2025-01-11, 02:00 PM - Word count:
The day began like any other, or at least like any other Fußball day outside of Mongolia.
Wake, with no alarm. Muunokhoi had special smart blinds in his house that let in the right amount of light to wake him each morning, within minutes of the same time. He even travelled with a lesser version that controlled hotel blinds, and always chose a room on the side of a hotel facing the morning sun. It did the job today, in Toyko.
Eat yoghurt. Cow yoghurt was his concession to Europe. It might have been made from yak's or mare's milk, back home.
Drink tea.
Prepare an omelette, with lions mane mushrooms.
Routine is uncomplicated.
Dress, fairly inconspicuously. A tall Mongol will stand out anyway.
Then to work.
Work involved years of yelling at his defensive line about their inadequacies, deficiencies, poor decisions, and flawed ancestry. The defenders changed over time, the yelling didn't. If the deficiencies grew less, the yelling just required more creativity or perspective.
"Duncan! Your pathetic pale skin shows you spend too little time in the sun, practicing. Run!"
In truth, they'd had a pretty solid defensive line for a while. Enough to win the league, then enough to win the cup the season after that.
"Duncan! You're only a champion because you have a great keeper. WORK!"
Work, today, was the final game of the season. Later in the day, across the tiny pacific island the SSL calls home world, the season would end with Reykjavik's match. Schwarzwälder Fußballverein would need to win to have their fate in their own hands.
"Duncan!" A pause let the defender manage eye contact before the Mongol continued. "Good shot. You missed your calling as a striker."
It was far below the usual standard of Mongolian ill-treatment and berating.
That good shot stood up as the winning goal, because Muunokhoi and the back line never let Tokyo score.
SFV raised the trophy. Muunokhoi, as the captain, was the first player to hold it. Duncan wasn't player of the match, but Muuno handed him the trophy next anyway. Then Duncan passed it on.
"Duncan! We're not done here."
He slid off the captain's armband, then slid it onto Duncan's arm.
"I'm done yelling at you, except for instructions. You know what you're doing on the field by now. Maybe you can yell at the midfielders next season."
Wake, with no alarm. Muunokhoi had special smart blinds in his house that let in the right amount of light to wake him each morning, within minutes of the same time. He even travelled with a lesser version that controlled hotel blinds, and always chose a room on the side of a hotel facing the morning sun. It did the job today, in Toyko.
Eat yoghurt. Cow yoghurt was his concession to Europe. It might have been made from yak's or mare's milk, back home.
Drink tea.
Prepare an omelette, with lions mane mushrooms.
Routine is uncomplicated.
Dress, fairly inconspicuously. A tall Mongol will stand out anyway.
Then to work.
Work involved years of yelling at his defensive line about their inadequacies, deficiencies, poor decisions, and flawed ancestry. The defenders changed over time, the yelling didn't. If the deficiencies grew less, the yelling just required more creativity or perspective.
"Duncan! Your pathetic pale skin shows you spend too little time in the sun, practicing. Run!"
In truth, they'd had a pretty solid defensive line for a while. Enough to win the league, then enough to win the cup the season after that.
"Duncan! You're only a champion because you have a great keeper. WORK!"
Work, today, was the final game of the season. Later in the day, across the tiny pacific island the SSL calls home world, the season would end with Reykjavik's match. Schwarzwälder Fußballverein would need to win to have their fate in their own hands.
"Duncan!" A pause let the defender manage eye contact before the Mongol continued. "Good shot. You missed your calling as a striker."
It was far below the usual standard of Mongolian ill-treatment and berating.
That good shot stood up as the winning goal, because Muunokhoi and the back line never let Tokyo score.
SFV raised the trophy. Muunokhoi, as the captain, was the first player to hold it. Duncan wasn't player of the match, but Muuno handed him the trophy next anyway. Then Duncan passed it on.
"Duncan! We're not done here."
He slid off the captain's armband, then slid it onto Duncan's arm.
"I'm done yelling at you, except for instructions. You know what you're doing on the field by now. Maybe you can yell at the midfielders next season."
