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?
First on Tuesday, 183-0! The budget sailed through a shut-out.
We loved it. But come on, it could be better. So on our historic Thursday when the captain was away and could still win the tournament, the score was 191-0! No one has ever scored more goals except somewhere above the 38th parallel. Our one team worked together really well.
You didn't hear a single whistle because the audience was sleeping and it's far from over: In short, you ain't see nothin' yet. More shut-out is in store, because the actual score, the real score written in advance and soon to be realised, is 64,871,000: 0. The entire population against a void — that Zero is the sign of our times. We hate the dictatorship of the majority so much that we swallow this panacea of absolutism. It's so relaxing.
I'm sure the 64 million-to-nil score is achievable. Easy as pie, a cake walk, a stroll in the park, stress-free, a no-brainer. If not, you can just force it. And if you don't trust the score line, trust the survey. In a recent one conducted by an official PR agency attached to the captain (it works for him too), the figures said it all: An overwhelming 70.6% of the audience are satisfied with the team, 27.4% are indifferent, and only 2% are reportedly not happy with the way things are. The 2% that includes pirates, rapists, crooks, cutthroats, but also smugglers of ideas and tragic dissenters — the 2% who still believe in debate, criticism, participation, inclusiveness, patience, and the futuristic philosophy of election over selection. The 2% who implore the captain to return the stadium to the people. The 2% who can be exiled, excommunicated, or why not exterminated?.
Count me in the remaining 98%, the loyal, half-blind, good-boy kind. We despise having crooks and pirates running rampant in the field, though in sport, let me just say that sometimes we miss having choices — we miss the pleasure of pelting the crooks with bottles when they commit ugly fouls and fix matches, we miss the competitive rivalry, we miss the old, imperfect rules, and we miss the controversial refereeing, because now the referees are openly playing for the team, the only team. And having only one team to root for isn't a modern sport; it's a gladiatorial ring of the Roman Empire where slaves are torn to pieces to the unison of fervour and cheers.
But having a choice isn't an option when the whole game is run by the same person. The captain, who doubles as head bodyguard and coach, will keep scoring despite the weight of the many hats on his head. The crowd will keep cheering. The team song will be chanted. The total unanimity of every plan, play, tactic and spending decision will bless the stadium with love and happiness. And those who see through the stage-managed theatre of it all and think that a player picking his own referees and rules is funny, if not cruel — the ignoble "minority" might try to boo, before the bayonets push them underground. Until the absolute score is achieved, and until that Zero is complete and irreversible.
Oh captain, my captain, good luck. You'll need much more than that though.
Kong Rithdee is Deputy Life Editor, Bangkok Post.