‘Yeah, but I’m tryin’ to learn with all of this goin’ on.’

‘Well, at least you nearly did it. We haven’t lost yet and it’s still only the first half.’

When play was resumed, according to the editor of the Times: A certain amount of backbone had been retrieved by the men in pointy hats and captain Nobbs led a concerted attack in an attempt to further interfere with Charlie Barton’s lunch, but to the dismay of all, the son of Dave Likely still appeared to have only a nodding acquaintance with the art of goal scoring and it appeared very much that his only chance of putting one away would be to have the ball wrapped up and sent via the Post Office. And then, to the shock of all, the occult gang appeared to prove that they were far better at billiards than football when another of Likely’s powerful, but directionless, attempts rebounded again off the goal on to the head of Professor Rincewind, who was, in fact, running in the opposite direction, and was in the back of the goal before anyone, including Charlie, knew where it was. This got a cheer, but only because the game now appeared, in our opinion, to be a comedy routine. Alas, there was no comedy about the fact that in several parts of the Hippo, fights were breaking out between gangs of rival supporters, doubtless inspired by some of the shameful performances on the pitch…

As the two sides trooped or hobbled back to their places, the referee called the captains together. ‘Gentlemen, I’m not quite sure what we are doing here, but I am quite certain that it’s not exactly football and I look forward to the inquiry later on. In the meantime, before anyone else is injured and especially before the crowd start to tear this place apart and eat one another, I will tell you that the next goal scored will be the last one, even though we are still only in the first half.’ He looked meaningfully at Hoggett and said, ‘I sincerely hope that some players will examine their consciences. If I may coin a phrase, gentlemen, it’s sudden death either way. I will give you a few minutes to impress this upon your teams.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Hoggett, looking around, ‘some of my lads are not people I would have chosen, if you get my drift. I’ll give them a good talking to.’

‘In my opinion that would only work if you were hitting them with a hammer at the same time, Mister Hoggett. They are a disgrace. And do you also understand me, Mister Nobbs?’

‘I think we’d like to carry on, too. Never say die.’

‘And I would not like to see death here, either, but I suspect that your request for extra time is in the hope that Mister Likely will learn how to play football, but I fear that will not happen in a month of Sundays.’

‘Well, yes, sir, but can’t you—’ Hoggett began.

‘Mister Hoggett, I have spoken and I am the referee and right now I am the nearest thing to the gods.’

I am the nearest thing to the gods. It came back as an echo. Softer. Brighter. He looked around, ‘What? Did you chaps say something?’ Nearest thing to the gods. There was a sound like gloing! But the ball was still in his hands, wasn’t it? He stared at it. And was it just him, or was there something in the air? Something… in the air… the silveryness of fine winter days.

Trev did an embarrassingly jiggly little run on the spot as he waited. When he looked up, there was Andy Shank watching him.

‘Your dear old dad must be ’aving a fit,’ said Andy cheerfully.

‘I know you, Andy,’ said Trev wearily, ‘I know what you do. You corner some poor tosser and taunt ’im until ’e loses ’is rag and so ’e starts it, doesn’t ’e? I’m not risin’ to it, Andy.’

‘Not risin’ to anythin’ very much, are you?’

‘Not listenin’, Andy,’ said Trev.

‘Oh, I reckon you are.’

Trev sighed again. ‘I’ve been watchin’ you. You and your chums are bloody masters at stickin’ the boot in when the ref ain’t lookin’ and what ’e don’t see ’e can’t do nothin’ about.’

Andy lowered his voice. ‘Well, I can do something about you, Trev. You won’t be walking out of this place, I swear it. You’ll be carried out.’

There was the sound of the whistle, followed by the unstoppable ‘ANY BOY WHO HAS NOT BROUGHT HIS KIT WILL PLAY IN HIS PANTS!’

‘Sudden death,’ the former Dean said and the sides collided, Andy emerging with the ball at his feet and his dishonour guard flanking him at either side.

Ponder Stibbons, in the path of their advance, calculated quite a lot of things very quickly, such as speed, wind direction and the likelihood of being physically trodden into the turf. He made an effort at any rate, but ended up flat on his back after the collision. As the editor of the Times put it: in this scene of despair, dismay and disarray, one lone defender, Nutt, stood in the way of United’s winning goal…

There was a roar immediately behind Nutt. He daren’t look round, but someone landed on top of the goal, making it shake, dropped down and indicated by means of one huge and horny thumb that Mr Nutt’s assistance was no longer required. There was a green crust around the Librarian’s mouth, but this was nothing to the fire in his eyes.

At this point, according to the editor of the Times: Seemingly nonplussed by the return of the wizards’ famous man of the forest, Shank essayed another attempt at the winning score, which was stopped one-handed by the Librarian and effortlessly thrown back into United’s turf. With everything to play for, it seemed to us that every man on the pitch was chasing the ball as if they were a pack of boys, scuffling in the gutter for the traditional tin can. However, Mr Nobbs, who we are assured is no relation, was able to make some space to give the unlucky Mr Likely another attempt at following in his father’s footsteps, which he failed to do by the width, from our estimation, of about half of one inch and the ball was snatched up by Big Boy Barton who then collapsed, choking, having stuffed, we understand, a considerable amount of pie into his face to keep his hands free.

‘It shouldn’t be like this,’ said Glenda, and the thought echoed back in her head: It shouldn’t be like this. ‘Trev has to win, it can’t go any other way.’ And her voice came back again; could you get echoes in your own head? They were going to lose, weren’t they? They were going to lose because Andy knew how to break the rules.

The rules.

I am the rules.

She looked around, but apart from the doctor and his groaning or, in Ridcully’s case, cursing charges, there was no one near her apart from Juliet who was watching the game with her normal, faint smile.

‘Good heavens. All he needs is to get only one goal,’ said Glenda aloud.

I am the goal, said the quiet voice from nowhere.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Glenda.

‘Wot?’ said Juliet. She turned and Glenda could see that she was crying. ‘Trev’s going to lose.’

I am the ball.

This time it had come from her pocket, and she pulled out Trev’s tin can.

As Doctor Lawn gave a groan and hurried back up the pitch towards the choking Charlie (as the Times later put it), she followed him and caught up with Mr Nobbs. ‘If you ever want a cup of tea and a piece of cake again in your life, Mr Nobbs, you kick the ball towards me. You will know where I am, because I will be screaming and acting silly. Do what I say, okay?’

Do what she says, okay? he heard her voice echo. ‘And what will you do, throw it back?’

‘Something like that,’ said Glenda.

‘And what good is this going to do?’

‘It’s going to win you the match, that’s what. Can you remember rule 202?’

She left him wondering and then hurried along to Mrs Whitlow and the cheerleaders who, right now, had nothing to cheer about. ‘I think we should give the boys a really good display at this time,’ she suggested. ‘Don’t you agree, Juliet?’

Juliet, who had been dutifully following her said, ‘Yes, Glenda.’