Rio.
CHAPTER 36
A T 8:32, THE Colombian referee set the ball down on a bent tuft of grass.
Brazil versus America! Unthinkable, unpopular, impossible, and yet it was happening.
The World Cup final had begun!
Arturo Ribeiro, the mercurial nineteen-year-old Brazilian star, swept up the ball, passed it to a teammate in a play practiced for hours in the preceding months, and raced forward in a brilliant, weaving dance. The ball was sent back to him. His back to the goal, he cartwheeled and sent the ball flying toward the American net.
The fans exploded.
“Gooool de Bra-sil!”
the PA announcer screamed.
“Gooool de Arturo Ribeiro!”
Time elapsed: thirty-three seconds.
Less than six minutes later, Brazil scored again. Easily, effortlessly it seemed.
Cariocas danced in the stands and let loose black snakes and plucked chickens from hidden baskets. Outside the stadium, flares burst in the night sky; handguns were fired into the air; police sirens wailed on and on as though the long-awaited revolution had arrived.
One would have thought no greater rejoicing was possible. But the celebration of Brazil’s second goal was muted, compared to the reaction when Ribeiro scored again in the thirty-third minute of play.
Brazil led 3–0 at half-time!
The game was looking like a rout … no, it
was
a full-scale massacre.
Listen to this pompous asshole
, Will was thinking as he sat with his head hung low in the visitors’ locker area.
“You play as if you are drugged,” Wolf Obermeier said. He had already berated his other so-called players, and now he was speaking quietly to Will, whom he had drawn aside as the team left the dressing room to begin the second half. “Something is troubling you?
Are you drugged?”
“Maybe.” Will smiled at the overserious German’s consternation. Truthfully, he didn’t know what was wrong. He felt refreshed after last night, blurred though the memory of it was; no, it was something else holding him back. He shrugged at the German. Whatever it was, The Thrill had passed through him like a thunderbolt, and he could not recapture it. He felt sullen and slow.
“We need you to become a
madman,
” Obermeier went on. “Three goals. Absolutely impossible to make up. But I’ve
seen
you do the impossible. This is not the time to play the worst game of your life—you must be hero, not goat.” He patted Will on the head, father to son. “Show me you are a man.”
A man
. Will walked onto the field in total shock.
You’re in the World Cup championship, and you’re playing like you’re still in Fulham. These are the Brazilians. The best in the world. If you beat them, you’ll be famous forever. Obermeier’s right. Be a man
.
He took a deep breath and trotted toward the bench. He heard the crowd roaring, but knew it wasn’t for him; it was for the Brazilian team emerging from the clubhouse. He looked up into the stands—an ocean of dark faces rooting against him. Well,
fuck them!
He was the Blond Arrow! He did the impossible,
regularly
.
At first, Will’s brilliance was all show on the Maracana field. Uncanny dribbling, sudden changes of direction creating paths where none existed, impossible velocity in the smallest spaces—but no support, not even a half-chance at goal.
Then, nine minutes into the second half, Will stepped in front of a bullet, a streaking pass meant for the Brazilian sweeper Ramon Palero.
The white ball dropped like a stone from Will’s shoulder. Almost in the same motion, his right leg flew back, and he felt a small muscle tear in his thigh, the pain corkscrewing into his knee socket.
No matter. Will sent the ball flying toward the upper-left-hand corner of the Brazilian goal. The keeper could barely raise his arm, let alone stop the ball as it rocketed past him.
“Gooool de America!”
Will heard the loudspeaker, and believed the words to be true.
“Gooool de Will Shepherd!”
The Thrill exploded inside his brain. Adrenaline punched through his body,
CHAPTER 36
A T 8:32, THE Colombian referee set the ball down on a bent tuft of grass.
Brazil versus America! Unthinkable, unpopular, impossible, and yet it was happening.
The World Cup final had begun!
Arturo Ribeiro, the mercurial nineteen-year-old Brazilian star, swept up the ball, passed it to a teammate in a play practiced for hours in the preceding months, and raced forward in a brilliant, weaving dance. The ball was sent back to him. His back to the goal, he cartwheeled and sent the ball flying toward the American net.
The fans exploded.
“Gooool de Bra-sil!”
the PA announcer screamed.
“Gooool de Arturo Ribeiro!”
Time elapsed: thirty-three seconds.
Less than six minutes later, Brazil scored again. Easily, effortlessly it seemed.
Cariocas danced in the stands and let loose black snakes and plucked chickens from hidden baskets. Outside the stadium, flares burst in the night sky; handguns were fired into the air; police sirens wailed on and on as though the long-awaited revolution had arrived.
One would have thought no greater rejoicing was possible. But the celebration of Brazil’s second goal was muted, compared to the reaction when Ribeiro scored again in the thirty-third minute of play.
Brazil led 3–0 at half-time!
The game was looking like a rout … no, it
was
a full-scale massacre.
Listen to this pompous asshole
, Will was thinking as he sat with his head hung low in the visitors’ locker area.
“You play as if you are drugged,” Wolf Obermeier said. He had already berated his other so-called players, and now he was speaking quietly to Will, whom he had drawn aside as the team left the dressing room to begin the second half. “Something is troubling you?
Are you drugged?”
“Maybe.” Will smiled at the overserious German’s consternation. Truthfully, he didn’t know what was wrong. He felt refreshed after last night, blurred though the memory of it was; no, it was something else holding him back. He shrugged at the German. Whatever it was, The Thrill had passed through him like a thunderbolt, and he could not recapture it. He felt sullen and slow.
“We need you to become a
madman,
” Obermeier went on. “Three goals. Absolutely impossible to make up. But I’ve
seen
you do the impossible. This is not the time to play the worst game of your life—you must be hero, not goat.” He patted Will on the head, father to son. “Show me you are a man.”
A man
. Will walked onto the field in total shock.
You’re in the World Cup championship, and you’re playing like you’re still in Fulham. These are the Brazilians. The best in the world. If you beat them, you’ll be famous forever. Obermeier’s right. Be a man
.
He took a deep breath and trotted toward the bench. He heard the crowd roaring, but knew it wasn’t for him; it was for the Brazilian team emerging from the clubhouse. He looked up into the stands—an ocean of dark faces rooting against him. Well,
fuck them!
He was the Blond Arrow! He did the impossible,
regularly
.
At first, Will’s brilliance was all show on the Maracana field. Uncanny dribbling, sudden changes of direction creating paths where none existed, impossible velocity in the smallest spaces—but no support, not even a half-chance at goal.
Then, nine minutes into the second half, Will stepped in front of a bullet, a streaking pass meant for the Brazilian sweeper Ramon Palero.
The white ball dropped like a stone from Will’s shoulder. Almost in the same motion, his right leg flew back, and he felt a small muscle tear in his thigh, the pain corkscrewing into his knee socket.
No matter. Will sent the ball flying toward the upper-left-hand corner of the Brazilian goal. The keeper could barely raise his arm, let alone stop the ball as it rocketed past him.
“Gooool de America!”
Will heard the loudspeaker, and believed the words to be true.
“Gooool de Will Shepherd!”
The Thrill exploded inside his brain. Adrenaline punched through his body,
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