Empty-handed, eyes fixed on the grass, some of them walk slowly back to the locker room. Some others are squatting in the middle of the field. Their head buried in their hands. Their tears mixing with sweat that is fresh. Their hearts still racing because of the running, or because of something else. Crying men in damp jerseys, they pat each other’s heads, then they hug, in silence.
Followers that leave the stadium, crestfallen. They tuck away flags and scarves, maybe also caps. They move in a hushed procession. Some break the quietness to blame the referee, the coach, or the goalie. Some others already know what needs to happen in the next game, in the next season, maybe next year, or four years from now.
It could be a World Cup Final, the Premier League, the Olympics, or the Champions. It could be football, basketball, tennis or cricket. It could even be a song contest or a spelling bee competition.
There’s always a kid among the followers or the fans. He has the colors of his team painted on his cheeks. They match his shirt, his shorts, his socks, and his sneakers, which are brand new. He clutches his grandfather’s hand. Slowly. They move slowly following the crowd. Slowly towards the exit doors.
They can hear the chants of the others. The others. The cheers, the laughs, the music, the flags that are flown, and the colors that are revered. Down on the field, the players see the others as well, hugging each other, dancing, jumping. The others are not empty-handed.
The players finally leave the field. The followers finally leave the stadium. Their own little retreat. Some will take the tears home. Some will have forgotten by the time they get off the car, or the subway, or even the plane. But tonight they all have something in common. Tonight they all are losers.
