“Outside today?”
“Yes. While the weather holds, we’re out here,” Artem Vyacheslavovych nodded. “Team, line up!” he roared at his charges.
The children scrambled up like a handful of blue-and-green peas scattered across the field. They scurried about like Brownian particles before finally coalescing into a disciplined formation.
Les watched, huddling into himself. The cold, damp air crept under his light jacket, tickling his neck and seeping not just under his collar, but under his skin. Late autumn was finally asserting its rights, backing its claim with a sharp drop in temperature and frequent rains.
The paper coffee cup in his hands was nearly cold. On the field, the sharp, irritated shouts of Artem Vyacheslavovych rang out; the team responded sluggishly.
“Well, what can you say when it’s like this, of course,” Borys offered his usual greeting, giving Les’s hand a firm squeeze. “What, watching your set of winter tires run around the pitch?” He let out the familiar joke.
“If only it were just tires,” Les sighed. “Between the club fees and the tournament travel, there’s a nearly brand-new car running around out there.”
“Don’t I know it,” Borys threw up his hands. “I’ve been saying it for ages: it’s a cult! The Sect of the Football Witnesses. Deadlier than any other cult you’ll find.”
“Exactly,” Les nodded with a wry smile. Then he suddenly threw his arm up. “Oh, come on! Where are you taking that ball?! Look, just look! There was a corner right there! Dammit!”
“Sometimes I get the feeling that mine just switches his brain off the moment he hits the grass,” Borys chimed in. “Artem Vyacheslavovych has told him a thousand times, but it’s like water off a duck’s back.”
“Yeah,” Les sighed. “It’s one thing to mess up in training, but they’ll do the same in a match. Giving up the lead to weaker teams just because they were too lazy to turn their brains on,” he fumed.
“Tell me about it,” Borys squinted at the darkening sky. “It’ll be pitch black in half an hour. With the clocks turning back, six o’clock is already like the middle of the night. How are they going to play in the dark?”
“According to the schedule, the power is supposed to come back on at six.”
“Well, alright then,” Borys agreed. He stood there, continuing to watch the game. It was a sluggish affair. The boys moved tentatively, fumbling their plays; the coach was nearly hoarse from trying to rouse them. Meanwhile, the thick November dusk drew over the land like a viscous jelly. Eyes could barely distinguish the outlines of the pitch, where the figures of the players drifted like pale, lethargic ghosts.
“Six-ten, and still no lights,” Les began to fidget. “This isn’t right!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Borys agreed flatly. “Those bastards are probably twisting some schemes with the power again…”
“The bastards are the ones hitting the power plants and stations,” Les snapped back. “Hey, guys!” he called out louder to the other parents huddled nearby in uneven clusters. “Who’s got wheels? We need to light this up!” He gestured toward the field.
“And why just the guys? What’s with the discrimination?” a woman’s voice called out from the side.
“My mistake, I admit it,” Les corrected himself quickly. “Football moms, you’re more than welcome. Let’s line up along the perimeter, like last time. Me and Andriy here; Olena and Vasyl on the left; Barabash, Kuripochka, Semen—on the right.”
“I’ll take the wall,” Borys’s voice came from the shadows. “My car’s already parked right there.”
“Let’s go,” Les nodded and marched purposefully toward his car. The other parents moved in unison.
A moment later, the area around the pitch roared to life with the growl of engines. The brilliant glare of headlights sliced through the dark jelly of the late autumn dusk, tearing it apart from all sides, shredding it to pieces, and flooding the field with a blinding, stark white light.
The team, which had been sleepily crawling across the turf, suddenly snapped to life. They sped up, surged, and scrambled. In place of lethargy came synchronization and power; the game breathed. The ball, like a swift bird, flew across the field, darting from one player to the next, diving under feet, rolling, soaring, and falling again. All of this unfolded under the rhythmic cheers of the parents. The final goal looked like something out of a highlight reel.
The coach gathered the children, spent a minute explaining something, and dismissed them—not forgetting to high-five each one.
Back in the car, Les smiled happily, listening to his son’s excited chatter. He turned the steering wheel carefully, maneuvering out of the lot. Ahead, the streetlights flickered and hummed to life. Finally, the power was back.
***
Oksana Pasichnyk is a Ukrainian author who has been actively writing since 2023. Exploring various genres, she has already been featured in 15 literary anthologies for emerging writers. Oksana believes that human life is the ultimate value, which is why her stories always center on people, their inner experiences, and their unique life journeys.
