alternatehistory.com
The Match
Today the Peruvian National Team is playing in their first Copa America final sine 1975. One of their nicknames is "Los Incas" and that is just too good for me to resist. You shouldn't take this update as a future set in stone, indeed it ignores butterflies to the extreme with Football/Soccer still existing. It's just a bit of fun. Tunr in tonight for your regularly schedules update to the narrative.
The Match
The sound from the stands was like thunder. Eighty thousand voices rained down upon the field, baying for blood.
They came from far and wide, these fans. Some from the far north, from the isthmus and the sea coasts. Others came from the hot deserts of the south, flying up into the clouds to see their team. Some came from the frozen islands of the farther south, departing the shores of their homes to cheer in Cusco. Some were from the mountains themselves, for them it was not so great a journey, but it still felt grand. In normal times these people would be mortal enemies. Those from Quillota would have stuck those from Cusco over a missed call long ago. The northerners would have screamed obscenities at the southerners for having the gall to defeat them in last years cup. But not today, today they are one.
There are other visitors of course, from outside the empire. Some are simply here for the spectacle. Others bought tickets expecting to see their teams arrive at the final, only to be disappointed. And then, there is the enemy.
Under normal circumstances, relations between the Tawantinsuyu empire and Denmark are cordial. The two countries have never been great friends or allies, but neither have they clashed in any way before. Most people in Cusco would have trouble finding Denmark on a map, and vise versa. But not today. Today Denmark is the most vile land on Earth. Copenhagen is a mire of scum and villainy unrivaled in human history. The Danes are hated beyond description. Nevermind the fact that all of the Empire cheered them as they defeated the hated Spanish in the quarterfinals. The Tawantinsuyu stands united against this forign invader. But still, the Danish come. Their love for their team is as fervent as the Tawantinsuyu. They come despite the distance, despite the cost, and despite the threatening glances thrown their way. This has not been the most violent of World Cups, but football can make men mad it is known. The sudden hostility from the locals has not dampered their spirits however. This is the farthest the team has gone in decades, and they get to witness it first hand. Their cheers are drowned out by the boos of the home crowd, but they are still there.
The President of the organizing committee, a greasy, gruby man dodging corruption allegations, stands in the center circle with a microphone. He gives a short speech praising the tournament and praises both teams. The crowd cheers. He praises the honest and fair refereeing. The crowd boos, each man remembering a different mistake made. He closes with a solemn bow to the royalty present. The Sapa Inka stands and gives a show wave. He is a tall man with broad shoulders. Every inch the ideal Emperor in the eyes of his people. His counterpart, although a mere king, sits beside him. His blond hair long ago went grey but he still stands with ease. Sensing the moment he does the clap that his subjects have adopted for his fans over the course of the tournament. They crowd, even those rooting against Denmark, cheer. The Sapa Inka laughs and shakes hands with the King. They wish each other good luck, but not too much good luck. The Prime Minister and Inkap Rantin also give small waves to the camera’s broadcasting the moment to billions worldwide.
Then the players arrive.
The cheers dwarf any given to kings or Emperors. The Danes wear white on red, while the Tawantinsuyu have rich golden jerseys. Earlier in the tournament they made a splash with rainbows on their jerseys, but for the final they have returned to the norm.
Some of the Danish look tired already. Their earlier games have taken them from Tumbez to Quillota and back again. And at some 2,400 feet above sea level, the air here is the thinnest they have ever played in. The Tawantinsuyu, by contrast, have played all of their games in the mountains, entirely coincidentally of course. They line up, the anthems play, and they prepare to begin.
All around the world, last minute bets are called. Food is procured in front of televisions. Great screens have been erected around the empire and in Denmark, so that the populace can watch from the streets. In the center of Cusco, before the great Temple of the Sun a massive crowd has gathered.
The referee, a tall Scotsman, flips the coin. It lands heads up. The Tawantinsuyu looks up at the sun and considers the wind. He decides that his team will take the opening kick-off. The Danish captain chooses his goal. They shake hands and the teams trot off into their final huddles. From there the teams line up. Goalkeepers in the back, all the way up to the forwards. Simple as that.
The Tawantinsuyu forward carefully places the ball on the ground, turning it bit by bit to get just the right angle. The referee blows his whistle, and the forwards passes to a teamate.
The game has begun.
The Match
The sound from the stands was like thunder. Eighty thousand voices rained down upon the field, baying for blood.
They came from far and wide, these fans. Some from the far north, from the isthmus and the sea coasts. Others came from the hot deserts of the south, flying up into the clouds to see their team. Some came from the frozen islands of the farther south, departing the shores of their homes to cheer in Cusco. Some were from the mountains themselves, for them it was not so great a journey, but it still felt grand. In normal times these people would be mortal enemies. Those from Quillota would have stuck those from Cusco over a missed call long ago. The northerners would have screamed obscenities at the southerners for having the gall to defeat them in last years cup. But not today, today they are one.
There are other visitors of course, from outside the empire. Some are simply here for the spectacle. Others bought tickets expecting to see their teams arrive at the final, only to be disappointed. And then, there is the enemy.
Under normal circumstances, relations between the Tawantinsuyu empire and Denmark are cordial. The two countries have never been great friends or allies, but neither have they clashed in any way before. Most people in Cusco would have trouble finding Denmark on a map, and vise versa. But not today. Today Denmark is the most vile land on Earth. Copenhagen is a mire of scum and villainy unrivaled in human history. The Danes are hated beyond description. Nevermind the fact that all of the Empire cheered them as they defeated the hated Spanish in the quarterfinals. The Tawantinsuyu stands united against this forign invader. But still, the Danish come. Their love for their team is as fervent as the Tawantinsuyu. They come despite the distance, despite the cost, and despite the threatening glances thrown their way. This has not been the most violent of World Cups, but football can make men mad it is known. The sudden hostility from the locals has not dampered their spirits however. This is the farthest the team has gone in decades, and they get to witness it first hand. Their cheers are drowned out by the boos of the home crowd, but they are still there.
The President of the organizing committee, a greasy, gruby man dodging corruption allegations, stands in the center circle with a microphone. He gives a short speech praising the tournament and praises both teams. The crowd cheers. He praises the honest and fair refereeing. The crowd boos, each man remembering a different mistake made. He closes with a solemn bow to the royalty present. The Sapa Inka stands and gives a show wave. He is a tall man with broad shoulders. Every inch the ideal Emperor in the eyes of his people. His counterpart, although a mere king, sits beside him. His blond hair long ago went grey but he still stands with ease. Sensing the moment he does the clap that his subjects have adopted for his fans over the course of the tournament. They crowd, even those rooting against Denmark, cheer. The Sapa Inka laughs and shakes hands with the King. They wish each other good luck, but not too much good luck. The Prime Minister and Inkap Rantin also give small waves to the camera’s broadcasting the moment to billions worldwide.
Then the players arrive.
The cheers dwarf any given to kings or Emperors. The Danes wear white on red, while the Tawantinsuyu have rich golden jerseys. Earlier in the tournament they made a splash with rainbows on their jerseys, but for the final they have returned to the norm.
Some of the Danish look tired already. Their earlier games have taken them from Tumbez to Quillota and back again. And at some 2,400 feet above sea level, the air here is the thinnest they have ever played in. The Tawantinsuyu, by contrast, have played all of their games in the mountains, entirely coincidentally of course. They line up, the anthems play, and they prepare to begin.
All around the world, last minute bets are called. Food is procured in front of televisions. Great screens have been erected around the empire and in Denmark, so that the populace can watch from the streets. In the center of Cusco, before the great Temple of the Sun a massive crowd has gathered.
The referee, a tall Scotsman, flips the coin. It lands heads up. The Tawantinsuyu looks up at the sun and considers the wind. He decides that his team will take the opening kick-off. The Danish captain chooses his goal. They shake hands and the teams trot off into their final huddles. From there the teams line up. Goalkeepers in the back, all the way up to the forwards. Simple as that.
The Tawantinsuyu forward carefully places the ball on the ground, turning it bit by bit to get just the right angle. The referee blows his whistle, and the forwards passes to a teamate.
The game has begun.
- King of the Uzbeks
- Word Count: 930