When the first Pillow Fights start, my teammates are happy I'm here. They think I'm good at this game. They think I know what I'm doing. How could I? I've never even seen a Pillow Fight tournament. Anyone can do a better job with one hand tied behind her back and three broken fingers on the other one. All I do is walk around with the attitude of someone who knows what he's doing, but for them, it seems to be enough.
We are lucky with the draw: the 50 competing countries have to be reduced to the 32 that play the second round. We're one of the seven teams that get a bye on the first round. It gives us the chance to look at some of the other teams, study their tactics, look at their weak points, and think about how we're going to survive in this arena.
Our opponent in the second round is Croatia. They had a bye in the first round too. We don't know anything about them, except that they are the number 15 in the ranking of the bookmakers. Rankings or charts or hit lists don't impress us. We create our own hit.
We make an entrance like this is Broadway and not the European Games. Stas and I are dressed as PDGs of MacAbre, with a yellow suit, a red wig and a white face, while the girls are dressed as Bat Woman, Cat Woman and Fat Woman, clapping and rapping and stepping. Instead of saying our names during the formal presentation before the fight starts, we sing a short a capella version of «Let Me Entertain You» while Margo and Edith dance, and Agnes makes flips.
Then the fight starts. Our Croatian rivals line up, girl – boy – girl – boy – girl. They hold the line while they attack us, but it confuses them when we don't fight back; we just defend ourselves with our shields. We keep singing, while Margo dances to the left and Edith dances to the right. Stas and I lift Agnes, 45 kilos and 1 metre 51 long, hold her tight above our head (her Fat Woman dress hides the handles perfectly) and she launches an air attack with her pillow on the undefended heads of our enemy. When they raise their defence to protect their heads, Stas and I use our pillows in our free hands to hit them on the chest. Margo and Edith come from behind and work on their backs. We win the game in less than two minutes. We go to the third round, and we all admit: this is fun.
* * *
The team of Cyprus is a different kettle of fish. They are serious, determined to win. We don't care. This time we're all dressed in a rainbow-coloured outfit and we dance. Well, I'm pretending that I dance. I don't dance and I don't sing because I can't dance and I can't sing, but I do my best to make the steps like Edith showed us: one to the left, two to the right, one-two-three-turn, and two steps back, no, I'm wrong again, turn the other way. Rostov! I feel like a clown.
Stas gives me a push in the side and Edith gives me an angry look: "You're making us look like a bunch of fools, Gregor. There are millions of people watching us. We'll start again. Try to do it right this time." She apologises to the Cyprians: "Sorry, boys, that this takes so long. I hope they can cut it out. We're not here to fight, you know. We're here to have fun. We've been working so hard to train this dance. Do you mind?"
The Cyprus team doesn't mind. Edith stands in the middle and starts again: one-two-three-turn, then step aside, then one step back, two forward…
Edith gets all the attention, which gives Agnes the chance to sneak around without being noticed. She starts jumping on the Cyprian bed. By the time Stas and I have learnt the dance, the game is over: Belarus 55 points – Cyprus 0. We won this battle without one single blow.
After the fight, Edith thanks us all with a kiss on the cheek: we gave her the chance to dance for an audience of 500 million people. This is much more than just having fun; this is making your dream come true, and we'll get one more chance to stand in the spotlights…
* * *
The quarterfinals will be our last fight. We play against the favourite French, number two on the bookmaker's list and the most popular team of the tournament, thanks to Gilbert, the handsome captain, who's been offered already two major parts in Hollywood movies and signed several contracts for commercials since he started to lead his team to victory this afternoon. Margo has a crush on him. Not just a crush. She's completely in love. She doesn't listen to anyone; she only has eyes for that cute boy on the other side of the room. When we line up for the presentation, she doesn't say her name, and she doesn't look into the camera. Margo smiles at Gilbert, sends him a kiss hand, jumps three quick jumps, and shouts: "I LOVE YOU, GILBERT! If you give me a kiss, I'll let you win!"
We protest: "You can't do that, Margo." - "We're your team." - "Are you selling us to the enemy?" - "For a kiss?"
"Not just A kiss. I give you up for a kiss from Gilbert, the most handsome, cute, sexy, cute, smart, handsome, cute, romantic, intelligent… Did I already say he's cute?"
The clock starts running, but the French team is not moving. They watch their captain, who has his doubts. Could this be so easy?
"You let us win if I give you a kiss?", Gilbert asks.
Margo is surprised: "Do you think I'm too ugly to kiss?"
"No, for a skinny girl with glasses and pimples, you're quite handsome."
"Are you afraid to kiss me, with 700 million people watching? Are you a coward?"
"No, of course not."
"I know what it is: they say the French boys are poor kissers. You're afraid to disappoint me…"
Gilbert defends himself: "That's not true either. We, the French, invented the French kisses. We are the best kissers in the world."
"Words… I want proof… For the best kiss in the world, I let you win. It has to be a French kiss, though.", Margo replies. She takes the position, lips pursed, eyes closed and her head slightly forward.
We step aside, sick of all this: "You can't do this, Margo."
"Yes, I can. In love and war, everything is permitted, and I'm in love. I'm hopelessly in love with Gilbert. Every girl in Europe will envy me. I don't care what you think. We'll lose this game, anyway. It doesn't matter. We're not here to win. We're here to have fun. Now it's my turn to have fun. I want my kiss. Come on, Gilbert."
Margo does one more step forward and takes the position again. Gilbert grins to his team, lifting his shoulders as some vague excuse, like «if it's that easy to take us to the semi-finals, I will sacrifice myself», steps forward, takes Margot in his arms, closes his eyes and… takes ten full blows, on his head, on his back, and everywhere we can hit him.
Gilbert is flabbergasted. He snaps at Margo: "You promised to let us win!"
Margo explodes with laughter: "I lied!"
In love and war, everything is permitted.
This is war.
We're in the semi-finals.
* * *
It's dark here. It's hot. I can't make a sound. It smells like someone farted under my nose, but I can't even move my hand to close my nostrils against the stink. All I hear is the faint sound of a speaker:
"The Italian team is ready for the semi-finals. We're waiting for their opponents from Belarus. Are they afraid? Are they following some kind of superstitious ritual? Wait a minute, people. Someone is here to visit our Italian friends. Holy Holiness! It's… His Holiness Pope Francisco! He came here, in person, to give his blessing to his favourite team. Can we get a hanging microphone there, please, so we can hear what our Holy Father has to say…"
The Holy Father speaks Latin: "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Orbi et urbi. Castigat ridendo mores. Alea jacta est. Romanes eunt domus. Veni vidi vici. Pro bono publico. Persona non grata, vice versa, cum laude, alter ego etcetera. Panem et circenses. Vincit qui se vincit. Bedankt voor die blumen…"
Bedankt voor die blumen. That's the sign. We (that is: Agnes, Edith, Margo and I) swarm out from under the heavy ritual dress of Pope Stas the First of Belarus, looking like Pope Francisco's twin brother thanks to my spy disguise-kit, we pelt ourselves at the five devoted Catholic Italians waiting for their blessing, nicely kneeled with their hands folded and their eyes closed, and we bless them with a series of pillow blows on their heads.
Our entrance took the attention away from Doc, whose hand started the clock and the game: 10 seconds, 50 – 0. The audience goes bananas and Belarus goes to the final of the Pillow Fight Tournament. Is this fun or what?
* * *
In our dressing room, we watch how Estonia wins the bronze medal in the tie-break against Italy, but the sound is off and our thoughts are elsewhere. All the games we've played so far are forgotten. All the fun we had doesn't mean a thing. This is the final we're looking forward to. This is serious. This is not a match for 50 points with a 25 max-per-head. This is a fight with a maximum playtime of 10 minutes, and to win, you need to score 100 points on the team or 50 on the same head. Our so successful tactics of trick 'n' surprise won't work here, and our opponent is Germany, the team that won all their other fights thanks to their brutal strength and bottomless condition. We have a problem here.
"Does anyone have an idea how we can break down this Berlin Wall? Or should we just give up and be happy with the silver?", I ask.
Nobody has any idea.
At that moment, the door of our dressing room opens and a distinguished gentleman presents himself: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Do you mind if I interrupt your preparation with an interesting offer? I like to show you these photos. We've reserved these five luxurious houses in the South of France for the losers of the final of Pillow Fighting. No tax. If you like, we can even add a little restaurant for you, to own and work in. All you have to do is lose the final in less than 30 seconds. Or you can refuse the offer and return to your poor, underdeveloped country and live like a beggar there for the rest of your lives. Your government will never give you anything back for your silver medal. Your government will never be as generous as we are…"
I look at the man, suspiciously: "Who is this «we»?"
He smiles like a salesman of second-hand cars: "«We» are the ones who offer you more than you will ever get without us."
As I thought: this is not someone who came here to give answers. If you're a winner, everybody wants something from you: "Germany has to win the gold?"
The car salesman smiles and smears more goodwill butter on my pitch-black toast: "There are three big countries in Europe: France won the gold medal for Waste Paper Basket Ball, England will win the gold for Bar Sweeping, but… Germany stands with empty hands… We were told they want the gold. The biggest market in Europe must win this final. They deserve to win this final."
"And you represent someone who bets heavily on a German win, so you can pay these five houses and that little restaurant on the Côte d' Azur from the prize money?"
"Do we have a deal?"
"Do you want us to sign a contract?"
This friendly smile looks more and more like the grin of a wolf or a hyena: "Things like this are not agreed with contracts. This is a matter of trust. We shake hands and we'll meet after the final, to sign the papers and put the houses and the restaurant on your names. We might even add the plane tickets to Nice. If you like, you can go there tomorrow to see them. Well?"
He waves with the big colourful photos while he hypnotises us with his voice: "Sweet dreams are made of this. Everybody is always looking for something. When you accept, you can travel the world and the seven seas."
He tries to impress us.
Tries?
He has already won.
"Lose the game in less than 30 seconds? And we get a house and a job in return? I want that yellow house with the red tiles on the roof."
"I like that blue one."
"I LOVE that mint-green house."
Mister Hyena hands out the photos, leaving the white one for me: "Well? Is this a team? Or do we have someone here who thinks that one individual is stronger than all the others together?"
I take the photo: "This is a team. We win together, we lose together. Who am I to disagree? I hope to see you after the final, Sir."
"You can bet on that. And… one more thing: congratulations on your silver medal. It's quite an impressive achievement. Good night, ladies, gentlemen…"
When the hyena has left, I take the photos out of the hands of my teammates: "Are we a democracy where the majority decides? Or are we a team where we also listen to a minority with another opinion?"
Agnes can't control her temper: "A house is a house, Gregor. The man is right: our government will be proud of the positive image we create for our country, all the people in Belarus will feel proud of what we do, but nobody gives us a house and a co-ownership of a restaurant. A silver medal is nice too."
Margo agrees with her: "You said it yourself, Gregor: this is not about being the best. It doesn't matter if we win silver or gold. But it does matter if I get a life and a future out of this. My parents work day and night, thirty long years long, to pay the mortgage on our tiny flat. And now someone comes in and offers me a precious house, and a restaurant too. I want that house and I want that job. I'll do anything to get it. If losing a stupid game is what it takes, I'll do what it takes."
I sit down and try to act as calm and cool as I can, despite my upcoming raging anger: "This is not about doing what it takes. It's not about being the best, either. It's about trust.
» Behind door 1 we have a well-dressed man, who promises you a fortune and a future. Behind door 2, there's just me, and I never promised you a rose garden. Who do you trust, my dear Margo?
» You call me Gregor, but you know it's not my real name. All I promised was that we would have fun, and we had. Reaching the final, that was teamwork; we did it together. But you trusted me as part of the team. Do you still trust me now?
» Or do you trust this well-dressed man? We don't know his name or the organization he represents. All we know is that he needs our help to make a profit for himself. That profit is worth more than five houses and a restaurant. This man has no problem at all deceiving others. I wonder if such a man would have a problem lying to us. We'll find out after the match… when it might be too late. Or we can decide to accept his offer: those Germans will be too strong for us, anyway.
» Do you trust your team enough to try to win the final? This is not about being the best. This is about trust. Who do you trust?"
* * *
The German trainer looks familiar: it's José Mourinho, contracted to do what he does everywhere: sacrifice both the beauty of the game and the fun of playing to the holy result of winning. The Germans stand in line like a well-drilled combat unit, each one shouting hor name when the camera passes by: "I'm Johan, I'm the best and I'm going to win this final!" - "I'm Beate, I'm the best and I'm going to win this final!"
Then it's up to us. We act as a team too. When the camera passes, we say our name, throw a kiss hand or a likeable wink to our fans before the TV and say: "I'm Agnes, I love you, and I hope you don't mind if we let the Germans win."
Then we line up for the fight. The Germans didn't change the successful strategy that brought them here. Their two boys, tall as Tolkien's Two Towers and much stronger, take the wings, to avoid someone sneaking around their formation. The three girls, short, stout and sturdy, are the concrete blocks that form the centre of the Berlin Wall. Their tactic is brutal force, concentrated on the weakest spot of their opponent's defence.
We do something different every time. This time, we have the boys in the centre, Margo and Edith on the flanks, and little Agnes stands about five paces behind us. She's our weak spot. We want to protect her. Those two towers and three blocks would concentrate on her and wouldn't stop until they killed her. Agnes doesn't even have her pillow; she gave it to Stas, so he can defend himself better against the upcoming German Blitzkrieg.
"Ready? GO!"
Stas and I bend down, shoulders together, one knee on the ground, our shield-arm above our heads and our pillow-arm protecting our chests. Margo and Edith do the same, covering our flanks. The German artillery comes down with full force. It's just a matter of time until they find out that our backs are disposed and vulnerable. We don't have that time. We want this final to end as quickly as possible.
Agnes takes her run-up. I drop my pillow. My empty hand moves behind my back. I pay the price and receive two blows on the chest. When I feel Agnes's foot, I move upward and launch her. She uses my back as a springboard. She flies between the lights, makes a somersault over the lowest part of the German defence line, their centre, and ends six metres further, exactly in the middle of the German bed. We count the seconds and the points: 1, (plus 2 makes) 3, (plus 3 makes) 6, (plus 4 makes) 10, (plus 5 makes) 15… Agnes jumps with joy, and as she only weighs 45 kilos, the mattress helps her produce a high series of somersaults, flips, saltos and twists; it would not be enough for a gold medal on the trampoline during the Olympics, but it does make it almost impossible to hit her with a German pillow. The Germans are completely surprised but, organized and efficient as they are, they immediately retreat to attack the intruder, turning their backs on us. Mistake. We're a team. We help each other. We hit the unprotected German backs as much as we can, adding 1 point with every blow to Agnes's already impressive score that goes up and up and up like she herself jumps higher and higher, crying and laughing and shouting and screaming and…
The speaker ends the unfair fight.
I look at the score: 104 – 23.
I look at the time: 18 seconds.
I look at my teammates: we did it!
It's incredible.
It's unbelievable.
We've won the Pillow Fight Tournament for Belarus.
We've won the gold medal.
We're the best!