The Final

This story is purely fictional - any resemblance to real and existing persons or events are purely coincidental.
‘Fuck’ said Ricardo Pinto, as he watched the number 11 hammer home the winning penalty sending Argentina into the World Cup Final, ‘Fuck’ he repeated again and then buried his head in his hands, barely able to watch the blue and white clad players celebrating their achievements.

Ricardo Pinto was probably the only person in the whole of Brazil who wasn’t into football; he just didn’t get it, thought it was pointless, grown men running around after a ball. Because of that or maybe for other reasons he might well have been the only person in the whole of Brazil who didn’t hate Argentina. So he wasn’t swearing at the injustice of Argentina succeeding where his native Brazil had failed. No Pinto had far more serious reasons for his expletives.

The reason that Pinto was swearing was the he had it on good authority that if Argentina won the World Cup on Brazilian soil, then Brazil would spontaneously go in to meltdown. The anger that had lead to violent protests before the tournament still simmered beneath the surface but had been controlled and contained whilst Brazil were doing okay. He had feared the response to the semi final defeat, but in many ways the drubbing had worked in his favour; his countrymen were too shocked to act. The sporadic acts of violence that followed that loss were easily contained and covered up. But for the President’s shady security advisor an Argentinian win would be a disaster. He was convinced that if Argentina managed to beat the Germans on Sunday night then all of that resentment, all of that hatred would erupt like a samba soaked volcano and his forces would be powerless to act.

Maybe he was overreacting, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, he was tired, it had been a long hard month; he needed to get some sleep. He’d think about it again in the morning.

The morning came after a fitful night’s sleep and arrived armed with bad news. Missives from agents across the country suggested that agent provocateurs were ready to light the blue touch paper, Brazil was a tinderbox and an Argentinian win was all it would take to set it off. Pinto was going to have to act.

The head of the organising committee started at Pinto with a look of horror on his face.

‘You want us to fix the final?’ He said with a tone of disbelief.

Pinto nodded, he was careful not to say yes to this. He’d explained the situation to the man in front of him, making it clear what he wanted without actually saying it. 

‘Impossible.’ He said defiantly. ‘We can’t do it, this has to be fair, we did this for you for the first game, but this is the final. No, no way.’

‘Then the final doesn’t go ahead.’ said Pinto matter of factly.

‘You can’t cancel the World Cup Final.’ said the man, ‘the whole bloody world would riot.’

‘Well, we wouldn’t cancel it, we’d make it unplayable.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A bomb at the German team hotel, a fatal robbery on the Argentinian team bus, an outbreak of  Small pox at the stadium. These things would surely mean the game had to be called off.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘The very survival of my country is at stake here, the loss of a few over paid footballers would be a small price to pay. So please don’t doubt me.’

The head of the organising committee looked forlorn as he walked out of Pinto’s office. He was in shock but he had no choice. He found his phone and called up the Ref who so controversially took charge of the first game and announced the news he had been rewarded with the final.