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Russian » English - 7 finalists


Евгений Евтушенко. Четвертая Мещанская. 371 words
Вечером следующего дня мы встретились со Степаном на стадионе; билеты мы покупали заранее,— как всегда, три места рядом. Но Риммы с ним не было.
— Что ты ей сказал вчера, Степан? — спросил я тихо, но жестко.
— Что не люблю ее, — вот что я ей сказал! И ни о чем больше не спрашивай. Гляди, Кока-то наш плох...
Как раз в эту минуту Коке дали отличный пас, а он даже не попал ногой по мячу.
— С поля Кутузова! — завопил, сложив ладони трубкой, наш сосед и вскочил, роняя с колен портфель, из которого посыпались бухгалтерские бланки, половина булки с колбасой и бумажные стаканчики.
И стадион подхватил и стал скандировать с торжествующим презрением:
— С по-ля! С по-ля!
Он был жесток, стадион. Он мгновенно забыл о том, сколько раз аплодировал этому высокому русому парню с такими талантливыми ногами.
Сейчас он видел только его позор и требовал его заменить. А Кока, отяжелевший от вчерашнего чешского пива и пришибленный несущимся отовсюду улюлюканьем, беспрестанно терял мяч и бил непонятно куда. И вдруг, собрав, видимо, все силы, он изумительно красиво перекинул мяч пяткой через голову самому себе на выход, перепрыгнул через подставленную ногу рыжего венгра и ударил уже почти с самой ленточки. Весь стадион, и веря и не веря, привстал, что-то крича и швыряя в воздух кепки, зонтики, плащи. Счет стал 1:1. И тут же раздался свисток судьи.
Венгры, присев на корточки, фотографировались в центре поля, а наши ребята в темных от пота футболках понуро пошли в раздевалку. И самым понурым был Кока, хотя он и спас команду от поражения... Нам стало жаль Коку: все-таки он был наш, с Четвертой Мещанской. Мы зашли к нему в раздевалку. Нас долго не пропускали, но потом пропустили. Все футболисты уже ушли, а Кока все еще мрачно сидел, закутавшись в мохнатое полотенце.
— Не будешь в следующий раз пить перед матчем! — сказал я. — А все-таки штуку ты здорово забил, Кока...
Он вдруг по-детски заулыбался.
— А это действительно ничего, кажется, вышло: пяткой через голову самому себе на выход. — И вдруг снова помрачнел.
Потом он стал одеваться. И с появлением на нем белой рубашечки, пестрого пиджака с разрезом позади, небесных брюк, остроносых мокасин и уже известного бронзового перстня снова превратился из грустного мальчишки в великого футболиста.






Entry #1 - Points: 16 - WINNER!
Donald Scott Alexander
Donald Scott Alexander
The following evening Stepan and I met up at the stadium; we'd bought tickets ahead of time - as usual, three seats in a row. But Rimma wasn't with him.

"What did you tell her last night, Stepan?" I asked in a quiet but stern tone of voice.

"That I didn't love her - that's what I told her! And don't ask me any more questions. Look, our Koka's not doing so hot..."

Right at that moment someone had made a great pass to Koka, but Koka's foot didn't even connect with the ball.

"Get Kutuzov off the field!" the guy next to us yelled out, cupping his hands around his mouth as he jumped up knocking a briefcase off his lap which spilled out a bunch of bookkeeping slips, half a kielbasa sub, and some paper cups.

And the people in the stands took up the cry and started chanting with triumphant contempt:

"Off - the - field! Off - the - field!"

They were cruel, the people in the stands. They instantly forgot about all the times they had applauded for this tall, sandy-haired guy who had such talented feet.

Now they saw only his disgrace and demanded for him to be replaced. And Koka, feeling sluggish from the Czech beer he had drunk the night before and downcast from the hooting coming at him from all sides, kept losing the ball and kicking it every which way. Then suddenly, evidently summoning all his strength, in an amazingly beautiful play he heel-kicked the ball over his own head into the breakaway, jumped over the outstretched leg of a red-headed Hungarian, and shot from almost right on the goal line. The entire stadium, scarcely able to believe their eyes, jumped out of their seats, shouting things and throwing caps, umbrellas, and raincoats into the air. The score was now 1-1. And just then the referee's whistle blew.

The Hungarians were having their photos taken crouched down in the middle of the field, while our boys in their sweat-stained soccer shirts went dejectedly to the dressing room. And the most dejected of all was Koka, even though he had actually saved the team from defeat... We started to feel bad for Koka: no matter what, he was our guy, from Chetvyortaya Meshchanskaya. We went over to the dressing room to see him. For a long time they wouldn't let us in, but then they finally did. All the other players had already left, but Koka was still sitting there all gloomy, wrapped in a terrycloth towel.

"Next time don't drink before the game!" I said. "But you still did score a major goal, Koka..."

Suddenly he broke out in a grin like a little kid.

"But nothing much really came of it, I guess: a heel-kick over the head into the breakaway." And suddenly he became gloomy again.

Then he went to get dressed. And once he appeared again in his nice white shirt, flashy jacket with the vented back, sky-blue pants, pointed moccasins, and the already well-known bronze signet ring, he was transformed from a sad little boy into a great soccer player once again.
Susan Welsh
Susan Welsh
United States
Congratulations, Scott! Yours was definitely the best (mine had some blunders, including due to my ignorance of soccer. :) ). "Feelings sluggish" was definitely better than the literal translation "heavy." I kept "the stadium" impersonal, because I thought that was a deliberate artistic touch (rather than "the people in the stands")--maybe I'm wrong, and its a common Russian idiom. Also, I wonder about "веря и не веря"--I translated it more literally, as better conveying the paradoxical reaction. Your choice of English idiom was appropriate though. I also stuck with "Turkish towel" rather than "terry-cloth," because to me the idea of a Turkish towel is more lush, more enveloping, which seemed appropriate to the context--a guy huddled away, morbidly contemplating his alleged failure.
Again, good work!



Entry #2 - Points: 10
Susan Welsh
Susan Welsh
United States
On the evening of the following day, I met up with Stepan at the stadium; we had already bought our tickets--three seats together, as always. But Rimma wasn't with him.
"What did you say to her yesterday, Stepan?" I asked, quietly, but sternly.
"That I don't love her--that's what I told her! And don't ask any more about it. Hey, look at Koka there, our bad..."
Just at that moment they sent Koka a terrific pass, but his foot never touched the ball."Get Kutuzov off the field!" our neighbor began to shout through his cupped hands, leaping up, dropping a briefcase from his knees, spilling out bookkeeping forms, half a roll with sausage, and paper cups.
And the stadium took up the cry and began to chant, with triumphant contempt:
"Off the field! Off the field!"
It was cruel, the stadium was. For a moment it forgot how many times it had applauded that tall, fair-haired lad with such talented feet.
Now it saw only his disgrace, and demanded that he be replaced. While Koka, made heavy from yesterday's Czech beer and dispirited at the hooting from all sides, kept on losing the ball and kicking who-knows-where. But suddenly, evidently summoning all his strength, he amazingly, beautifully flipped the ball with his heel over his own head and forward, jumped across a red-headed Hungarian's leg, and struck, almost from the goal-line itself. The whole stadium, believing and disbelieving, rose to its feet, shouting and flinging caps, umbrellas, coats into the air. The score was 1:1. And just then the referee's whistle blew.
The Hungarians squatted down at the center of the field and were photographed, while our boys, their jerseys dark with sweat, dejectedly went off to the locker room. And the most dejected of all was Koka, although it was he who had saved the team from defeat. We felt sorry for Koka: he was ours, after all, from 4 Meshchansky. We went off to find him at the locker room. For a long time they wouldn't let us in, but finally they did. All the football players had already gone, but Koka was still sitting there gloomily, wrapped in a Turkish towel.
"Next time, don't drink before a match!" I said. "But anyhow, you gave it a good kick, Koka..."
Suddenly he smiled like a child.
"It was really nothing; it seems like it just happened: with my heel over my head, and forward." And suddenly he fell silent again.
Then he began to get dressed. And in his white shirt, multicolored jacket with a slit in the back, sky-blue trousers, pointed moccasins, and the already-mentioned bronze fingers, he changed back from a melancholy little boy, into a great football player.
Susan Welsh
Susan Welsh
United States
Note to Russian native-speakers: I'm confused about the correct translation of Koka's reply, "А это действительно ничего, кажется, вышло..." Some of you translated it as Scott, the winner did--that nothing much came of it, or that it didn't amount to anything; some of you translated it as I did, that he momentarily recognized that he had done was not so bad (and then he relapses into depression). I struggled over this phrase, and am curious as to what it actually DOES mean! Thanks, Susan



Entry #3 - Points: 4
Mykhailo Voloshko
Mykhailo Voloshko
Ukraine
Next night I met Stepan at the stadium; we'd bought the tickets beforehand, - as usual, three consecutive seats. But he came without Rimma.
- What did you tell her yesterday, Stepan? - asked I quietly, but firmly.
- I said I didn't love her - that's what I told her! I don't ask me anything any longer. Look, our Koka is off game today...
Right at the moment the ball was passes to Koka but he even didn't manage to kick it.
- Send Kutuzov off! - screamed our stadium neighbour, hands around mouth, then he sprang to his feet letting drop his brief case from his lap, from which accounting forms, half a small loaf with some sausage and paper cups showered down.
The stadium caught up and yelled with the exultant contempt:
- Send off! Send off!
Cruel was the stadium. It instantly forgot how many times it had acclaimed that tall fair hair boy who was so gifted with his feet.
Now it saw nothing but his disgrace and demanded his substitution. And Koka, heavy with yesterday's Czech beer and dejected by the hallooing coming from everywhere, was losing the ball over and over again and kicking it to the middle of nowhere. And all of a sudden he might have gathered all his strength and did an awesomely beautiful trick - he kicked the ball with his heel forward overhead, jumped over the leg of the red Hungarian who tried to trap the ball, and finally shot at the very penalty line. All the stadium half-rose, believing it and not, yelling something and tossing their caps, umbrellas, and raincoats into the air. The score changed to 1:1. The whistle of the referee rang out right away. The Hungarians squatted down at the mid-field and had their pictures taken; and our guys, their t-shirts dark with sweat, went to the locker room depressed. And Koka was most depressed, though he saved the team from losing the game... We felt pity for Koka - after all, he was our guy from Fourth Meshchanskaya. We dropped in to him at the locker room. We were not let in for a long time, but finally we were let in. All the football players had already left and Koka was still sitting wrapped up in the bath towel.
- Next time you'll not drink before the match! - said I. - For all that, you scored a good one, Koka...
All at once he smiled childishly.
- It seems to prove not too bad in deed: with my heel forward overhead. And he suddenly turned gloomy.
Then he started getting dressed. And after puting on the white shirt, variegated coat with the vent at the back, sky-blue trousers, moccasins with pointed toes and the well-known bronze ring, he once more turned from the sad boy into the great football player.



Entry #4 - Points: 2
anonymous
The following evening we met Stepan at the stadium; we had bought the tickets in advance, three in a row, as always. But Rimma was not with him.
“What did you say to her yesterday, Stepan?" I asked him quietly, but firmly.
“That I didn't love her - that is what I told her! And don’t ask anything more about it. Look, that Coca of ours is bad..."
Just at that very moment, Coca made an excellent pass, and his feet hadn't even touched the ball.
“Get Kutuzov off!” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Our neighbour jumped, dropping the briefcase on his lap, out of which scattered book-keeping forms, half of a roll with sausage and paper cups.
And the crowd picked up on this and began to chant with gleeful contempt,
“Get off the pitch! Get off!”
The crowd was harsh. It had momentarily forgotten the number of times it had applauded this tall, fair lad and his gifted feet.
Now they only saw his humiliation and demanded his replacement. But Coca, heavy from yesterday’s Czech beer and dejected from hearing the jeers that came from every direction, kept losing the ball and kicked randomly. Then suddenly, apparently gathering all of his strength, he made sublime arch of the ball passing it from his heel to his head, he vaulted the leg of the red-headed Hungarian substitute and just about drove the ball into the net from that distance.

Not quite believing their eyes, the entire stadium got to their feet, cheering and throwing their caps, umbrellas and overcoats into the air. The score was one-all, and at that point the referee blew his whistle.

The Hungarians, squatting on their haunches, were photographed on the centre of the pitch, but our lads in their sweat darkened football shirts went dejectedly to their locker room. The most dejected of them was Coca, though he was the one who had saved the team from defeat. We felt pity for Coca; he was still one of ours from the Fourth Meshchanskiy. We went to see him in the locker room. It didn’t take long to find him. All of the footballers had already left, but Coca was still sitting in silence, swathed in a soggy towel.

“So, you’re not going to drink before the next match, then!” I said, “But all the same, you really made a great shot, Coca…”

Suddenly his face lit up like a child’s.

“But it indeed appears that it was all for nothing: the heel to head to goal pass.” And his mood darkened again.

He then began to get dressed. He appeared in his white shirt, chequered jacket with darts in the back, smart trousers, tapered moccasins and the bronze ring he had worn since he had evolved from a melancholy boy into a great football player.



Entry #5 - Points:
Alexander Onishko
Alexander Onishko
The next evening I met Stepan at the stadium. We had bought tickets in advance — three seats in a row, as usual. But he came alone, without Rimma.
'What did you tell her yesterday, Stepan?' I asked, quietly but firmly.
'That I don't love her, that's what I told her!' he said, 'And don't ask about anything else. Look, our Koka seems to be in low spirits...'
Just at that moment Koka was given an excellent pass, and yet his foot missed the ball.
Our neighbour cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled out, 'Get the blind man off the pitch!' He jumped up and his portfolio fell from his knees producing from its depths some accounting forms, an open sandwich, and paper cups.
And the crowd, full of own superiority and contempt, took up and yelled, 'Off the pitch! Off the pitch!'
The crowd was cruel. They immediately forgot how many times they applauded this tall fair-haired guy and his talented feet.
At that moment, they could see only his disgrace and demanded his substitution. Koka was sluggish after Czech beer we had had the day before and discouraged with boos and jeers coming from everywhere. So, he kept giving the ball away and passing astray. Then suddenly, having probably summoned all his strength, he amazingly and beautifully flicked the ball with his heel over his head forward for himself, jumped over the outstretched leg of the red-haired Hungarian defender and shot almost from the by-line. Seeing but not yet believing it, all people at the stadium half rose from their seats. All were shouting something and throwing their caps, raincoats, and umbrellas into the air. The score was now 1-1. Almost immediately the final whistle blew.
While the Hungarian team gathered for a photo in the centre circle, our guys, their shirts dark with sweat, went despondently to the changing room. And the most depressed of them all was Koka, though it was he who had saved his team from defeat... We felt sorry for Koka: after all, he was our neighbour from Chetvertaya Meschanskaya Street and a friend. We went to the changing room to see him. First, the attendants didn't admit us, but then they gave in. When we entered the room, all players had already left, but Koka was still sitting there, wrapped in a shaggy towel and despair.
'Next time you’ll know better than to drink before a match!' I told him, 'But for all that, Koka, you scored a real beauty...'
Suddenly, we saw him smiling like a child.
'Seems it was really not that bad: with the heel over the head, forward.' Then suddenly he was gloomy again.
Then he began to get dressed. And, as he put on his white shirt, motley jacket, sky-blue trousers, pointed-toe loafers, and that bronze seal ring, we had already seen, he turned again from a sad boy into a great football player.



Entry #6 - Points:
Natalia Mutalimi
Natalia Mutalimi
United States
The next evening I've met Stepan at the stadium. We've bought tickets in advance, three seats together, as usual. But Rimma was not with him.
-What did you tell her yesterday, Stepan?-I asked him quietly but firm.
-That I don't love her, that what I told her! And don't ask anything else. Look, our Koka 's so poor...
Exactly at that moment they sent Koka a great pass, but he didn't even kick the ball with his foot.
-Get Kutuzov off the field!-yelled our neighbour, putting his hands together as a tube; and he jumped up dropping his brief case, which showered around the bookkeeper's forms, half of the bun with sausage and the paper cups.
And stadium joined in, scanning with the exultant scorn:
-Off-the-field! Off-the-field!
It was cruel, the stadium. It immediately forgot, how many times it was applauding this tall, fair-haired guy with such gifted legs.
At this moment the only thing it could see was his shame, and it demanded on his replacement. And Koka, logged from yesterday's Czech beer and crushed by hooting diffused from everywhere, was constantly loosing the ball and hitting who knows where.
But suddenly, apparently by gathering all of his strenghth, amazingly beautiful he kicked the ball with his hill backwards and over his own head towards his exit, jumped over the tackle from redheaded Hungarian, and kicked almost from the line. The whole stadium stood up in disbelief, shouting something and throwing the hats, umbrellas, coats in the air. The score became 1:1. At that moment the judge's whistle resounded.
Hungarians were taking pictures, squatted down in the middle of the field, and our downcast guys in dark from the sweat t-shirts went to a locker room. And the most depressed was Koka, even though he saved his team from the loss... We felt sorry for Koka: for all that he still was ours, from Forth Meschanskaya. We visited him in the locker room. They wouldn't let us in for a while, but they did afterwards. All football players left already, but Koka was still sitting there, wrapped in the Turkish towel.
-Next time you won't drink before the match!-I told him,-but that thing you did, it was cool, Koka.
He smiled like a child.
-Yeah, I think it wasn't that bad: backwards with the heel and over the head. Suddenly, he became sombre again.
Then he started putting his clothes on. And with appearing of the white shirt, variegated jacket with a slit on the back, sky-colored pants, pointed-toed mocassins and famous bronze seal-ring on him, he once again transformed from the sad boy to a mighty football player.



Entry #7 - Points:
Vitaliy Plinto
Vitaliy Plinto
United States
The evening of the following day we met with Stepan on the stadium. We purchased tickets in advance, as always, three seats next to each other. However, Rimma was not there with him.
"What did you say to her yesterday, Stepan?" I asked quietly but bitterly.
"I told her that I don't like her, that's what I told her! And don't ask me about anything else. Look how miserable our Koka is!
Right at that moment Koka received an excellent angle shot, but he didn't even touch the ball with his foot.
"Kutuzov, out!" our neighbor shrieked, as he folded his palms in a tube-like form, and sprang up, dropping his case off his knees, and everything that was in the case: accounting slips, a half of loaf with a sausage and paper cups.
Everyone in the stadium caught that up and began to yell with triumphant contempt:
"Out of the field, out of the field!"
The stadium was cruel. Everyone momentarily was forgetting how many times they applauded to this tall fair guy with such talented legs.
Now the stadium only saw his disgrace and demanded that he be replaced. And Koka, feeling heavy after last night's Czech beer and dejected by the jears that were heard from everywhere, incessantly kept losing the ball and kicking it God knows where. But, all of a sudden, as it seemed, after gathering all of his power, he amazingly passed the ball with his heel over his head to himself for an output, jumped over the exposed leg of a red-haired Hungarian, and kicked almost near the very finish. The entire stadium, believably and unbelievably, stood up, shouting something and throwing caps, umbrellas and raincoats into the air. The score was 1:1, and the referee's whistle was heard immediately.
The Hungarians were posing for a photo in the center of the field as they sat on their hunches, while our mob in their sweatshirts, which were dark from the sweat dejectedly proceeded to the locker room. And the most dejected was Koka, since after all, he was our good friend, from Chetvertaya Meschanskaya. We went into the locker room to talk to him. We were forbidden to go in for a long time, but then finally, they allowed us to go in. All soccer players were already gone, while Koka was still sitting disdainfully being rolled up in a shaggy towel.
"Next time you won't drink before the match!" I said. "After all, Koka, you made an awesome shot."
Suddenly he smiled as a child.
"You're right. This was really not bad, it seems - with a heel over the head right to myself for an output." And suddenly he again became solemn. Then he began to dress. And as he put on his white shirt, patchy jacket incised on the back, azzure slacks, pointed moccasins and already well-known bronze ring, he transformed from a sad boy into a famous soccer player.



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