A Loss and a Half

He’s sitting at the very top of section D most games. On his own. Quietly and intensely. Scrutinizing every move and taking small notes in a small black jotting-pad. Hrova Hirich. But today I looked over and saw him just shaking his head. His pad on the seat next to him and his hands on his knees, shaking his head in quiet despair. I had to sympathize. What was happening on the pitch warranted nothing else. The stupidity of it all, all of it, so mind-numbingly frustrating and stupid.

The first half, and players were falling over for no good reason, and staying down despite an unimpressed referee waving the game on. And two goals down. Two goals at half time! What is this? Sabotage? We knew they were unhappy, but this? The second half ? even worse. Rickstein, the centre-forward, fell as he took the kick-off, and the ball landed with the opposition, who spent precious little time expediting a third whopper from close range. I glanced at Hrova again, and this time his head was buried in his heavy hands. Sitting there at the top of section D, stunned and motionless.

What is this? Are they that unhappy? Well paid and rolling around on the grass for no good reason. Leaving the stadium in a light drizzle, most of us just looked at each other and said nothing. Hrova too, head down, and the pad stuck into his coat-pocket. The same thought on all our minds presumably. Sabotage?