Horațiu Dudău
For me, it's the legs that do the talking. The most beautiful metaphors I've invented were writing with the ball on the green lawn. If I talk, I'll hurt myself. But if I let go of the ball, it's like writing poetry with my feet. My mind stays in it, as hilarious as it sounds. My lyrics rhyme just like they're measured with a ruler, and when I compose a goal kick, it's often haiku. I dribble like an uncensored form of a dream projected on huge screens. In your cheers I prepare to take one last shot. This time it's just a hole in my heart.
Cristian Nedelcu
He was the result of a cheap bottle of wine and an expired condom. His whole childhood he was reminded of that. He didn't know his father, he'd never been there. It was just him and his mother and whoever else she happened to hook up with. Some married truck driver who was unhappily married, some salesman who had dropped in by chance, even the kid from the gas station who had let her get away with the stolen sandwich. He didn't like school, so he became a footballer. There, on the field, he felt human for the first time.
David Brescan
2050. Romania wins the World Cup. In football. TV viewers are raving, University Square is packed. Hagi[1], in his cane, watches his nephew, the decisive goalscorer, kiss the cup. He thinks talent skips a generation. Coach Iordănescu the Third bows to the holy icon inherited from his great father. Becali[2] at the age of 90 and hooked up to machines declares that all things are possible to him who believes, Mark 9:23. Satan is still poking wood under Urs Meier's boiler. God resurrects Țopescu[3] for a day.
(Translated by Andreea Cristina Moise / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.