A short story

It was pure madness.

Hundreds and thousands of spectators sang from the stands, chanting indistinguishable poems of patriotism and victory. The vibrant, sensory overload of national flags and face paint made the ocean of the crowds seem like a collective, pulsating mass. The energy was infectious. The two teams, England and Russia, trickled onto the pitch in their clean lines. The crowd’s volume rose to a din of frenzy, bleeding intrepid excitement. Everyone in that stadium had a thousand differences – culture, politics, language – but they had two things in common so powerful, that in the magic of the moment, nothing else really mattered: a love for one’s country, and a love for the game. The beautiful game.

The tall, pale, luminously powerful man raised his glass of scotch in a toast. The other man, although hesitant, did the same. “To the World Cup Final,” Mr Putin, President of Russia said, with heavily accented speech, “and to our countries foraging ahead, ushering a new age of England-Russia diplomacy,” Mr Putin continued, smiling calmly. The Prime Minister of Britain nodded in dignified, yet wary agreement, but Vladimir was not finished yet. He opened his mouth again, and said, “may the best team win.” Mr Putin’s words were barely above a whisper, but in the glass box seats of the football stadium, they seemed to be disarmingly resonant for each syllable consumed the room.

In the game, the twenty two players on the field began their fluid rhetoric of warming up and passing safely to one another. The colourful jerseys specked the pitch and each player was uniquely agile, graceful, and quite plainly, excellent. It was a stunning dance of back and forth lobs and kicks of the ball, until – Russia’s dashing, star forward glided like a Ballet dancer into England’s half with a fantastic solo run and deftly avoided the defenders as he went in for the kill – he shoots – right hand top corner of the goal – the crowd is deafening – and he scores! Russia one, England zero.

Mr Putin clapped in genuine appreciation and a thinly-veiled smug sense of pride. “Good ball,” Mr David Cameron, the British Prime Minster, said. “we are the underdogs,” Mr Putin noted righteously, “Nobody took us seriously – and now look!” He said each word with a sustained sense of placidity. Calculated. In control. Mr Cameron, looking on to the field with a hopeful gaze at his own team, nodded in polite acquiescence. “each team puts in a tremendous amount of effort, but sometimes it is a matter of luck as to who comes out on top,” Mr Cameron remarked. Mr Putin gesticulated to Mr Cameron to take a sip of his Scotch. Mr Putin walked to the edge of the box and admired the vitality of the game. He smiled. “I don’t believe in luck.”

The English team was on edge. Their fans in the audience were hurling cheers and charges at them with equal frequency. Half time. The English team, one goal down and with their arms around each other, were reminded of the stakes and the stellar performance they knew they were capable of. After much-needed bolstering from their manager and then their captain, they steadily regained their composure as the team’s rhythm returned. They inched towards Russia’s goal, furiously intent on equalising the score. A long pass here, a tricky slide tackle there, a forceful interception, and slyly, the captain of the team delivered a skilful kick towards Russia’s goal. For a fleeting moment, there was complete silence in the crowds as the ball sunk into the net. Goal. The Englishmen rose up in uncontrollable furore. Russia one, England one.

Mr Cameron smiled gleefully. He glanced at a disconcerted Mr Putin and inwardly smirked. Mr Putin had an infuriatingly condescending air to him. “The game is now…interesting,” Mr Putin breathed after a moment of shock, unwilling to let Mr Cameron’s aloof superiority hang silent in the air. “Mr Cameron,” Putin said, without breaking eye contact with the game, “are you aware of the recent sanctions that have been imposed on Russia?” Mr Cameron shifted uncomfortably. Of course he was aware, he was the one who had spearheaded the movement to collectively reduce trade with Russia due to their, ‘increasingly hostile nature,’ as he’d put it to the UN. The sanctions had shattered Russia’s fragile economy, but Mr Cameron responded noncommittedly, glaringly aware of the weight of his every word, “yes, I do believe I am aware.” Mr Putin’s smile grew. “I thought as much, Mr Cameron. I do -” Cameron, fearing what came next, interjected with a tensely contained, “let’s just, uh, enjoy the game.” Despite the crude interruption, Mr Putin’s sinister smile never wavered. He watched his countrymen play for their lives on the pitch and said, “but isn’t this all of this a game?”

The crowds on each side grew uneasy as the seconds on the clock dwindled. Far too much time had passed, with far too few successful plays by either team. The urgency of the moment was overwhelming, and the anxiety of the game steadily climbed.

Mr Cameron took a sip of his scotch. “They’re playing far better now, aren’t they?” Mr Cameron initiated, enjoying the strange yet wonderful taste of his drink. Mr Putin sighed tiredly in response. “Russia’s economy would be doing far better if you hadn’t signed off on those sanctions, Mr Cameron.”

Sixty seconds left on the clock. Would it spill into penalties? The ball was with England. A swerve, a slip, a slide-tackle and Russia had regained possession of the ball. The crowd exalted. The Russian player cut three defenders as he played for his team, for the game, for his country, and for his life. With the world’s eyes firmly on him, what would it be? It was a matter of triumph or devastation, and the blinding uncertainty was at once intoxicating and debilitating, as the crowd was ablaze with vigour. He kicked the ball into the left hand corner of the goal and –

Mr Cameron, visibly uncomfortable and earnestly watching the game, said a silent prayer for his countrymen. He prayed that that ball would not enter the goal, and that England would emerge victorious. In an effort to quell the palpable friction in the room as the Russian player made his way to the English goal, Mr Cameron raised his glass of scotch. Mr Putin smiled, and toasted, “to the beautiful game,” he said. And then, as Mr Putin took a satisfying sip of his Scotch from his cup, Mr Cameron drank his own Scotch, identical, save for its small, Russian addition of lethal slow-working poison. Indeed, Mr Putin thought, to the beautiful game. And then he watched his countryman kick the ball into the left hand corner of the goal and –

The New York Times: British Prime Minister found dead one day after England’s humiliating 2-1 defeat to Russia.