Make Your Move (539 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 4 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by spedmonkey <spedmonkey.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-07-25 09:42:37 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
My name is Mohammed al-Bekhmani, and I am naught but a crippled beggar on the streets of Basrah.
I was not always this way, though. In 1974, I was known as the greatest child soccer star in Iraq; the future of Iraqi soccer was on my shoulders even then, at the age of 12. It is funny to me, even now. I wasn't the fastest, the smartest, or the strongest. What did I have that the others did not?
I had The Move.
From the beginning, I could handle the ball like no other. Even when I was just beginning to play, it was apparent to everyone that I could maneuver down the pitch, over, around, and through defenders, like somebody twice my age. By the time I was 10, I was creating and executing complex fakes and juggles nobody had even dreamed of before.
The Move was born from that period in my life, my creative peak, if you will.
I first used it when I was ten, in a scrimmage against a team of 14-year-olds. The boy defending me tripped over his own feet, and had to be helped off the field. I later heard he broke both ankles, although to this day I am unsure if that was merely an embellishment by those meaning to add to my legend.
Since that day, The Move became my signature. It never received a proper name; everyone knew it was mine, and mine alone. It was known simply as "Mohammed's Move". And so it was.
Destiny seemed to be fulfilled when I was selected to join the Iraqi national team in 1978, at the age of 16. Although it represented the pinnacle of my success, though, it represented a new era for me as well. No longer could I nonchalantly win every match by myself. My shot wasn't strong enough to score on the professional goalkeepers. The new defenders were fast enough to keep up with my maneuvers, smart enough to react correctly when I faked. I even discovered the unthinkable: my opponents were beginning to figure out how to counter The Move.
At the behest of the coach, I shelved The Move and concentrated on my other skills. I became an adept passer and developed my field vision enough to begin leading the team in assists. My days as the lone wolf striker were over. I was moved to midfield, where I was able to lead the attack more effectively.
Regrettably, my teams were never championship-caliber. Although we were able to dominate the majority of the other Arab teams, the soccer superpowers such as Britain, Italy, and Brazil seemed to send us home early whenever we came up against one of them in a tourney. We resolved to try harder, but although we managed to make it close a few times, we could never manage to get that final push we needed.
Then, in 1979, Saddam Hussein and his family became the dictators of Iraq, and winning games now became a matter of life and death. His son, Uday, didn't take kindly to players "disgracing Iraq's name", as he put it, and those whom he chose as his scapegoats were oftentimes never seen again.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before our team's captain, Hassan Assiyasi, became one of the scapegoats. After a particularly lopsided defeat at the hands of Real Madrid in an exhibition match in 1984, he was "invited" to an audience with Uday at the Palace in Baghdad. He was never seen again.
With the loss of our captain, a new one had to be elected. After several veterans declined the offer, for obvious reasons, I was chosen. At the age of 22, I had both the ego and naivety most young men do. I was sure I could hold the team together enough to not only do well enough to survive, but also to win.
Naturally, these fantasies soon dissipated. As losses mounted, more of my best players were killed or crippled by Uday and his followers. It soon became harder and harder to find talented players willing to risk it all to play for their country.
Nonetheless, we continued to compete on the orders of Uday, hoping each and every time we would do well enough to escape our patron's wrath.
I was compelled to meet with Uday several times. I'm not proud of it, but I was able to avoid my predecessor's fate each time by blaming one of my players for each loss instead of myself. Every time I sacrificed one of my teammates, one of my friends, to his bloodlust, he would stare at me, then smile like a child as he accepted the offering. That smile sent chills down my spine; chills that have never truly left.
After several years of this attrition, I began reverting to my teenaged behavior. While the Iraqi team rapidly decayed, other teams around the world improved just as rapidly. With so many talented playmakers removed from my team, very few of the new members were able to truly make a difference in the score of a game. By necessity, I returned to the striker position of my youth, carrying the ball up myself and making my moves as I had formerly.
I survived nearly ten years by offering others to die in my place. By 1995, I was the only man left on the team who had survived throughout Saddam's reign. The majority of my team was filled with 20-year-old nobodies, hoping for just a scent of glory before the end.
It was 1995 when the Pan-Arab Games came to Iraq. Naturally, the biggest event was the soccer tournament, held at the Hussein Royal Stadium in Baghdad, and of course, we were compelled to compete.
And amazingly enough, my squad of nobodies held its own against such high-powered squads as Saudi Arabia and Egypt. We managed to leap out to early leads in every match, and, spurred on by the cheers of our countrymen in our home stadium, we managed to protect them until the final buzzer.
Finally, after a week of delirium, it was time for the finals match against Iran to take place. We walked out onto the pitch, reveling in the cheers of the crowd, determined to give them something many never expected to see.
It was a close game from the opening whistle. First the Iranians scored on a corner kick, then we evened the score after I took the ball from end to end, faking out the opposing keeper and tapping in an easy one.
The score remained knotted at one through the first half, and we walked off the pitch happy with our performance. Awaiting us in our locker room, though, was a surprise visitor: Uday Hussein. If we did not win, he told us, the deaths of the Kurds would seem gentle by comparison.
We ran out to begin the second half with Uday's "inspiration" ringing in our ears, but the Iranians seemed similarly energized. They scored a quick goal right after the kickoff, when our sweeper missed a ball, and then switched to a defensive mode, denying me the ball as much as possible.
Finally, in injury time, I managed to get open enough to receive an outlet pass from my keeper. I began taking it downfield, spinning around a defender, poking the ball through another's legs.
I felt energized in a way I hadn't for many years. In what felt like mere seconds, I had traveled from one end of the pitch to the other. Now only the sweeper stood in my way.
I moved slowly toward him, and suddenly I heard the crowd chanting. It was unbearably loud, and the only reason I hadn't noticed before was my concentration. I paused for a split second, to hear what they were saying.
MAKE YOUR MOVE.
MAKE YOUR MOVE.
MAKE YOUR MOVE.
I hadn't used The Move for years. Did I still remember how? What the hell, I decided. There was no way we could win this game if I didn't go all-out here.
The sweeper moved toward me, and I juggled between my feet to keep him off-balance.
And I moved.
Next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, staring at the sky as the sweeper easily trapped the ball and passed it away. As the buzzer rang, all I could think was that The Move failed me.
After the game, I received an "invitation" to join Uday immediately in his private suite in the stadium.
"May I at least shower and change first?" I asked the messenger.
"He wants to see you now," he said.
I walked into his office dripping sweat and tears. He was seated on a leather sofa, sipping a drink. His face was impassive.
"Come join me," he said, gesturing to the seat beside him.
I joined him. What else could I do?
"You must be thirsty. Would you like a drink?"
I nodded. "Water, please."
He pointed at one of his men, who walked over to a faucet and filled a glass with water. He walked back, handed it to me, and returned to his station against the wall.
Uday sat watching me as I drank. "Now, Mohammed, we must discuss what happened today," he said.
"I know, my lord." I bowed my head. "I could have scored. I should have."
Uday shook his head. "Why did you use The Move? You haven't used it in years. Why did you think you could pull it off now?"
My head stayed bowed. "I am not sure, my lord. I heard the crowd chanting 'Make your Move', and I thought maybe I could, just this once, to bring great honor to our nation."
He laughed, a chilling laugh without an ounce of warmth. "Mohammed, I appreciate the effort your team put into this tournament."
I began shaking, and it wasn't the tone of his voice that made it happen. I lost control of my muscles, which pulled me off the sofa onto the cold hard floor. I tried raising an arm to push myself up, but it would not budge.
Uday stood up. He stood over my head and smiled down at me. "Razil over there drugged your water. Anyway, as much as I appreciate the effort, though, I promised that someone would be punished if your team lost. And I can't let it be known that I break my promises, can I?"
He gestured toward the door. I watched, unblinking, as an unseen person handed him a metal pipe, and withdrew.
He began walking around my prone body. "As great a player as you have been, my friend, I think I must make an example of you." He paused as he neared my legs. "But you cannot disappear, like others have. The people must see what happens to those who displease me."
The, without warning, he reached back and smashed my left kneecap with the pipe. The pain spread through my body, so rapidly and so intense that I screamed.
At least, I tried to. The drug wouldn't let me control my tongue.
Uday walked around to my other side. "After this, you will go back out on the streets. You will have no home, no family, no possessions. You will be not be just another beggar, though." He lifted the pipe over his head and brought it down on my other knee, shattering it. "You will be a symbol of my rage. And you will never walk again."
He walked around some more. I felt as though I could feel every bone fragment digging into a nerve, radiating pain. He left my vision for a second, and I heard him talking quietly to his men by the door.
Then he returned. He knelt down, staring into my eyes. He smiled again, and, strangely, this smile had all the warmth the last one lacked.
He raised the pipe one more time. "Let's see you make your move now," he said. Then he brought the pipe down onto my head.
And finally, mercifully, everything went black.
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-01-31 19:20:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this was great
Submitted by minimumdino (user info) at 2006-01-11 14:07:23 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
heres my move
Submitted by minimumdino (user info) at 2006-01-10 18:49:21 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
towelhead... go back to 7-11
Submitted by DonkeyOnTheEdge (user info) at 2005-10-29 09:56:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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