Con-text

Words: 840
It is usual to hear screams in a stadium.

As the sporting event progresses, one side cheers its players while the other side groans, and within seconds the roles are reversed as the fortunes of the competing teams fluctuate.

Thus, passerby on the street outside the stadium, and those who lived in the adjoining houses, didn't think much of the shrieks that emanated one fine summer morning, when the semi-final was in progress. Just fans going a bit berserk, they ho-hummed, and continued with whatever it was that had been occupying their attention before they became aware of the piercing yells.

But even the most strong hearted of the residents and passersby could not ignore the noise beyond a point. The screams grew. Grew in volume, grew in pitch, grew in intensity. These were no sporting cheers. These were cries of agony, of fear.

And then, there was a word.

Just a single word.

It was a whisper at first, a choked-out, sputtered, barely audible name, uttered through throat that grew dry and lips that trembled. Then it rose, in volume, in intensity, in pitch, till nobody could mistake it.

"DRACULA!"

Dracula. Dracula, here, now, in summer, in broad daylight, in a stadium, on the field itself while the match was iin progress ...

Never had the cry, "Save your neck!" meant so much as when the players, the officials and the fans screamed it. They stampeded from the stadium, pell-mell, helter-skelter.

Passerby, sensing the fear, ran too, and yelled. The streets around the stadium were now resounding with the cry, "Dracula!"

The field was empty. The stadium, which had, a moment ago, housed hundreds, was barren but for half-eaten candy bars, half-melted ice-cream cones and half-full popcorn bags. The players' enclosure was deserted.

Deserted?

Not quite. Not one hundred per cent.

One sole figure, clad in a tail-coat, sat on the seat reserved for the visiting captain. This figure didn't resemble a captain at all, in spite of the formal attire. Or maybe a losing captain. A captain who had lost miserably. Lost more than a match or a tournament.

The figure was bent double and sobbing. Sobbing, indeed, as if its heart was breaking. In the heart of the stadium, a broken heart was sobbing itself out.

And, at the very periphery of the stadium, another heart was beating. The heart of a young reporter on her first assignment. Only, she wasn't treating it as an assignment. It was her mission. Her mission to write the best report ever written, for her newspaper. Her mission to make her editor proud, to make her colleagues proud, to make her parents proud. She had to do the most insightful interviews, get the most sought-after but unknown information.

This young reporter was taking advantage of the lack of security (the guards having run away with the others) to enter the stadium while everyone else was leaving it.

She crept in. She was on tiptoe, hardly daring to breathe. There is something awe-inspiring about an empty stadium that causes the heart to beat, the hair to stand on end, the sweat to pour out. But our young lady was on a quest and she meant to fulfill it.

When she was in the very middle of the field, she plucked up the courage to call out. "Anyone here?"

The bent figure in the players' enclosure sat up. He strained his ears. The call came again, then again. He followed it.

"Yes?" he hissed in her ear.

She turned, startled. "OH!"

"No, wait," he pleaded. "Don't run. Please don't run."

She didn't run. She managed to hold her ground.

He looked at her closely. Instinctively, she put her hands to her neck, protecting it.

"I won't," he whispered.

"Won't what?" she asked.

"Won't attack your neck. That's not what I'm here for."

"Wow. Dracula, not out for a neck?"

"You're a reporter. I read your identity badge. Please tell my story."

He took her by the elbow and led her back to the players' enclosure. There were some health drinks there, and he offered her one and took one himself. They seated themselves on the players' bench.

"May I record this?" she asked, professionally.

"Please do."

She took her mobile phone and pressed the correct buttons. She also took an old-fashioned notebook and pencil out of her handbag and prepared to take notes.

"No need for all that, actually," he said.

"I better."

"Well, it's very simple. It was a matter of auto-correct."

"Auto correct?" she exclaimed. "What do you mean auto-correct?"

"I'm a referee," he blurted.

"A referee?"

"Yes. You see, the referee for this match had to cancel, because he found out his daughter was eloping and he wanted to be at the wedding. So he sent a message that another referee was needed. Auto-correct changed umpire to vampire, that's all. I'm Dracula the Umpire, but auto-correct has condemned me. Look how the stadium emptied."

The reporter got her interview, her moment of fame, her awards.

Her headline: "The Umpire Strikes Back."