On the next play the wonder-boy of the Romanians dribbled the ball, weaving gracefully between me and Gypsy. I wedged my right foot between the Romanian’s ankles, causing the wonder-boy to fly headlong smack inside the penalty area.
Another whistle. s**t.
The Romanian was holding his knee in agony.
“He’s faking it,” I protested.
The Romanian gritted his teeth. I stomped my boot near his head and splattered mud in his eyes. Take that, you mother!
I was hit from behind, lost my breath and doubled over.
Gypsy butted in and got sucker punched in the mouth. Spectators from the sidelines rushed in with sticks, soda bottles, baseball bats. A flurry of kicks kept me from crawling an inch. Where I wasn’t smarting, I felt numb. Gypsy tore through the mob wielding the Hungarian flag like a spea
