#crazyornot

                Gasps were heard, almost collectively, from the crowd. Sergio, unable to maintain focus, felt the ball brush his head as he fell to the ground in a heap of limbs. He felt his arms touch the grass as his chest rammed into flesh—someone’s leg, perhaps. High pitched screams could be heard in tandem with drunken yells from Spanish fans of “Oi! Dónde están las luces?” Fans in rival red and yellow and yellow and green jerseys—though they would no longer have been able to tell in the darkness—yelled with anger at the same unknown source.

                “Olá, Brasil,” came a sudden, unexpected, voice, resounding with sharp squeaks throughout the stadium, presumably because its owner had not properly adjusted the balance on the sound system before turning it up so high. “Como vocês estão?” The voice’s Portuguese accent differed somewhat from that of a Brazilian speaker, though the members of the crowd could not place the voice as they shouted “Who” or “What are you?” in their various languages. “I have a message for you,” he continued, in English, thought his accent remained equally distinctive.

                Sergio pushed himself up delicately, trying not to mistakenly injure the player he might have landed on—he could not tell if that may have been a teammate or an opponent. He heard a short cry of “puta madre!” that he thought may have been Cesc Fabregas’ voice, but he couldn’t place where it had come from, and the endless cries and screams from the stadium and sharp policial whistles made placing any voice even more difficult. All, except, for the voice filling the stadium.

                “If you wanted to win, Brazil…” the voice continued, though it hesitated at a pause. The speaker was anticipating something. Sergio felt around backing away in the hopes of distancing himself from the other players. He carefully stood up, trying to remember how he had been oriented towards to goal and reposition himself accordingly. Fans began to light flairs in the stands, his eyes adjusted to the small amount of light, just enough for him to locate the goalposts and the other players around him. He took a step back, positioning himself behind who he assumed to be David Luiz. The silhouette could only have matched the Brazilian’s hair. A breath could be heard, as the voice began to speak his final sentence.

“You should have called up Kaká.”

The series of lights snapped back, causing the fans on the other side of the stadium to shield their eyes. The electronic video boards flickered to life as well, revealing the man sitting at a microphone in the press box. Cristiano Ronaldo.

Cristiano winked at the camera, as the frenzy of the fan’s voices peaked at a new volume. The ref blew his whistle. Sergio looked down from the video board at Cristiano’s signal, pleased to see the ball still in front of him. Around him, Brazilian and Spanish players alike shouted at the scoreboard, unaware that the ref—standing near the sideline with a brimmed baseball cap that hid his hair and dimmed his eyes—had once again begun play.

Sergio looked towards the goal, focus returning to his eyes, as he took a long stride to the ball and struck it with ease. The goalkeeper looked up in shock as he registered that the Spanish defender had once again started to play. Instinct took over as the Brazilian defenders’ eyes darted away from Cristiano’s image on screen and their bodies moved in the direction of the ball.

But it was too late. Spainsh fans stood up in their seats as the Brazilians around them cried out in rage.

“Don’t let it happen again, Scolari,” finished Cristiano, though the image on the screen had been replaced by a replay of Ramos’ 90th minute goal. The referee blew his whistle three times, already running off of the pitch as he did so. He jumped into the stands right behind a Brazilian man, reeking of alcohol, who had just punched a neighboring Spain fan near his ribcage. He was lost in the ensuing chaos and crowd control, until he slipped out of view of both the players and fans.

Sergio’s teammates ran towards him shouting victory cries, unsure what had happened, but realizing that Spain had just captured a fourth title, no matter how strange the circumstances.

As the Spanish fans sang “campeones, campeones” over the background drone of police whistles, breaking bottles, and flesh meeting flesh in harsh slaps, Cristiano drove away from the stadium, barely able to hear the noise from the comfort of his Audi.

“Sergio carried out the plan well, I thought,” the Portuguese said with a self-satisfactory smile. He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no fans had managed to follow him, and then took a glance towards his passenger, still clothed in a referee’s jersey.

“Ricky had better thank you big time for this,” Fabio Coentrão responded as he pulled off the baseball cap and brushed down his hair.

Cristiano only chuckled.

“Either that, or he’ll be horrified and never want to speak to me again,” he sighed.

“I still think you shouldn’t have shown yourself,” Fabio responded.

Cristiano shook his head. “He would have known it was me anyway, Fabinho,” he smiled.

“Not for Ricky,” Fabio replied. “Of course he would know it was you. Who else would pull a stunt like that? But what is everyone else going to say? Do you really think it will get Scolari to call him up?”

“If you didn’t think it would work, you didn’t have to agree to help,” Cristiano replied with a shrug.

“I don’t know if it will work or not,” Fabio said matter-of-factly, “but I wanted to help you out if I could. I just think it could have been less conspicuous.”

“I didn’t want it to be less conspicuous,” Cristiano said firmly.

“Right,” Fabio sighed. “I suppose Messi could never…”

“I wanted them to know where I stood on the matter,” Cristiano interrupted, bluntly. “I don’t hide my opinions,” he said sharply. “Kaká is one of the best players in the world.”

Fabio merely shook his head. “You are crazy, I hope you know that,” he smiled.