The following evening Stepan and I met up at the stadium; we'd bought tickets ahead of time - as usual, three seats in a row. But Rimma wasn't with him.

"What did you tell her last night, Stepan?" I asked in a quiet but stern tone of voice.

"That I didn't love her - that's what I told her! And don't ask me any more questions. Look, our Koka's not doing so hot..."

Right at that moment someone had made a great pass to Koka, but Koka's foot didn't even connect with the ball.

"Get Kutuzov off the field!" the guy next to us yelled out, cupping his hands around his mouth as he jumped up knocking a briefcase off his lap which spilled out a bunch of bookkeeping slips, half a kielbasa sub, and some paper cups.

And the people in the stands took up the cry and started chanting with triumphant contempt:

"Off - the - field! Off - the - field!"

They were cruel, the people in the stands. They instantly forgot about all the times they had applauded for this tall, sandy-haired guy who had such talented feet.

Now they saw only his disgrace and demanded for him to be replaced. And Koka, feeling sluggish from the Czech beer he had drunk the night before and downcast from the hooting coming at him from all sides, kept losing the ball and kicking it every which way. Then suddenly, evidently summoning all his strength, in an amazingly beautiful play he heel-kicked the ball over his own head into the breakaway, jumped over the outstretched leg of a red-headed Hungarian, and shot from almost right on the goal line. The entire stadium, scarcely able to believe their eyes, jumped out of their seats, shouting things and throwing caps, umbrellas, and raincoats into the air. The score was now 1-1. And just then the referee's whistle blew.

The Hungarians were having their photos taken crouched down in the middle of the field, while our boys in their sweat-stained soccer shirts went dejectedly to the dressing room. And the most dejected of all was Koka, even though he had actually saved the team from defeat... We started to feel bad for Koka: no matter what, he was our guy, from Chetvyortaya Meshchanskaya. We went over to the dressing room to see him. For a long time they wouldn't let us in, but then they finally did. All the other players had already left, but Koka was still sitting there all gloomy, wrapped in a terrycloth towel.

"Next time don't drink before the game!" I said. "But you still did score a major goal, Koka..."

Suddenly he broke out in a grin like a little kid.

"But nothing much really came of it, I guess: a heel-kick over the head into the breakaway." And suddenly he became gloomy again.

Then he went to get dressed. And once he appeared again in his nice white shirt, flashy jacket with the vented back, sky-blue pants, pointed moccasins, and the already well-known bronze signet ring, he was transformed from a sad little boy into a great soccer player once again.

On the evening of the following day, I met up with Stepan at the stadium; we had already bought our tickets--three seats together, as always. But Rimma wasn't with him.
"What did you say to her yesterday, Stepan?" I asked, quietly, but sternly.
"That I don't love her--that's what I told her! And don't ask any more about it. Hey, look at Koka there, our bad..."
Just at that moment they sent Koka a terrific pass, but his foot never touched the ball."Get Kutuzov off the field!" our neighbor began to shout through his cupped hands, leaping up, dropping a briefcase from his knees, spilling out bookkeeping forms, half a roll with sausage, and paper cups.
And the stadium took up the cry and began to chant, with triumphant contempt:
"Off the field! Off the field!"
It was cruel, the stadium was. For a moment it forgot how many times it had applauded that tall, fair-haired lad with such talented feet.
Now it saw only his disgrace, and demanded that he be replaced. While Koka, made heavy from yesterday's Czech beer and dispirited at the hooting from all sides, kept on losing the ball and kicking who-knows-where. But suddenly, evidently summoning all his strength, he amazingly, beautifully flipped the ball with his heel over his own head and forward, jumped across a red-headed Hungarian's leg, and struck, almost from the goal-line itself. The whole stadium, believing and disbelieving, rose to its feet, shouting and flinging caps, umbrellas, coats into the air. The score was 1:1. And just then the referee's whistle blew.
The Hungarians squatted down at the center of the field and were photographed, while our boys, their jerseys dark with sweat, dejectedly went off to the locker room. And the most dejected of all was Koka, although it was he who had saved the team from defeat. We felt sorry for Koka: he was ours, after all, from 4 Meshchansky. We went off to find him at the locker room. For a long time they wouldn't let us in, but finally they did. All the football players had already gone, but Koka was still sitting there gloomily, wrapped in a Turkish towel.
"Next time, don't drink before a match!" I said. "But anyhow, you gave it a good kick, Koka..."
Suddenly he smiled like a child.
"It was really nothing; it seems like it just happened: with my heel over my head, and forward." And suddenly he fell silent again.
Then he began to get dressed. And in his white shirt, multicolored jacket with a slit in the back, sky-blue trousers, pointed moccasins, and the already-mentioned bronze fingers, he changed back from a melancholy little boy, into a great football player.

Next night I met Stepan at the stadium; we'd bought the tickets beforehand, - as usual, three consecutive seats. But he came without Rimma.
- What did you tell her yesterday, Stepan? - asked I quietly, but firmly.
- I said I didn't love her - that's what I told her! I don't ask me anything any longer. Look, our Koka is off game today...
Right at the moment the ball was passes to Koka but he even didn't manage to kick it.
- Send Kutuzov off! - screamed our stadium neighbour, hands around mouth, then he sprang to his feet letting drop his brief case from his lap, from which accounting forms, half a small loaf with some sausage and paper cups showered down.
The stadium caught up and yelled with the exultant contempt:
- Send off! Send off!
Cruel was the stadium. It instantly forgot how many times it had acclaimed that tall fair hair boy who was so gifted with his feet.
Now it saw nothing but his disgrace and demanded his substitution. And Koka, heavy with yesterday's Czech beer and dejected by the hallooing coming from everywhere, was losing the ball over and over again and kicking it to the middle of nowhere. And all of a sudden he might have gathered all his strength and did an awesomely beautiful trick - he kicked the ball with his heel forward overhead, jumped over the leg of the red Hungarian who tried to trap the ball, and finally shot at the very penalty line. All the stadium half-rose, believing it and not, yelling something and tossing their caps, umbrellas, and raincoats into the air. The score changed to 1:1. The whistle of the referee rang out right away. The Hungarians squatted down at the mid-field and had their pictures taken; and our guys, their t-shirts dark with sweat, went to the locker room depressed. And Koka was most depressed, though he saved the team from losing the game... We felt pity for Koka - after all, he was our guy from Fourth Meshchanskaya. We dropped in to him at the locker room. We were not let in for a long time, but finally we were let in. All the football players had already left and Koka was still sitting wrapped up in the bath towel.
- Next time you'll not drink before the match! - said I. - For all that, you scored a good one, Koka...
All at once he smiled childishly.
- It seems to prove not too bad in deed: with my heel forward overhead. And he suddenly turned gloomy.
Then he started getting dressed. And after puting on the white shirt, variegated coat with the vent at the back, sky-blue trousers, moccasins with pointed toes and the well-known bronze ring, he once more turned from the sad boy into the great football player.

The following evening we met Stepan at the stadium; we had bought the tickets in advance, three in a row, as always. But Rimma was not with him.
“What did you say to her yesterday, Stepan?" I asked him quietly, but firmly.
“That I didn't love her - that is what I told her! And don’t ask anything more about it. Look, that Coca of ours is bad..."
Just at that very moment, Coca made an excellent pass, and his feet hadn't even touched the ball.
“Get Kutuzov off!” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Our neighbour jumped, dropping the briefcase on his lap, out of which scattered book-keeping forms, half of a roll with sausage and paper cups.
And the crowd picked up on this and began to chant with gleeful contempt,
“Get off the pitch! Get off!”
The crowd was harsh. It had momentarily forgotten the number of times it had applauded this tall, fair lad and his gifted feet.
Now they only saw his humiliation and demanded his replacement. But Coca, heavy from yesterday’s Czech beer and dejected from hearing the jeers that came from every direction, kept losing the ball and kicked randomly. Then suddenly, apparently gathering all of his strength, he made sublime arch of the ball passing it from his heel to his head, he vaulted the leg of the red-headed Hungarian substitute and just about drove the ball into the net from that distance.

Not quite believing their eyes, the entire stadium got to their feet, cheering and throwing their caps, umbrellas and overcoats into the air. The score was one-all, and at that point the referee blew his whistle.

The Hungarians, squatting on their haunches, were photographed on the centre of the pitch, but our lads in their sweat darkened football shirts went dejectedly to their locker room. The most dejected of them was Coca, though he was the one who had saved the team from defeat. We felt pity for Coca; he was still one of ours from the Fourth Meshchanskiy. We went to see him in the locker room. It didn’t take long to find him. All of the footballers had already left, but Coca was still sitting in silence, swathed in a soggy towel.

“So, you’re not going to drink before the next match, then!” I said, “But all the same, you really made a great shot, Coca…”

Suddenly his face lit up like a child’s.

“But it indeed appears that it was all for nothing: the heel to head to goal pass.” And his mood darkened again.

He then began to get dressed. He appeared in his white shirt, chequered jacket with darts in the back, smart trousers, tapered moccasins and the bronze ring he had worn since he had evolved from a melancholy boy into a great football player.