A whistle blew in the distance, followed by cheers and the fun-filled noise of a sportingevent. Jonathan trotted over and found a large rectangular playing field lined on one sideby a long wooden bench for a couple dozen spectators.  young men were wearingred shirts or blue shirts, all running around the grounds—kicking a leather ball back and forth.

Each of the four corners of the field were marked by a pile of rocks. At the far ends of the field there were poles curved in an arch, just high enough for a person to walk beneath the center.

“Mind if I watch?” asked Jonathan as he took a seat between a couple excited fans who kept jumping up with nearly every kick of the ball.

“Go Blues!” shouted the man on his right, paying no attention to Jonathan. He was a hearty, pot-bellied man in his forties, wearing a cap and shirt the same blue color as worn by players on one of the teams.

Large, bold numbers emblazoned both front and back of the players’ jerseys. The crowd cheered the numbers rather than the names of players. When blue number seven kicked the ball, some screamed, “Go Blue Seven!” When red number five intercepted a pass, others yelled, “Yay, Red Five! Go get ‘em!”

Using only their feet, the teams tried their best to kick the ball through the arched goals.  Red Five was nearly successful when seemingly out of nowhere a stubby, squat player, Blue One, ran full force into Red Five and punched him in the gut with both fists. Red Five landed backward with a thud, gripping his stomach, crying in anguish. Without
hesitation, Blue One grabbed the ball up with his hands and heaved it as hard as he could toward a Blue teammate. The man next to Jonathan roared repeatedly in approval “Blue One! Blue One! Blue One!”

“That’s allowed?” gaped Jonathan.

“Nah, he’ll get called on it,” replied the Blue fan.

Sure enough, a wire-thin, balding referee in a yellow shirt blew his whistle twice and all the players stopped in their tracks, catching their breath. The referee held up a yellow-card and cried, “Penalty, Blue Four! Stand in the box!”

On the far side of the field, Blue Four groaned and walked briskly over to a large fenced pen beyond the sidelines where two kids began whipping his legs with wooden switches. The referee blew his whistle again and play resumed. After a full minute of brutal lashing, Blue Four emerged from the pen, welts and blood all over his legs, returning to
his position on the field.

“I don’t get it,” pleaded Jonathan, nudging the fellow next to him. “Blue One should have gotten the penalty, not Blue Four. What’s going on?”

“Somebody’s gotta pay. Blue Four is the ‘whipping boy’ this time,” replied the man with a nod in Blue Four’s direction. He chuckled along with other fans to see a cute little girl dash up to Blue One from the sidelines and plant a quick kiss on his cheek. As she ran back to the benches, Blue One grinned smugly and returned to the game with ferocity.

Moments later the crowd burst with one great groan, as if they all suddenly felt the injury of another player. Blue One was standing over Red Three who was face down on the ground, hands on his shin, writhing in pain. Blue One gave Red Three one more swift kick to the head and strutted off proudly.

Again the scrawny referee blew his whistle twice and all halted, though still jogging restlessly in place. Raising the yellow card he yelled, “Penalty, Blue Six!” Stunned, Blue Six cursed and complained, but trudged dutifully to the pen for his whipping. Jonathan was dumbfounded! “What’s the point of punishing Blue Six?”

“Broken rules,” replied the Blue fan evenly. “No vicious, intentional kicks allowed.”

“But Blue One broke the rules, not Blue Six! How’s that going to stop Blue One from kicking?”

“Some players are just too important to fail at the game. Blue Six is a penalty substitute.”

Crack! A board split and everyone rose up, straining to see. This time it was Red Eight sprawled over one of the sideline benches…shoved and pummeled relentlessly by Blue One. A woman dressed in neutral green standing beside the injured player shouted in alarm, “Get a doctor, quick! I think he broke an arm!”

The whistle blew twice again before Blue Six had even left the penalty box. Expressionless, the referee pulled his yellow card and, to Jonathan’s horror, pointed it at the woman in green. “Penalty, Green Spectator! Stand in the box!”

Jonathan was staggered by the call. Angry, he rose and yelled over the ruckus, “Why her?”

“Relax!” replied the man, tugging on Jonathan’s arm.

Resisting the call from others around him to sit down, Jonathan shook off the man’s grasp saying, “That’s not gonna stop Blue One!”

“Stop Blue One—Lord Ponzi’s nephew?” chuckled the man. “Are you kidding? Better to encourage him—not stop him. The game’s never been more exciting!”

“But…but…,” Jonathan stammered, “…what kind of game is it with no rules?”

“Don’t be a spoiler,” teased another spectator. “It’s the rule of men—flexible and personal. Half the fun is seeing what damage Blue One can do before the Red team gives up. By then Blue One puts on his Red jersey and then the Reds get their turn with him.”

“So, who wins?” asked Jonathan in disgust.

“Blue One, of course,” snickered the Blue fan. “All the fun and none of the consequences. Calm down, it’s just a game. And it’ll be back to normal when Blue One takes up his appointment.”

“Appointment?” asked Jonathan.

“Yeah, he’s in training to take over the Island Ministry of Finance. He’ll be way too busy to waste time with this amateur stuff. I’m gonna miss him, but I think he’ll have more excitement in his new job."