Don't Mention the Match! (Word Count: 1,110)

Earth, 2101

‘Ohh! What a goal!! What perfect timing! You can hear the home fans in their jubilation! If you’ve just joined us, where in the System have you been?! In the dying moments of the first ever Solar System Soccer World Cup, the Earthlings have beaten the Martians three to two thanks to twenty-year-old Ariana Bruce. What a match… Steve?’

‘That’s right, Jim. This young lady has propelled herself - and the globe’s team - to intrastellar stardom for sure! Our children… our children’s children - will be talking about this match.’

‘Much like the 1966 England-Germany match.’

‘The Martians put up a valiant attempt to beat us at our own game-’

‘Literally, Steve.’

‘-but ultimately, Soccer’s War of the Worlds - and the ultimate bragging rights - belong to us here on Earth..! Now let’s see that replay.’

Ten Years Later

‘This is a formal World Government Announcement. The Ambassador of Mars has issued us with official notice of their intentions to initiate war with us here on Earth unless we officially and immediately end any and all mention of the 2060 Solar System Soccer World Cup. This is a threat we must take seriously. They are the descendents of our best scientists. They are still the System’s best scientists. They have taken our technological knowledge and ran with it. We cannot win a war with Mars. We cannot afford to even try. 

‘For that reason, it is with deep regret that I must announce a global ban on the topic of that match. Anyone caught alluding to, talking or even writing about that particular game, will face automatic and permanent imprisonment at the Luna Detention and Corrections Facility. No exceptions, no excuses.  

‘The Martians might be sore losers, but they have the Death Ray. I therefore repeat - do not mention the 2060 Solar System soccer match!--’

Susanna stared at the frozen television projection which hovered in the middle of the living room, arms folded over an ancient cooking apron which she insisted was a family heirloom. ‘Are they for real?! They can’t just ban all conversation about a moment of global pride!’ 

‘Surely not just because the Martians are bad losers,’ agreed her husband.

‘Exactly! Since when has history ever been written by the losers?’

Ant stretched and slow-blinked, causing the television projection to vanish. ‘He sounded very serious to me, love. Unfortunately, maybe this particular event in history is being written by the losers.’

Susanna leaned back, causing a smart-chair to wheel its way underneath her, ready to catch her in its soft, powder-blue fleecey embrace as she fell. She swivelled round in her seat to face her spouse of thirty years, tucking a stray lock of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear. ‘You know what this is, don’t you, Ant? Blackmail.’ She nodded once for emphasis, dislodging the lock of hair. ‘Nothing more than ugly blackmail.’

Ant rested his head in his hand and gazed at his wife. ‘Probably - but do you fancy being vaporised by a Martian Death Ray? Or sent to the Luna Detention Centre?’

Susanna shuddered. Rumours about the Luna Detention and Corrections Facility portrayed a building where Human Rights laws feared to tread and where the wardens were every bit as bad as the inmates. At least a Death Ray sounded instantaneous. She chewed a nail. Then, a mischievous glint lit up her eye as a wicked smile played on the corners of her mouth. ‘Maybe that’s why the Ref called it offside, when a blind man without his dog could see that it clearly wasn’t. Maybe the Ref was just humouring the sore losers.’

Ant caught her thinking. ‘Not in a million years was our man offside.’

‘And it’s not exactly our fault if their keeper couldn’t catch a cold to save his life!’

‘And that hand-ball. What was Grieves supposed to do - let the ball smack him in the face? Self defence. Pure self defence.’

‘He didn’t handle the ball really though - did he? Simply deflected it with his arm.

‘Ref was so biased,’ Ant muttered.

‘And blind.’

‘As a bat.’

‘Mum! Dad! We’re not supposed to be talking about the Solar System match. Didn’t you hear the Prime Minister?’

Ant’s and Susanna’s faces were pictures of angelic innocence. ‘Who mentioned anything at all about the Solar System World Cup, Greg?’ asked Susanna. ‘Your father and I are discussing soccer in general.’

Greg rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, right.'

Ant looked dreamlike. ‘What a day that was, though-’

‘Dad-’

‘The sky was clear, the sun warm - but not too hot. And the atmosphere was electric. The smell of hot dogs and burgers wafting on the air, the chants...’

‘Dad!’

‘And we were there. Stand F, Row 300, Seats 23-26.’

‘Dad!’

‘You were only six, Greg. Probably too young to remember it.’

Greg flopped down in a tradtional brown armchair beside the window, arms folded over an athletic torso, face sullen. ‘Fat chance of that! You two have never shut up about it since.’

‘Our team kept us hanging on til the very last moment.’

Susannah stood up and joined her husband, perching herself on the arm of his chair, a hand resting on his shoulder. ‘We were just about to get up and leave when the atmosphere changed suddenly.’

‘You turned round to look over your shoulder and tugged my arm, pointing to Bruce.’

‘We didn’t even have time to get back to our seats. Just stood there on the steps, glued to the figure of our midfielder as she dribbled the ball towards the goal.’ Susanna emerged from her reverie and glanced at her son. ‘Your father picked you up and threw you in the air. I thought he was going to drop you at one point.’

Ant looked hurt. ‘As if!’

Susanna raised an eyebrow and stared at her husband dubiously. ‘After three pints? It was certainly possible.’ She stood up and went back to her own chair.

‘Never in the world was our player offside.’

‘You know, maybe the Martians have a point,’ said Greg. ‘Maybe they’re as fed up of hearing about that damn game as I am.’

‘And we were one player down.’

Ant was instantly indignant. ‘That Red Card was totally uncalled for! The Martians got off with a Yellow for far worse than that! It's a wonder we ever won at all, with all the decisions that went against us!’

'It was an ordinary tackle!'

Greg slouched in his chair and gazed at the rain beginning to patter on the window pane. ‘I wonder if the Martians would care to adopt an Earthling teenager before they obliterate us all.’