The World Cup has commenced and almost every American I know is rooting for two teams. First of all, of course, we support the American team. Then we all have the team we will support as soon as America loses. I myself root for France since I used to go to school there, but I like other teams as well. For instance, I find myself attracted to Holland after its impressive performance over Spain. (Four years ago I criticized the Dutch in their finals loss to the Spanish.)
The United States will be playing Germany, Portugal and Ghana in what many people are calling the Group of Death. Going with the death metaphor, in today’s post I apply Richard Connell’s short story thriller “The Most Dangerous Game” to the upcoming contests.
First of all, however, I must say I’m not convinced that Group G is the Group off Death. If you are a lesser team—as we are—then every group must seem death-like. I can’t imagine that Germany was terribly worried when the United States and Ghana showed up in its foursome. Group B, with the Netherlands, Spain, and Chile, would have seemed far more formidable.
Be that as it may, I’m imagining that America, like Rainsford, has somehow ended up on “Ship Trap Island” and is facing General Zaroff, the avid hunter who enjoys hunting shipwrecked sailors. The key is not to panic when you realize that men with the equivalent of Zaroff’s advantages (he has a hunting rifle, a gigantic Russian, and dogs) are stalking you with your hunting knife. Here’s Rainsford trying desperately to compose himself as the U. S. will need to compose itself:
He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.
Rainsford resorts to every stratagem he can think of. He sets up a log that will fall on his pursuers, he digs a hidden pit with spikes, he fastens a knife to a sprung branch trap. Nothing works, however, and he ultimately throws himself into the sea to escape the dogs. And then, because Zaroff thinks he is dead, Rainoff is able to catch him off guard.
So maybe that’s what the U.S. needs to do: play dead and then strike.
Of course, the story never explains how Rainoff manages to survive the dive into the sea. Sadly for the U.S., Connell has indulged in a fantasy.