They sat there, watching. Prof. Taltomar with the cigarette butt between his lips. Gould with a wool cap on his head, hands in his pockets.Minutes and minutes.Then Gould, not taking his eyes off the game, said:“Wild storm on the field. Twenty minutes into the second half. Pass from the left, the home team forward, obviously offside, stops it with his chest, the referee puts the whistle to his mouth, but the whistle, full of water, doesn’t work, the center forward kicks with his instep, the ref tries the whistle again but again it misfires, the ball goes into the upper corner of the net, the referee tries to whistle with his fingers but spits in his hand, the forward heads like one possessed for the corner flag, takes off his jersey, leans on the flag, performs some stupid Brazilian dance steps, and then is incinerated by a bolt of lightning that destroys the above-mentioned flag completely.”Prof. Taltomar took his time removing the cigarette from his lips and shaking off an imaginary ash.The situation was, objectively, complex.Finally he spat some crumbs of tobacco on the ground and murmured softly:“Goal disallowed because of illegal position.
