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PROMPT POST 1
Please make sure you've read the rules post first, and play nice!
Flat comment page here just to clarify, as a few people have been asking, art fills are also very much welcomed!
Please make sure you've read the rules post first, and play nice!
Flat comment page here just to clarify, as a few people have been asking, art fills are also very much welcomed!
Holy shit is the first thing that comes to mind when Arne sees the on-pitch brawl blooming in front of him. Lukas is shouting at the officials who are trying to drag Thomas and Basti off de Jong, hands in the air and expression wild.
“Hey,” comes a weary voice from below, and he looks down at Miro, who seems to have seized a length of medical gauze from a paramedic.
“How is he?”
“Broken arm, possible mild concussion, bruises everywhere,” he replies grimly. “There's also something up with his leg, but I don't know what it is.”
A shadow falls across them and Miro cranes his head up. “He's in shock.” Wohlfarht. “There's nothing more you can do for him.”
Jogi breathes a tight sigh of relief when the doctor strides onto the field. Hansi looks like he might have some sort of anxiety attack if something doesn't get called in the near future.
“What if they send Thomas and Basti off and not de Jong and Heitinga? What if Lukas gets carded just for yelling? What if-”
“You're not helping,” he bites out. The next moment, two officials manage to pry the fighters apart and the lead ref proceeds to red card Heitinga, Basti, and Thomas and yellow card Lukas and de Jong.
thirteen.
“This is such bullshit,” Thomas grumbles, fidgeting on the bench. Marcell lopes up and down the pitch in place of Miro, since he seems to have brought it upon himself to supervise everything that happens to Mesut (to the great exasperation of most of the medical staff).
“You're the one who decided it'd be a good idea to start a fight on the field,” Toni points out drily.
He shrugs easily and leans back against the bench, an unrepentant smirk on his face. “I know all of you wanted to do the exact same thing, don't lie.” The smirk broadens into a wide grin despite the bruising on his cheek, and there's really nothing else anyone can say to that.
six.
They have never played nine on ten before-but then again, South Africa had been a series of firsts, and not just for them.
They've been down by one for the longest time, since before Mesut's ridiculous clobbering, and by the eighty-ninth minute, Sami is worn out, beat up by the endless succession of petty fouls and yellows that seem to parade in front of the Dutch team no matter how filthily they fight.
This is not beautiful football, Sami thinks. This is not the football I flew out to play. A whistle blows down the field and derails his roiling thoughts-Marcell is taking a corner kick, quite possibly the last play of the game. A sort of desperation wells up in his chest, a kind of tight pressure that longs to explode out through his footwork, his dribbling, his passing.
And then he is running across the pitch to join the others, so fast that he might as well have wings on his cleats; Marcell's foot seems like it's traveling in slow motion in that one moment, some sort of time warp prolonging the path of the ball. He manages to fend off the defender behind him, and then it is as if he can see where the ball is going to go, as that spinning blur of black and white moves through the air, and he is jumping, reaching upwards to connect with his head, a sharp blow towards the back left corner breezing past the goalkeeper's fingers and into the goal-swift, clean, perfect-beautiful.
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