Sports Chronicle

by Carlos Maria Gutiérrez (Uruguay)
translated by Margaret Randall

Bored impatient with nothing to do
in a country where nothing happens
death gives the roulette wheel a spin
catches chance’s little ball
and sings zero to unanimous astonishment

the teletypes crackle
the Hemisphere sends condolences
and five regiments are put on call

half the founders are in mourning
the other half quietly keeps score

fortified by their surnames
while everything is explained to them
and they apply their makeup
a small faceless man waits
an ex–gymnast overweight now

sometime–sparring partner sometime–masseuse
sweats anxiously his belly exposed
no time to buy him a decent suit
only to cover his embarrassment
with the blue and white of the presidential sash

go on, someone orders,
retransmit via satellite

then the bright floodlight
a dark stench of dead flowers
and brass bands accompany the other
repentant corpse too late
cannons and speeches sound
the jobless file out one door
while a profusion of masks enters through another

asexual clowns, prophets, cooks, fortunetellers
all hawk spare parts
and the boxer candidate
tries on his great governing gloves

note: consult fight description
in another section of this same edition
police page
and death notices

last round
the referee misjudges
the police detain him

where is the adversary
what this armed shadow
this sudden ferocious fist
aimed where the blow is least expected

the ex–presidential boxer
begins to experience shortness of breath
caused by the state of siege
he’s against the ropes now
his mouth guard has fallen out
a jungle of legs traps him
he can’t connect in this sea of faces
students shot in the back
workers dead of grief in a prison camp
precincts crowded with castrated innocents
all of them in their shrouds
climb into the ring
and their scores are noted on unauthorized cards

the presidential boxer is an imposter
under the brilliant light
his sash is drenched in spit and blood
he listens for the bell
but nothing rings
he sweats and trembles

but no one comes with the sponge
he grabs his cramping belly
enters into one final clench with himself

there is an odor of dead flowers
and five regiments are on call
death is bored
he holds his nose
with his yellow hand
and with his red one
spins the wheel once more

in the inscrutable stands
no one claps or whistles

kneeling as if in a dream
the semi–conscious presidential boxer
hears the monotonous countdown
someone sends him in English via satellite

— from Diario del cuartel, 1970