The Iraqi players, led by the Al-Garawi brothers, send the drummer whimpering off toward the parking lot, a park security cart on his tail.
After order is restored by some of Glendale's finest, the game begins again but is punctuated by scuffles. They happen so fast it's scary. Some of the Iraqi fans have a bone to pick with the Iraqi team manager, Jabir Al-Garawi. One of them, an Iraqi whose son is on the bench, argues that his progeny could turn the game around and that Jabir is a fool.
The game is scoreless at halftime, and agitated Iraqi spectators continue to approach Jabir with their protests. AIRCI staffer Ghulam Yaftali, a thin, stiff former Afghan refugee who looks like Pat Paulsen, mentions that 70 people were killed in Bulgaria at a heated soccer match two years ago.
"This is soccer," Yaftali says. If he is speaking whimsically, it does not show.
In the second half, the Vietnamese threaten again. A three-on-one strike raises an anticipatory cheer, but Alaboodi sweeps in like a desert wind to deflect the shot just as the Vietnamese forward prepares to kick.
BOP-bip-bip-bip, BOP-bip-bip-bip, go the Iraqi drums.
Boom, boom, boom, answer the Vietnamese.
The angry Iraqi fans peck away at Jabir in fiery Arabic as the day melts into early evening. Tensions remain high. A red-faced Vietnamese player trying to inbound trips over Iraqi spectators and curses. Another Vietnamese in a pink bandanna has to be restrained when he charges another player.
Like so many treaty talks, nothing is accomplished. The game ends in a scoreless deadlock.
After two overtime periods, it is still Vietnam 0, Iraq 0. Five direct kicks, then, will decide the championship. The crowd converges in a large circle around the south goal, where each goalie in turn will defend the gaping net while five players on the opposing team take their best shot from about 20 feet away. One on one.
The drums pound. The Iraqis trade points with the Vietnamese, each shot bringing a roar from the fans. After the fourth kick by each team, the Iraqi and Vietnamese are knotted, 3-3.
It comes down to the final kicks. Ghanim, at age 31 the oldest Al-Garawi brother, sets and angles for the shot. He sputters, trying to fake out the goalie, and kicks it right to him. The Vietnamese fans go nuts.
Vietnam sends Pink Bandanna out for kick number five. Boom, boom, boom. The net looms as wide as a circus tent. The shot zips to the left. The goalie has no chance. Pink Bandanna raises his arms in victory.
Competition is good, but winning is sure better.
When the trophies are distributed, the Vietnamese player posing for a picture with the first-place trophy pulls close Iraqi player Hussain Allamy, who is holding the second-place trophy, for another photo. They beam in accord.
The scene of statesmanship eventually subsides, giving way to unpredictable tension. There is a comment, some banging on a car hood and then a sudden roar of Arabic.
It's the Parking Lot of Babel.
The exiled drummer is still here, still making trouble with the Al-Garawi brothers.
Just like that, it escalates, and a rustle of Iraqi explodes like one of those dust-cloud altercations in a cartoon. It's hard to tell who is fighting, who is trying to separate fighters, but above the fracas, the second-place trophy is held high, and now it bonks emphatically on somebody's head.
Jabir Al-Garawi leaps in and grabs the trophy away. Kamil, his brother, joins the fray and Jabir wails in frustration. The lot has become a nearly indistinguishable melange of bodies in the subtle light of dusk. An Iraqi civil war.
Vietnamese players and families pile stealthlike into cars and vans.
Iraqi players and fans scatter and mill and cluster in volatile pockets.
The uniformed white guy, radio in hand, looks anxious and keenly out of place--Boutros Boutros-Ghali in a golf cart, unsure exactly what, if anything, he should do.
