“He gets caught, they’ll give him a flogging that will waken his father in the grave,” Farid muttered. There was no assigned seating, of course. No one to show us politely to our section, aisle, row, and seat. There never had been, even in the old days of the monarchy. We found a decent spot to sit, just left of midfield, though it took some shoving and elbowing on Farid’s part. I remembered how green the playing field grass had been in the ‘70s when Baba used to bring me to soccer games here. Now the pitch was a mess. There were holes and craters everywhere, most notably a pair of deep holes in the ground behind the southend goalposts. And there was no grass at all, just dirt. When the two teams finally took the field--all wearing long pants despite the heat--and play began, it became difficult to follow the ball in the clouds of dust kicked up by the players. Young, whip-toting Talibs roamed the aisles, striking anyone who cheered too loudly. They brought them out shortly after the halftime whistle blew. A pair of dusty red pickup trucks, like the ones I’d seen around town since I’d arrived, rode into the stadium through the gates. The crowd rose to its feet. A woman dressed in a green burqa sat in the cab of one truck, a blindfolded man in the other. The trucks drove around the track, slowly, as if to let the crowd get a long look. It had the desired effect: People craned their necks, pointed, stood on tiptoes. Next to me, Farid’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he mumbled a prayer under his breath. The red trucks entered the playing field, rode toward one end in twin clouds of dust, sunlight reflecting off their hubcaps. A third truck met them at the end of the field. This one’s cab was filled with something and I suddenly understood the purpose of those two holes behind the goalposts. They unloaded the third truck. The crowd murmured in anticipation. “Do you want to stay?” Farid said gravely. “他要是被抓住，他們會用鞭子打得他父親從墳裏醒過來。”法裏德低聲說。當然，票上沒有座位號碼，沒有人禮貌地指引我們到哪一區、哪一排就座。 從來就是這樣，即使在舊時君主制的那些歲月。我們找到一個視線很好的位置坐下，就在中場左邊，不過法裏德那邊有點擠，推推搡搡的。 我記得在1970年代，爸爸常帶我到這裏看足球賽，那時球場上的草多麼綠啊。現在則是一團糟。到處都是洞和彈坑，特別引人注意的是，南邊球門門柱後面，地上有兩個很深的洞，球場根本沒有草，只有泥土。等到兩支隊伍各自入場——雖然天氣很熱，所有人都穿着長褲——開始比賽，球員踢起陣陣塵霧，很難看到球在哪裏。年輕的塔利班揮舞着鞭子，在過道來回巡視，鞭打那些喊得太大聲的觀衆。 中場的哨聲吹響之後，他們將球員清走。一對紅色的皮卡開進來，跟我來這城市之後到處都看見的一樣，它們從大門駛進體育館。一個婦女穿着藍色的矇頭長袍，坐在一輛皮卡的後鬥上。另外一輛上面有個矇住眼睛的男子。皮卡慢慢繞着場邊的跑道開動，似乎想讓觀衆看得清楚些。它收到了想要的效果：人們伸長脖子，指指點點，踮着腳站起。在我身旁，法裏德低聲禱告，喉結上下蠕動。 紅色卡車並排駛進球場，捲起兩道塵霧，陽光在它們的輪轂上反射出來。在球場末端，它們和第三輛車相遇。這一輛的車斗載着的東西，讓我突然明白了球門後面那兩個洞究竟起何作用。他們將第三輛卡車上的東西卸下來。意料之中，人羣竊竊私語。 “你想看下去嗎？”法裏德悲哀地說。
