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By June 5, five days had passed since the Senegal bet.
That was long enough for the books to breathe again.
Long enough for bettors to throw money at new favorites.
Long enough for the house to take its cut.
Now it was Ethan’s turn.
He sat at his computer with a glass of red wine, slowly turning the stem between his fingers.
His four friends were scattered across the world, spending his money and sending him updates that were half reports and half provocation.
His money.
Judy was the worst.
She had sent a string of beach photos from Brazil, every one of them involving a bikini, sunlight, and women with enough confidence to make Los Angeles look shy.
If she were not Judy, and if she had been even slightly interested in men, Ethan would have been in real trouble.
He took a drink and opened MSN.
Wake up.
Today is a betting day.
Time for the books to bleed a little.
Warren responded first with an excited emoticon.
Finally.
I have been waiting for days.
There are three matches today.
Which one?
Ethan typed:
Second match.
United States against Portugal.
Billy: Say the word.
How badly does Portugal win?
My personal stake follows yours.
That was the American instinct in soccer, unfortunately.
Even Americans knew the country’s level.
Nobody sane looked at a U.S.
roster in 2002 and saw world conquest.
But sport had a cruel sense of humor.
No, Ethan wrote.
We bet on the United States to win.
Judy’s reply came immediately.
Wait.
I know school taught us patriotism, but loving your country does not mean setting money on fire.
Portugal has stars.
They have a golden generation.
We have…
whatever our soccer team is.
Bo: I agree with Judy.
This is not football or basketball.
In soccer, we are the punch line.
Ethan had expected the resistance.
I know more soccer than all of you combined.
Think about France.
Who had Senegal winning that match?
Also, this is my money.
I am not joking with it.
If we want fast capital, we need mispriced upsets.
Follow the order.
Judy: Fine.
Your money.
But I am not adding my own.
Bo: I will sit this one out personally too.
Warren: Cowards.
I have one thousand dollars and apparently no survival instinct.
I am following Ethan.
At two that morning, the match began.
On paper, it should not have been close.
Portugal’s odds were short.
The United States paid far better.
This was the U.S.
team’s first match of the tournament, and most of the world saw a hardworking roster without major stars.
Claudio Reyna was out injured.
Few people expected anything dramatic.
That was exactly why the price mattered.
After this match, the odds would never look the same.
Portugal, by contrast, looked like pedigree.
Luis Figo.
Rui Costa.
Beto.
Names with weight.
A team that seemed built to advance, maybe even to dream bigger.
Under Ethan’s instructions, nearly thirty million dollars moved across the market.
Not one hundred ninety million.
The books were not stupid.
Every operator with a brain set limits to protect itself against disasters.
Thirty million, divided through countries, accounts, windows, and channels, was already pushing the edge of what they could place without making too much noise.
The underground books were left alone.
Unlicensed operators were fine when they won.
When they lost, men discovered all kinds of reasons not to pay.
The whistle blew.
In five different places around the world, five people stared at television screens.
Four minutes later, the United States slapped everyone awake.
A ball came in.
The Portuguese goalkeeper Vitor Baia got something on it, but not enough to kill the danger.
John O’Brien arrived and smashed the rebound into the net.
One to nothing.
For a moment, the stadium seemed to freeze.
So did the world.
Judy, Billy, and Bo went silent.
Only Ethan and Warren were smiling.
Judy: Shit.
I may regret everything.
Are we secretly good?
Billy: Impossible.
If we were secretly good, Americans would already be selling jerseys to each other.
Warren: I warned you people.
Follow Ethan.
Learn from this.
The match continued almost exactly as Ethan remembered it.
Portugal drifted around the pitch as if nobody had told them the tournament had started.
Their attack lacked bite.
Their defense looked half asleep.
The United States kept threatening them, and every minute tightened the knot around the books’ throats.
Around the thirtieth minute, chaos broke open again.
A cross came in from the right.
Jorge Costa tried to deal with it and sent the ball the wrong way, past his own goalkeeper.
Two to nothing. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Even the American players looked briefly surprised.
The ball had not looked like a shot.
It had turned into one anyway.
Soccer could be cruel like that.
A little later, Beto drew a yellow card with a piece of theater that made the chat furious.
Billy: That should be red.
Send him off for embarrassing the sport.
Warren: Disgraceful.
I have watched soccer for two matches and I already know this is a disgrace.
Ethan almost laughed.
They knew nothing.
Basketball had its own floppers.
Every sport had men who discovered gravity when touched.
At least this referee had not lost control of the match.
Seven minutes after the second goal, the United States struck again.
Portugal’s back line failed to settle, the ball came through, and Brian McBride finished the chance.
Three to nothing before halftime.
Now the world was awake.
The books had to be staring at their screens with their stomachs in knots.
Another monster upset would pour the money they had just earned back out the door.
On MSN, the four travelers were celebrating.
Then Portugal finally remembered who they were.
Two minutes after the third American goal, Beto scored and pulled one back.
The chat cursed him with the passion of lifelong U.S.
soccer supporters, a condition none of them had possessed three hours earlier.
From there, Portugal attacked hard.
The United States defended with everything it had.
Every clearance felt temporary.
Every cross looked dangerous.
In the seventieth minute, a Portuguese attack forced another ugly moment.
The ball deflected off Jeff Agoos and into the American net.
Three to two.
Suddenly, the match had teeth again.
Warren: What is wrong with number twelve?
Does he know which goal is ours?
Bo: Why don’t we have a few world-class players?
Ethan: MLS will import famous names later, mostly near retirement.
That still won’t make them eligible for the U.S.
team.
Nobody laughed.
The remaining minutes turned brutal.
Warren claimed his heart could not take it, which Ethan believed.
Warren had put down one thousand dollars, and for him that was not abstract.
Ethan watched with steady eyes.
The ending was already written.
When the final whistle sounded, the speakers filled with four people losing their minds across four countries.
United States 3, Portugal 2.
Another giant upset.
In Ethan’s mind, he heard coins hitting the floor.
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Ready for more?
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.