Ghost Archipelago: The price of glory Chapter 2: The triumph and the change of the trivial rate The air in the stadium was dense, loaded with the smell of sweat, despair and a slight touch of curry, brought by the masses of fans of the Northern Mariana Islands. Don Ramon, the president of the Colombian Federation, felt his heart hammering his chest like a beater of meat. The final of the Season 3 of the Ghost Archipelago was in full swing, and the score, for its immense joy and existential panic, was: Colombia 1 x 0 Northern Mariana Islands A single goal. A lonely goal, squeezed between the impenetrable defenses on both sides, like a forgotten coffee grain in grinding. Don Ramon knew a goal was not just a goal; It was the difference between 50 trillion GDP and the right to ask alms at Singapore airport. "Five minutes are missing, Don Ramon! Five minutes!" The Secretary of the Federation, a kid man with crooked glasses and a vein pulsing on his forehead, shouted in his ear, as if his blood pressure was no longer on heights. Don Ramon could barely breathe. The green grass, ironically, seemed as artificial as the campaign promises of any politician. He looked at the players of the Mariana Islands. They looked more tanned than normal. Rumors said they spent the nights in a "performance regeneration spa" which was actually a state-of-the-art tanning chamber where they took sunbathing while they heard self-helped mantras recorded by a former sect leader. "Those children of ... from the sun!" Don Ramon grunted, seeing an attacker of the Mariana Islands, named "Kiki" stamped on the back, try a kick of the midfield. The ball flew higher than the hopes of Greece this season, falling into the bleachers and almost decapitating a Colombian supporter who, ironically, was reading a book on how to grow organic coffee. The final whistle. A sound that echoed by the universe, shaking the foundation of the global economy. Colombia champion! The stadium exploded. Shouts, hugs, tears ... And Don Ramon, who collapsed on the floor, not emotion, but of an impending cardiac infarction, fortunately light. While the doctors were helped, he saw Colombian players celebrate, kissing the trophy that looked more like a crystal bibelô. The awards ceremony was a spectacle of pure Ghost Archipelago. The president of the Global Soccer Confederation (CGF), a man with a mustache so long that he wore it as a scarf, rose to the podium. "Dear Season 3 Champions!" He started, his voice echoing with excessive reverberation. "Colombia, a country of coffee, beauty and now, elite football! You showed that, with claw, talent and, we admit, a little luck with the classification table, everything is possible!" Don Ramon, already recovered and with a smile so wide that it seemed to rip his face, rose to the podium to receive the 50 trillion GDP check. It was a symbolic check, of course. Money would be transferred directly to the national accounts, with a 30% administration fee for CGF, of course. "And now, to you, brave warriors of the Northern Mariana Islands!" CGF president continued, with a tone that sounded more like a funeral speech. "You fought bravely! They showed the world that, even with a GDP that barely holds a churros cart, it is possible to get away! That's why we grant you ... 10 million dollars!" An embarrassing silence hovered over the stadium. Ten million dollars. Don Ramon almost gasped with his own language. The Northern Mariana Islands had fought like Lions, they reached the final, and won the equivalent of the cost of a good coffee in Bogota. One of the players of the Mariana Islands, a culpulent defender, fell to his knees and began to cry. Not sadness for the defeat, but of anger for the "prize". "10 million dollars?!" He shouted into heaven, his eyes shining with tears and indignation. "With that, I can hardly buy a new umbrella for the beach on my island!" The president of CGF, impassive, nodded to a group of promoters approaching with a giant check, printed with a yellow smile. It was to be a moment of celebration, but it seemed more to the delivery of a consolation award for a competition of who can swim faster in a swimming pool. Don Ramon, as he pressed the hand of the president of CGF, whispered, "That is the difference, is not it? The difference between power and joke." CGF president smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "In the Ghost Archipelago, Don Ramon, the line between glory and ridicule is as thin as the rate we charge for bank transfers." As Colombia celebrated her 50 trillion and the Mariana Islands cried his 10 million, Don Ramon knew that the season 3 was finished. But the economic war of the Ghost Archipelago was just beginning. And he, now, had a new goal: not only to win, but to understand the perverse rules that ruled that game of life or death.
