“So that’s that, then.”
Glorfindel stood in the coach’s office, watching nervously as he piled
stacks of old match reports and balance sheets and player records around the
mountain of broken furniture, sitting precariously high in the middle of the
room.
“That’s that,” grimaced Coach Lysenko, stuffing handfuls of
dry parchment into the pile, filling the gaps between the splintered wood.
“The dream is...”
ventured the elf anxiously as he bobbed beside Lysenko’s shoulder,
curiously watching.
“It’s over,” seethed Lysenko, cramming in more
parchment. “Dead and buried.”
“I mean, it’s odd. I remember the game. I remember all of the booing and the hissing
from the crowd, I remember Clew-Neith having his teeth smashed in, I even
remember Kelm scoring, but...”
“But it’s like we weren’t even there,” spat the coach.
“Yes, that’s exactly – What are you doing?”
“What?” Lysenko looked up, like he was seeing Glorfindel for
the first time. “Oh, nothing,” he waved
innocently. “Just tying up a few loose
ends. You know, paperwork.”
“Paperwork? But it’s
all over the floor. And why do you need
lamp oil?”
The stink of the flammable liquid made the elf’s nostrils
burn and his head spin as Coach Lysenko splashed gourd after gourd of it over
the brittle parchment and broken wood.
When he was done, he threw the empty containers onto the pile and fished
a wooden matchbox from his pocket.
He drew a match and struck it.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
Glorfindel squealed. He grabbed
the coach’s wrist before he could toss the match onto the bonfire.
“End-of-season fireworks,” he smiled darkly.
“Gods! You’ve gone
mad! WAIT! Come on... Think about this. We’ve still got one last match left! You know, to wrestle back the glory from the
clutches of obscurity! Go out on a
high! Show the world that we’re still
the best!”
The coach couldn’t help but laugh.
“One last match? One last match? That’s where you’re wrong, Glorfindel. We don’t have one last match. Nobody will play us!”
“What? Oh – but
that’s good, isn’t it? Nobody will play
us? Because they’re all too scared!”
“No, my friend.
Nobody will play us because they’re all too embarrassed to be seen on
the same pitch.”
For an elf, Glorfindel had a surprisingly strong grip, but
even as his fingers tightened around the coach’s wrist, he realised it was
pointless. Lysenko simply smiled and let
the whickering match fall from his fingers...
***
Glorfindel was shaking, despite the heat from the raging
pyre which had once been their stadium, and it was only now that they were both
at a safe distance, watching everything burn, that it had all started to sink in. The elf’s singed hair was still smoking and
what few patches of clothing remained were, he suspected, burned onto his skin.
“Quite pretty, really, don’t you think?” Coach Lysenko had tears in his eyes, born neither
of sadness nor the smoke, as he gazed at the flickering orange inferno.
Glorfindel could say nothing. Even his miserable whimper was lost in the
crashing roar of breaking wood as the western stands collapsed into the
undulating flames.
“S’alright, Glorfindel.
We were insured,” Lysenko tried to reassure him. His skin was blackened by smoke and all that
remained of his garments was his favourite cap, emblazoned with the words ‘Head
Coach’.
The two of them stood naked in the orange glow of their
combusting dreams as they watched the sparks dance high into the clear night. It felt like hours had passed before Lysenko
finally spoke again:
“We’re gonna need a new stadium. And a new name.”
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