With a fanfare the captain arrived at the stadium. He blew his magnificent whistle and kicked out the previous teams, the sordid squads of pirates, crooks, and assassins. Who'd let them in in the first place? The captain then installed the audience on the stands and asked them to cheer him on. He composed the team song. He picked the cheerleaders, the referees, the linesmen. He picked a new set of rules, the match day, the kick-off time. In the greatest move since Pele, Socrates and Aristotle combined, he picked the players — strikers, defenders, goalies, coaches, ball boys, mascots, etc. Everyone is on the same team, got it? That's why there's only one goal, not two. Then the captain took the field, dribbled like Messi + Ronaldo + Santa Claus, waltzing past immobile players (who're on his team), then he scored, and scored, and scored. He was crowned man of the match and the world cheered and roared.
It was a beautiful game. With my hand on my trembling heart, I wept with joy. I cheered and roared. Above all, I loved the score line. It reminded me of happiness, of unity, of silence, of the beauty of arithmetic, of the sound of a pin being dropped in an amphitheatre full of ghosts. It was so awesome I cried like a lunatic who'd finally found a way back to his madhouse.
So the scores?