In the eighty-ninth minute, Clemens is standing exactly where a referee should be, near the edge of the penalty area. Then the defender's boot catches the striker's ankle. The striker falls. The sound of the contact is small, but it carries.
第八十九分钟，克莱门斯正站在裁判该站的位置上，靠近禁区边缘。就在这时，后卫的球鞋勾到了前锋的脚踝。前锋倒下了。碰撞的声音不大，却传得很远。
The score is one-all. The home supporters, gathered along the fence with flasks of tea, go quiet for half a second and then explode into shouting. The home team is coached by Clemens's uncle.
比分是一比一。主队的支持者聚在围栏边，带着装茶的保温瓶，先是安静了半秒钟，随后爆发出一片喊叫。主队的教练是克莱门斯的叔叔。
Clemens is sixteen. He has been refereeing under-fifteen games for a year, mostly on Saturday mornings, for a small fee and a free sandwich. His whistle hangs from a red lanyard. It was a birthday present, and his uncle gave it to him.
克莱门斯十六岁。他已经执法十五岁以下组的比赛一年了，多半在星期六早上，报酬不多，外加一个免费三明治。他的哨子挂在一根红色挂绳上。那是生日礼物，是他叔叔送的。
He learned the rules in his uncle's garden, using two jackets as goalposts. "Whatever the rule book says," his uncle told him once, "the game only works if someone is willing to be disliked." Clemens had thought it was a joke.
他是在叔叔的花园里学会规则的，拿两件外套当球门。“不管规则书怎么写，”叔叔有一次对他说，“只有当有人愿意被人讨厌的时候，比赛才能进行下去。”克莱门斯当时还以为那是个玩笑。
Now the striker looks up at him from the grass. Clemens replays the moment in his head. The defender never touched the ball. If it had been a closer call, he could have waved play on and nobody would have blamed him. But it wasn't close.
此刻，前锋从草地上抬头看着他。克莱门斯在脑子里回放刚才那一幕。后卫根本没碰到球。如果是个更难判断的情况，他本可以示意继续比赛，也没人会责怪他。可这次一点也不难判断。
Along the touchline, his uncle has stopped moving. He doesn't shout. He just stands with his hands on his hips, looking at Clemens the way he looks at a puzzle he already knows the answer to.
场边线外，他叔叔已经不动了。他没有喊叫，只是双手叉腰站着，看着克莱门斯，就像看着一道他早已知道答案的谜题。
Clemens blows the whistle and points to the spot. The noise is immediate. A parent calls him a disgrace. One of the players says that he must be joking.
克莱门斯吹响哨子，指向点球点。喧闹声立刻炸开。一位家长骂他丢人。一名球员说他肯定是在开玩笑。
"It was a foul," Clemens says, quietly, to nobody in particular. His voice shakes, although his arm does not.
“那是犯规。”克莱门斯轻声说，不是对任何人。他的声音在发抖，手臂却没有。
The penalty is taken in a silence so complete that he can hear the net move. The ball goes in. Two minutes later the final whistle blows, and Clemens shakes hands with both captains and collects his sandwich.
点球是在一片彻底的寂静中罚的，静得他能听见球网晃动的声音。球进了。两分钟后终场哨响，克莱门斯与两队队长握了手，领走了他的三明治。
He thinks about cycling past his uncle's house on the way home, and then thinks better of it. On Saturdays the whole family eats at his grandmother's table, and excuses are not accepted.
他想过回家路上骑车经过叔叔家门口，随后又想想还是算了。每个星期六，全家人都要在他奶奶的餐桌旁吃饭，借口是不被接受的。
The soup is served. Nobody mentions the match. His cousin stares into her bowl as if there might be a message at the bottom of it. His uncle eats slowly, wipes his mouth and puts down his spoon.
汤端上来了。没有人提起那场比赛。他的表姐低头盯着碗，好像碗底会有什么口信。他叔叔吃得很慢，擦了擦嘴，放下了勺子。
"You were in the right place," he says at last. "Better placed than I would have been."
“你站的位置很对，”他终于开口说，“比我站在那儿还要好。”
Clemens nods. He doesn't trust himself to say anything.
克莱门斯点点头。他不敢相信自己还能说出什么。
His uncle pushes the dish of potatoes across the table. "Eat, referee," he says. "You look like you've been running all day."
他叔叔把那盘土豆推过桌子。“吃吧，裁判，”他说，“你看上去像是跑了一整天。”
