The Terrace

Chiara Fankhauser

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An amphitheatre of screens cast a powerful lumiere of blue, different hues flashing through the display as each player passes by. A roller derby becomes a dance to the death as their faceless helmet-heads barge into each other. Only one face is clear enough to capture, her features are sharp and command authority, she is the leader.

Seats grow cold as the crowd stands, lining the oval of green. Flares spark and fill my lungs, clear skies are blocked as orange smoke filters into the terrace. We see the same face every week, known only as ‘the capo,’ his features are angular and he gazes upon us from his stand with a mischievous smirk. His accent is thick so when he calls out to us, it is only the regulars who understand his dictation.

A siren’s serenade of orchestral music lures us in, the tempo challenging its limits, the limits of the players as they fight harder and harder. It tears into the atmosphere, the air becomes thicker, full of an invisible force that paralyses us.

The Terrace sparks with anticipation. Bodies pressed together as they clutch each other for dear life. Chanting echoes in the stadium, daunting and cheering the players as they fight for glory. We stand on our tippy toes as our team presses forward, toying with the defenders as they fake the ball and shoot from the wing. It misses, curses of all languages are thrown in the air.

The movement of the players loops and twists, until I cannot remember up from down, beginning from end, we do not know if this tug of war of limbs will amount to anything. The piano weeps as the same combination of notes is played on a loop, ever waiting for a new ivory to be caressed.

The capo screams into the megaphone three times, ‘Louder!” as the chants fizzle out and our throats become ragged. A monotonous chant is murmured amongst the members, as the players shoot, missing each shot but maintaining possession enough to leave our toes permanently curled.

A stray note enters the mix, our hearts all simultaneously skip a beat as we wait for it to happen; the change. We study the movements, looking to see if this time her hand is raised higher or for someone to fall, blood, pain, anything to be released from this repetition. But the note only mocks my false hope, mistrust spirals through my nerves as we wonder if we had been wasting our time, waiting for something that would never happen. The concrete stand seems to slant forward as possession is stolen by our opposition, prayers are whispered to gods that hadn’t existed in our minds before. Their star shoots. It flies through the air. Hurdles towards the goals. The keeper lunges. Gloved hands surround the ball. Their star falls. A single breath simultaneously released among the crowd.

The muted blues become vibrant as a violin begins to suddenly squeal, cheering on the players as they fight harder. The dance stays the same but yet we know something has changed, it will change. The star crown crashes, and their heads tilt like dominoes. Our collective vision blurs as royal blue vignettes the image.

Our striker is on the ground. Yellow is flashed in front of his attackers face, the crowd cheers and jests as the players line up in front of the goal. The striker picks himself up and walks calmly to the ball next to the referee. He raises his hand skyward, the players shoulder barge into each other. His foot launches, meeting the base of the ball. It curves, the players jump up, pivoting their heads to meet the ball, but not quite enough to meet it. The keeper dives left, but his arms aren’t quite long enough. The net moves.

Blue fills the screen as the whistling notes reach their peak, it is peace, it is joy, it was all for something.

We fall into the arms of our friends, catching people as they dive down the aisles. Screams turn into chants, sung with a force that couldn’t be willed.

Joy begins to crest like waves on a beach as we sit in wait in a sea of blue nothingness. After it all, we still wait, wait for it to happen again. This peace can only last so long before it becomes trepidation. Fear of this azure abyss. Navy blue uniforms seem to appear out of nowhere as the ball tiki taka’s across the field, their legs extending and their bodies twisting with leopard-like grace. They move and hurdle between each other until it is a blur of navy and sky blue, a derby I’d never forget.

It’s almost nostalgic, this blue screen, we look for the dvd video icon to bounce around the screen but it doesn’t come. There is chirping and some sort of call that breathes light into this concrete room. It feels like it could be a warning but we only sit in intrigue.

Still high off of the last goal, the chants are flamboyant and crudely enunciated. Chairs are slapped in time with the drum beat as heads rise to meet the ball. It makes contact with someone’s head, then rings the top post, flying behind the goals. The keeper catches the ball from the ball-boy and strikes it to the opposite end of the field.

It never ends. This blue is all we see, it was all we had waited for but we can’t stand the anticipation, the feeling like it is all over, that we’ll never see the dance again.

The ball meets the chest of their winger, who rolls it down his body, catching it with his feet. We gain on him, but every interception he glides around as if it were some tango that only he knew the moves to. His only obstacle seems to be the defenders who circle the right wing, making it impossible for him to propel forward. His eyes stay on his opposition but his feet guide the ball, cutting it back, his striker predicts his request and meets it. It is propelled toward the net as the keeper dives the opposite direction. The terrace is cold and silent, suited men and families from far bays, begin to descend the stairs towards the exits, stuffing away their scarves. We are left watching as the corner of the stadium erupts. Their flares are the molten lava to our apocalypse.

We keep twisting our heads and bodies, spying for any dart of movement that may sneak its way onto any of the screens around us. The waiting is torture, people move in and out of the space, unimpressed by the unwavering sky of blue. A band of uniformed kids sit cross-legged, positioned around the space like dials of a clock. Their faces are a mix of boredom and curiosity, their minds not quite old enough to appreciate what they are watching. Their teachers stand at the entrance of the art, not crossing the threshold into the experience, and then guiding them out of the area with darting looks at their watches. The raven haired girl shifts her legs, stretching them slightly as she prepares to wait with the rest of us. We want to tell the others to stay longer like her, they don’t know what is to come.

Their chests heave as they follow the ball, the defenders apply pressure trying to work their way higher and higher up the ground. But our defenders hold their own, one mistake and they’ll let it slip past them again. The ball rolls across the ground again as they try to find a way around, we intercept it, the midfielder casts his eyes up the field, this is the moment.

The concrete underneath us becomes painfully cold and hard, and the walls around us remain plain and unmoving. The world outside the space is dark, our eyes are strained and each eye movement is tinged with an aura of blue. But yet - We know it’s time, we hear the familiar change in tempo and it releases. A body moves into the empty space. Her figure moves in fluid motions, Ready to ignite. We both know what is going to happen next. The women meet her in the centre, Shoulders barge into each other. And so it begins again. And there he is. Alone in a wide open space. Just barely in front of the second last defender. The ball hurdles past him. The linesman’s flag remains at his side. He launches into an attack. It meets his foot as our hearts lurch into our throats. SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT Echoes through the stadium. The ball curves in the air. Grazing the keeper’s gloves. It passes the line. The keeper crumples to the ground as it escapes his fingertips. Cheers erupt. The whistle is blown once. Again. The ninety minutes are over. The terrace roars. It is armageddon as the victory is celebrated.