqueak America, the miracle men in the red, white, and blue, whose rise from nonentity to heroic challenger has all the elements of a classic fairy tale—only, miraculously and unbelievably, it is true.
Folks, this here is a fairy story to rank with “The Lion King”! You may not have taken much notice when America quietly won the North Zone qualifying tournament, thus reaching the World Cup finals. It might have quickened your pulse a bit when our boys made it past the qualifying round, with only a loss to Germany to mar their record. Good for us, good for my kids, who love soccer because they play it in school, you probably figured, but that’s the end. It’s all over. And so you turned your attention back to the pennant races, and the wonderful baseball season of Barry Bonds, still a bit puzzled as to why the rest of the world takes soccer so damn seriously, and meanwhile, our team edged past Nigeria into the last eight.
But when the U.S. beat Italy—Italy!—in the quarterfinals (the score was 3–2, and each of the American goals was scored by America’s star of stars, Will Shepherd) and then edged Germany 2–11 in the semis, surely your attention returned, and by now if your temperature isn’t boiling, if your heart isn’t pounding, if you haven’t canceled all plans for Sunday night so you can stay home to watch the final, then you’re not an American, you don’t like sports—or you’re dead.
The American team has Will Shepherd and ten other guys who probably couldn’t make the starting lineups of any of the leading clubs in the competition.
But Shepherd. Ah, Shepherd!
Soccer is a team sport, but even Wolf Obermeier, the U.S.A. coach, admits that in this case Will Shepherd is the team. “Without Will, we wouldn’t have qualified,” Obermeier said. “With him—well, look where we are now. Look where we are.”
“Bravo! My congratulations to
Sports Illustrated!
Finally something of value, beyond their beloved swim-suit issue!”
Will finished the article and grunted with satisfaction. “Shepherd
is
the team,” he said. “Has a nice ring to it. Accurate reporting for a change too. Bravo!”
“I read it while you were asleep,” Victoria Lansdowne said. The leggy British actress was sprawled luxuriously on top of the covers. Her striking, cobalt-blue eyes admired the physique of the man she had met for the first time the evening before. The Blond Arrow. Right now, the most famous athlete in the world.
Despite the air-conditioning in the Rio Hilton, the suite was hot, and neither of them had put on any clothes after a long bout of sex. They looked every bit as good as their starry reputations suggested. The sheen of sweat glistened on their beautiful bodies.
“What did you think of it? Just another puff piece?”
“I think that if you play football as well as you do certain other things, you’ll beat the living doo-doo out of Brazil tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Satisfied, I take it.”
“Never. Not even close, sweet thing. I’m
insatiable
. Don’t
you
read the papers? My ‘string of lovers.’ ”
He looked at her full breasts, the slender, very tan legs that
“Or a crowning achievement?” the American said, and grinned.
CHAPTER 34
“ T RY TO IMAGINE the World Series, the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, and the Democratic and Republican Conventions all rolled into one great event,” wrote Mickey Trevor Jr. in the popular American magazine
Sports Illustrated
.
Then you have some small idea of the power and glory of the World Cup.
Next imagine Rio de Janeiro, where soccer may be more important than sex and the samba, and the World Cup makes Mardi Gras seem like a Girl Scout jamboree.
That’s where the World Cup final will be played.
And now think of the two teams matched in that final: heavy favorite Brazil, three-time previous winner of the cup, whose lineage is as impressive as the New York Yankees—and upstart, unheralded, pipsqueak America, the miracle men in the red, white, and blue, whose rise from nonentity to heroic challenger has all the elements of a classic fairy tale—only, miraculously and unbelievably, it is true.
Folks, this here is a fairy story to rank with “The Lion King”! You may not have taken much notice when America quietly won the North Zone qualifying tournament, thus reaching the World Cup finals. It might have quickened your pulse a bit when our boys made it past the qualifying round, with only a loss to Germany to mar their record. Good for us, good for my kids, who love soccer because they play it in school, you probably figured, but that’s the end. It’s all over. And so you turned your attention back to the pennant races, and the wonderful baseball season of Barry Bonds, still a bit puzzled as to why the rest of the world takes soccer so damn seriously, and meanwhile, our team edged past Nigeria into the last eight.
But when the U.S. beat Italy—Italy!—in the quarterfinals (the score was 3–2, and each of the American goals was scored by America’s star of stars, Will Shepherd) and then edged Germany 2–11 in the semis, surely your attention returned, and by now if your temperature isn’t boiling, if your heart isn’t pounding, if you haven’t canceled all plans for Sunday night so you can stay home to watch the final, then you’re not an American, you don’t like sports—or you’re dead.
The American team has Will Shepherd and ten other guys who probably couldn’t make the starting lineups of any of the leading clubs in the competition.
But Shepherd. Ah, Shepherd!
Soccer is a team sport, but even Wolf Obermeier, the U.S.A. coach, admits that in this case Will Shepherd is the team. “Without Will, we wouldn’t have qualified,” Obermeier said. “With him—well, look where we are now. Look where we are.”
“Bravo! My congratulations to
Sports Illustrated!
Finally something of value, beyond their beloved swim-suit issue!”
Will finished the article and grunted with satisfaction. “Shepherd
is
the team,” he said. “Has a nice ring to it. Accurate reporting for a change too. Bravo!”
“I read it while you were asleep,” Victoria Lansdowne said. The leggy British actress was sprawled luxuriously on top of the covers. Her striking, cobalt-blue eyes admired the physique of the man she had met for the first time the evening before. The Blond Arrow. Right now, the most famous athlete in the world.
Despite the air-conditioning in the Rio Hilton, the suite was hot, and neither of them had put on any clothes after a long bout of sex. They looked every bit as good as their starry reputations suggested. The sheen of sweat glistened on their beautiful bodies.
“What did you think of it? Just another puff piece?”
“I think that if you play football as well as you do certain other things, you’ll beat the living doo-doo out of Brazil tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Satisfied, I take it.”
“Never. Not even close, sweet thing. I’m
insatiable
. Don’t
you
read the papers? My ‘string of lovers.’ ”
He looked at her full breasts, the slender, very tan legs that
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